when i was about 12
i went to a summer camp
one morning
we were woke up for breakfast
there was a shitload of flashing lights across the lake
i blew off breakfast
and
walked over to see what was going on
what did i see?
i saw a dead guy
he was hanging off the back of a crane on a truck
he drowned
he was
actually blue
actually bloated
and
actually dead
who was that guy?
what did he believe?
who did he vote for?
and
why?
at that moment
the moment that i saw that
seeing that blue, bloated, dead guy
it hit me like a brick
i became aware of the fact that
at some point we will all fucking die
don't matter what what you believe
don't matter who you vote for
don't matter what you wear
or
what you own
nothing really means anything
at some point?
we will all fucking die
and
so
i've been waiting
passively
not hoping
not wishing for it
but
aware
that
at some point
i will die too
and
that
he who dies with the most toys
is a total fucking asshole...
Wednesday, October 17, 2018
Friday, March 30, 2018
Sunday, March 4, 2018
Bobsled
i've said it before
and
i'll say it again
i think the coolest guy you can be in the winter olympics would be the third guy on a four man bobsled team
really
what do you have to do?
eat a lot
drink a lot
hold on tight
and
hope you don't barf your guts out?
i dunno about you
but
i pretty much do that every day...
and
i'll say it again
i think the coolest guy you can be in the winter olympics would be the third guy on a four man bobsled team
really
what do you have to do?
eat a lot
drink a lot
hold on tight
and
hope you don't barf your guts out?
i dunno about you
but
i pretty much do that every day...
Friday, March 2, 2018
The Monster
Darkness cracked by lightning
The kites are flying
The switches have been thrown
The monster awakes
“Aaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnggggggggghhhhhhhhh!”
He growls
And
Smiles a crooked smile
“Me have story to tell."
He looks into a mirror
To straighten his tie
The mirror shatters
Raining tiny pieces to the floor
“Huuummm...”
He thinks
“Gonna be one of those lives?
me need drink...”
He laughs
Slaps the doctor
His creator
On the back
(a little too hard}
The doctor stumbles forward
And
Falls from a window
To his death
The monster shrugs his shoulders
And
Sets off toward town.
A Pause That Refreshes
'doc! the wife's on my ass, i can't make the car payment, and i'm stressed like son of a bitch. what should i do?'
'hmmmmmm... take two of these and go to vegas.'
come Monday morning the dude shows up at work and says, 'i dunno about you clowns but my weekend was fucking amazing! is that the time? shit! i gotta pile of work i gotta get done! see you guys at lunch!'
they could call it fukitall
have the pills pink
shaped like little tits or something
ax for it by name!
Monday, 4:32 AM
nothing on but the refrigerator light
scanning the contents for a snack
or two
the cat meowed and i bent to scratch her head
back pain set in
yet again
that good old throb in the lower portion of my spine
hurts like a mo-fo, gang
i don't even like to talk about it very often
but
i was thinking about how it's worth it
how i was trading a cat-touch for a body ache
how most of us wouldn't bother
how afraid we are of pain
danger
taking a chance
going out on a limb
how childhood can really create some lame ass people
what a great world it could be if we could learn to...
and then i thought
WOW!
a cold hot dog dipped in leftover chili!
The First Animated Church (of everything) or F.A.C.(e.)
1)
It's my opinion that every holy book or idea can be summed up in two simple words: "Be Cool" (think about it). As this is the case I don't really feel that anyone needs to know anything else. All one has to do is remember to "Be Cool". This is the be all and end all of "The Church".
2)
There are no dues to pay, no humans that you have to persecute, and I am not a boss or leader. I'm just the asshole who thought of this one night while rather stoned. There is also nothing else that you have to read or study, what is in your eyes right now is all you need. You also only have to be as cool as you are capable of. Just do what you can. That is all anyone CAN do, right?
3)
The abbreviation of the church's title is pronounced "fay-saw", extremely bad French for the word "face".
4)
Seeing as to how every church should have a logo here's the one I came up with: the two words "Be Cool". It should be on a T-shirt, printed upside down. So that, if you are in a tense or volatile situation and you find yourself confused, all you have to do is look down and read your shirt. To my mind the letters should be in a simple white font on a black shirt but you are free to use whatever style or colors you'd like.
5)
Making fun of somebody else's shirt is fucked up and, therefore "Not Cool" (maybe they don't have a lot of money). If someone copyrights this idea and sells shirts for profit they are fucked up and "Not Cool".
6)
If you'd rather you could wear a button that says "Be Cool" upside down and refer to that. Profits made on these would be pretty fucked up as well.
7)
Then again... you don't really have to do anything.
8)
Or give a flying fuck about what you have just read.
9)
Do whatever you think is cool. Just as long as it is really what is in your heart.
10)
That's all there is to it.
It's my opinion that every holy book or idea can be summed up in two simple words: "Be Cool" (think about it). As this is the case I don't really feel that anyone needs to know anything else. All one has to do is remember to "Be Cool". This is the be all and end all of "The Church".
2)
There are no dues to pay, no humans that you have to persecute, and I am not a boss or leader. I'm just the asshole who thought of this one night while rather stoned. There is also nothing else that you have to read or study, what is in your eyes right now is all you need. You also only have to be as cool as you are capable of. Just do what you can. That is all anyone CAN do, right?
3)
The abbreviation of the church's title is pronounced "fay-saw", extremely bad French for the word "face".
4)
Seeing as to how every church should have a logo here's the one I came up with: the two words "Be Cool". It should be on a T-shirt, printed upside down. So that, if you are in a tense or volatile situation and you find yourself confused, all you have to do is look down and read your shirt. To my mind the letters should be in a simple white font on a black shirt but you are free to use whatever style or colors you'd like.
5)
Making fun of somebody else's shirt is fucked up and, therefore "Not Cool" (maybe they don't have a lot of money). If someone copyrights this idea and sells shirts for profit they are fucked up and "Not Cool".
6)
If you'd rather you could wear a button that says "Be Cool" upside down and refer to that. Profits made on these would be pretty fucked up as well.
7)
Then again... you don't really have to do anything.
8)
Or give a flying fuck about what you have just read.
9)
Do whatever you think is cool. Just as long as it is really what is in your heart.
10)
That's all there is to it.
Room
I sit in this room
And I'm bored
And lonely
I feel unloved part of the time
Not always
But from time to time
It beats me down
And I drink so I don't think
It's kind of like lighting a match in the dark
But I go too far
From time to time
And the match burns my finger
And I curse the darkness
And I howl at the moon
It don't mean nothing
It's just the venting "wherewolf"
Raising his stupid head
The id punching the super ego
With a silver fist
I'm a genius
I'm an artiste
And I'm insane
I'm not violent
I mean no harm
I'm just a pain in the ass
I'm nothing to fear
But
From time to time
I am something to ignore
And I'm bored
And lonely
I feel unloved part of the time
Not always
But from time to time
It beats me down
And I drink so I don't think
It's kind of like lighting a match in the dark
But I go too far
From time to time
And the match burns my finger
And I curse the darkness
And I howl at the moon
It don't mean nothing
It's just the venting "wherewolf"
Raising his stupid head
The id punching the super ego
With a silver fist
I'm a genius
I'm an artiste
And I'm insane
I'm not violent
I mean no harm
I'm just a pain in the ass
I'm nothing to fear
But
From time to time
I am something to ignore
Monday, February 26, 2018
Late Night Olympics
and suck up television while the rest of the world sleeps, right?
This being the case I have been lucky enough to catch some of the
more obscure Olympic games. The ones that you guys missed
because of your sleep patterns. Being the nice guy that I am I kind
of feel it's my duty to fill you in on the winners of these games.
Knocking Richard Simmons off of a bar stool with a tennis ball
serving machine was won by the USA. No biggie here. It was a
lock.
Standing around quietly while waiting for the phone to ring went to
Canada. No big surprise here either. They kill at this. They do it
every goddamn day.
Six man luge on an upturned coffee table was won by the French.
Nobody really knows why. I'm thinking it might have been the
wine.
Turning into a bat and feeding off of the townspeople was a gold
for Rumania. Geeze! They win that every year! Like we had a
chance!
Limbo for fat guys was nabbed by Japan. For some reason the
limbo has become a huge thing over there. I don't know. I guess
they just love old American pop culture or whatever.
I hope this has caught all of you up and we can get back into
watching "Saturday Night Live".
Saturday, February 24, 2018
Night Calls (a dark one)
And I'm walking
Drunk on moonlight
And hunger
I see you up the street
And I move
Closer
Closer
And closer still
Until I touch you
Scant moments pass
And you go from warm to cold
So I seat you at the bus stop
And glide away
Into the black
My hunger is gone
Until tomorrow
When again I'll rise
And search the dark
For another
Just like you
Any Day Now
Drinks
how about some calm the hell down drinks?
i wouldn't mind having a couple of cases of that stuff on hand at all tines.
Bus
i sit on a bus and i see, out the window
all kinds of people running this way and that
they often tell me, "hey! be one of us people!"
i'm not a people i'm a fat cartoon cat
i sit on couches and i see, on my tv
all kinds of people screaming this stuff and that
i often hear them screaming, "buy this, you people!"
i don't have credit so to me it's chit chat
who do you when
what you did way back then?
and
why should you cry
when you maybe soon die?
and
where do you look
if it's by hook or crook?
and
try first then buy
cuz it might be a lie
i sit on benches and i see, passing by me
all kinds of people looking this way and that
i see them looking, they say, "wow! check out that thing!"
"it's bright and shiny and it beats what i have!"
who do you when
what you did way back then?
and
why should you cry
when you maybe soon die?
and
where do you look
if it's by hook or crook?
and
try first then buy
cuz it might be a lie
who do you when
what you did way back then?
and
why should you cry
when you maybe soon die?
and
where do you look
if it's by hook or crook?
and
try first then buy
cuz it might be a lie
all kinds of people running this way and that
they often tell me, "hey! be one of us people!"
i'm not a people i'm a fat cartoon cat
i sit on couches and i see, on my tv
all kinds of people screaming this stuff and that
i often hear them screaming, "buy this, you people!"
i don't have credit so to me it's chit chat
who do you when
what you did way back then?
and
why should you cry
when you maybe soon die?
and
where do you look
if it's by hook or crook?
and
try first then buy
cuz it might be a lie
i sit on benches and i see, passing by me
all kinds of people looking this way and that
i see them looking, they say, "wow! check out that thing!"
"it's bright and shiny and it beats what i have!"
who do you when
what you did way back then?
and
why should you cry
when you maybe soon die?
and
where do you look
if it's by hook or crook?
and
try first then buy
cuz it might be a lie
who do you when
what you did way back then?
and
why should you cry
when you maybe soon die?
and
where do you look
if it's by hook or crook?
and
try first then buy
cuz it might be a lie
Seeing Orange
The age old question.
Is the glass half-empty?
Or is the glass half full?
We all want to know the answer, we all want to know.
We all have opinions but we can’t be sure.
Me?
What do I think?
I think the glass is half-empty.
I also think that if you look around you just might find a faucet. And there may be some ice in the freezer. Look in the refrigerator. Is that a bottle of 7-up? And over there, on the shelf, I think I see a bottle of bourbon! Wow! There’s a bag of Doritos on the table and somebody has left out a bowl of salsa!
Too cool!
I love this place!
Where’s the stereo?
Yep!
That’s what I think.
That’s me.
I’ve got a jaundiced eye and I’m looking through rose colored glasses.
I’m seeing everything in orange.
Scene From An Unwritten Movie
FADE IN:
INT. SUPERMARKET - DAY
DAVE,
a rather normal looking guy in his mid twenties, is standing in a aisle
trying to decide between two boxes of doughnuts. He talks to himself.
DAVE
Hmmm... these
are plain and plain is good. I like plain. Doesn’t get in the way if
you have ‘em with chocolate milk. These however are chocolate and
chocolate doughnuts are always perfect with regular milk... I’m vexed
yet again.
PETE,
another rather normal looking guy in his mid twenties, drops a couple of
bags into the shopping cart. He and Dave are roommates and close
friends.
DAVE
Chips?
PETE
Nothing but. I went for nacho. You cool with that?
DAVE
I can find no fault with my favorite style of crunchy thing. These doughnuts are giving me a headache though.
DAVE
Plain or chocolate? Again?
PETE
The age old question.
DAVE
You have got to get a girlfriend, my man. I’m being serious now.
Dave picks up a box of doughnuts and shows it to Pete as if trying to teach him something very important.
DAVE
Pete? These have sprinkles. Don’t you like sprinkles?
PETE
I love sprinkles.
DAVE
Sprinkles rule.
PETE
It
is a known fact that sprinkles are one of the basic cornerstones of
capitalism. In some cultures they are considered a way of life.
DAVE
I’ve read that. Sprinkles also fit in perfectly with any beverage you could possibly mention.
PETE
Except for gravy, Dave. Be honest.
DAVE
I’ll need to do some more research on that but for now I’ll take your word for it.
PETE
Thank
you. My thanks surround you and follow you whenever and wherever you
happen to travel in this crazy world. This is my pledge to you. Don’t
take it lightly or I’ll be crushed.
AL,
a third rather normal looking guy in his mid twenties, steps up to
them. He is also a friend. In fact they all went through school
together.
AL
You guys are nuts, you know? It’s never going to work. Not in a million years. Do you hear me? Not in a million years.
A long pause.
DAVE
So... We’re going to go for the sprinkles then?
Pete drops the sprinkled doughnuts into the cart.
PETE
Fuckin’ a.
Oh!
i was watching a commercial this afternoon and it hit me like a flash of light!
i UNDERSTAND now!
we were born to buy shiny shit that we don't really need in order to impress people that wouldn't be impressed with us if we didn't own shiny shit that we don't really need.
and all these years i've been busy trying to learn about art so i can express myself better?
whatta doof!
i UNDERSTAND now!
we were born to buy shiny shit that we don't really need in order to impress people that wouldn't be impressed with us if we didn't own shiny shit that we don't really need.
and all these years i've been busy trying to learn about art so i can express myself better?
whatta doof!
Liquid
The sun is liquid and gold with love and promise
It flows aside me, watching
Flows inside me, talking
My eyes are aglow with heart's desire
Birds sing both opera and doo-wop all at once
Blues and greens collide and dance along
Flowers whisper my name as a chorus
Love rains down, taking the solo
Soaking us all with the music
Its wet resolve hums the backbeat
The sky looks down
And smiles it's kindly smile
It's yet another beautiful day
And we are the children and the owners
Of the earthly homeland that swings
Beneath our feet.
Man!
Sometimes these acid flashbacks are fun!
It flows aside me, watching
Flows inside me, talking
My eyes are aglow with heart's desire
Birds sing both opera and doo-wop all at once
Blues and greens collide and dance along
Flowers whisper my name as a chorus
Love rains down, taking the solo
Soaking us all with the music
Its wet resolve hums the backbeat
The sky looks down
And smiles it's kindly smile
It's yet another beautiful day
And we are the children and the owners
Of the earthly homeland that swings
Beneath our feet.
Man!
Sometimes these acid flashbacks are fun!
Wednesday, February 21, 2018
Neo-Poetry
I consider myself a neo-poet because I have no idea what else to call it.
Also because I seem to be doing things with words that I don't see anybody else doing. I'm not writing about how pretty trees are, how beautiful her limpid pools were, or how my love is like a red, red rose. None of that stuff has any real meaning or point of view. I'd rather express ideas. And maybe make you laugh while you think about those ideas.
Besides:
If you don't know how great love or beauty is by the time you're twenty or thirty then you're a moron and there's not a whole lot my writing is going to help you with.
I'll tell you what, if you need to be reminded how great love is here's a little gift for you:
LOVE IS GREAT!!!
Feel free to look at it anytime you'd like.
And.
Now that we have that one out of the way you are free to think about other things.
Also because I seem to be doing things with words that I don't see anybody else doing. I'm not writing about how pretty trees are, how beautiful her limpid pools were, or how my love is like a red, red rose. None of that stuff has any real meaning or point of view. I'd rather express ideas. And maybe make you laugh while you think about those ideas.
Besides:
If you don't know how great love or beauty is by the time you're twenty or thirty then you're a moron and there's not a whole lot my writing is going to help you with.
I'll tell you what, if you need to be reminded how great love is here's a little gift for you:
LOVE IS GREAT!!!
Feel free to look at it anytime you'd like.
And.
Now that we have that one out of the way you are free to think about other things.
Fake Gary Numan Lyrics
And leaning on the hallway wall
I watched you put your eyes on
I thought I felt my heart enlarge
You walked out and it shattered
Excuse me while I turn me off
Your airplane flies the friendly skies
Unaware that I am fading
It lands and you move somewhere else
With new sights through your window
Excuse me while I turn me off
(spoken)
"The traffic rolls by
slowing to a stop
and I'm reflected in chrome and glass
and I can't see my face
it was stolen by you
and when i call you the line is dead"
You're running with the roaring crowd
I'm quietly meowing
The dream falls and some parts are lost
I can't find the instructions
Excuse me while i turn me off...
I watched you put your eyes on
I thought I felt my heart enlarge
You walked out and it shattered
Excuse me while I turn me off
Your airplane flies the friendly skies
Unaware that I am fading
It lands and you move somewhere else
With new sights through your window
Excuse me while I turn me off
(spoken)
"The traffic rolls by
slowing to a stop
and I'm reflected in chrome and glass
and I can't see my face
it was stolen by you
and when i call you the line is dead"
You're running with the roaring crowd
I'm quietly meowing
The dream falls and some parts are lost
I can't find the instructions
Excuse me while i turn me off...
The Jar
There's this jar.
And it's huge.
Smudged a bit.
Really old.
The lid is rusted.
It has holes poked in it.
There are fireflies inside.
Glowing warmly with their inner light.
Some of the fireflies bang against the glass,.
Others wait calmly.
They are all beautiful in their own separate ways.
The ones on the outside tell stories of what they have seen.
Of big skies and clean air.
The fireflies inside the jar can't hear them.
Not unless they fly near the holes in the lid and listen real hard.
Away from the constant droning buzz of the other fireflies.
And it's huge.
Smudged a bit.
Really old.
The lid is rusted.
It has holes poked in it.
There are fireflies inside.
Glowing warmly with their inner light.
Some of the fireflies bang against the glass,.
Others wait calmly.
They are all beautiful in their own separate ways.
The ones on the outside tell stories of what they have seen.
Of big skies and clean air.
The fireflies inside the jar can't hear them.
Not unless they fly near the holes in the lid and listen real hard.
Away from the constant droning buzz of the other fireflies.
Kitties
Kitties at the IHOP
Kitties at the wheel
Kitties at the bus stop
Kitties always feel...
Sad when they are hungry
Happy when they're full
Glad when playing checkers
Sappy when they pull...
The switch that causes teardrops
A mistake while on ice
It melts and causes kerplops
And they don't swin so nice...
So close your eyes for dream time
A pillow for your head
I've run clean out of cat rhymes
Make up your own instead
Kitties at the wheel
Kitties at the bus stop
Kitties always feel...
Sad when they are hungry
Happy when they're full
Glad when playing checkers
Sappy when they pull...
The switch that causes teardrops
A mistake while on ice
It melts and causes kerplops
And they don't swin so nice...
So close your eyes for dream time
A pillow for your head
I've run clean out of cat rhymes
Make up your own instead
Lime Green Time Machine
The funeral was sad
(No big surprise there)
Dark clouds
Rain
It was just like in the movies
Newmar stood in the back
Taking hits off of a pint of Jim Beam
Mixing tears with pain
A poem, a quote, a mound of earth
And his Uncle Pete was buried
Newmar sighed
As his mind wandered back
It was the fourth of July
A bar-b-que with his family
He was playing in the dirt
With toy tanks and plastic dinosaurs
When he suddenly felt a weird vibe
He caught a feeling of something very bad
And very hot
He jumped up and tackled Uncle Pete
Knocking him down and safely away
Just before the grill exploded
In a huge fireball
For no reason at all
He had saved his uncle's life
"You've given me time", Uncle Pete had said
"Someday I'll do the same for you"
After the funeral he went home
To a big yellow house
That his uncle had left him in his will
He stood in the living room
And looked at Uncle Pete's stuff
Books, photos, and the like
Mere objects that were all that was left of his Uncle Pete's life
It made him feel empty
For Uncle Pete was also a trusted friend
Then
One night
Drunk on white wine and memories
Newmar found himself in the basement holding a cardboard box
A post-it note on it said:
"You gave me time
Now I've done the same for you"
It was signed by Uncle Pete
Inside the box were a couple of thousand
Styrofoam pellets
A strange looking lime green belt
And a small blue notebook
He took the belt and book upstairs
Sat down in a chair in the living room
And
An hour later was the owner of his very own time machine
That Uncle Pete had built from scratch
And even though Newmar was amazed
He still felt empty inside
Newmar examined the belt
There were knobs and buttons on it
And some small lights
On a panel on the front
It didn't look real
It looked like something out of Flash Gordon
All at once there was a flash of light
And a popping sound
Air being shoved out of the way
Standing next to Newmar
There was another Newmar
Exactly like himself
But he wasn't holding the belt
He was wearing it
"Hi!"
He said
"I'm from the future. Why don't you give it a try?"
Newmar put the belt on
Set it for a minute in the past
And pushed a button
There was a popping sound
Air being pushed out of the way
Newmar was looking at himself
Holding the belt
"Hi!"
He said
"I'm from the future. Why don't you give it a try?"
He watched himself put the belt on
And then set it for a minute in the past
And push a button
A flash
And a pop
And he was alone again
He went upstairs
Got very drunk
And thought about things
In the weeks that followed he saw
Martin and Lewis live
David Bowie in 1972
Blondie
Marilyn Monroe arriving at various movie premieres
The Marx Brothers on tour
His parent's wedding
His own birth
And so on...
(he resisted the urge to visit Uncle Pete
he just wasn't ready for that)
He had fun
And learned a lot
But
He still felt empty
See...
Newmar needed a purpose
A mission in life
A reason to live
He needed to feel full
One day
While visiting the fifties
He took in a movie
And before it was over
He knew what he had to do
So he returned to his own time
And went to a coin shop
And bought all of the fifties money he could
And went to the fifties
And bought comic books
And returned to his own time
And sold them
And bought fifties money
And went back
And bought more comic books
And returned
And sold them
And bought fifties money
And went back
Over and over again
When he was rich
He went around town and bought even older money
And packed a bag
And bid his house goodbye
Standing on the pier
In Santa Monica
He threw the belt into the ocean
Thankfully
It sank
Then he hailed a cab
There are no questions
That money can't answer
So when he signed the papers
There were smiles all around
And he picked up new daughter
And walked out of the orphanage
And smiled wide himself
"Are you really my father?"
She asked
"Yes. I am now."
"Then can we get some ice cream and go see the new Clark Gable picture?"
He watched the sunlight
Dance through her hair
And he patted her head
And smiled again
"Anything you want, Norma Jeane,"
He answered
"Anything at all."
Then he stooped down
And gave her a hug
"He gave me time"
He whispered
"Now I'm doing the same for you."
He didn't feel empty
(No big surprise there)
Dark clouds
Rain
It was just like in the movies
Newmar stood in the back
Taking hits off of a pint of Jim Beam
Mixing tears with pain
A poem, a quote, a mound of earth
And his Uncle Pete was buried
Newmar sighed
As his mind wandered back
It was the fourth of July
A bar-b-que with his family
He was playing in the dirt
With toy tanks and plastic dinosaurs
When he suddenly felt a weird vibe
He caught a feeling of something very bad
And very hot
He jumped up and tackled Uncle Pete
Knocking him down and safely away
Just before the grill exploded
In a huge fireball
For no reason at all
He had saved his uncle's life
"You've given me time", Uncle Pete had said
"Someday I'll do the same for you"
After the funeral he went home
To a big yellow house
That his uncle had left him in his will
He stood in the living room
And looked at Uncle Pete's stuff
Books, photos, and the like
Mere objects that were all that was left of his Uncle Pete's life
It made him feel empty
For Uncle Pete was also a trusted friend
Then
One night
Drunk on white wine and memories
Newmar found himself in the basement holding a cardboard box
A post-it note on it said:
"You gave me time
Now I've done the same for you"
It was signed by Uncle Pete
Inside the box were a couple of thousand
Styrofoam pellets
A strange looking lime green belt
And a small blue notebook
He took the belt and book upstairs
Sat down in a chair in the living room
And
An hour later was the owner of his very own time machine
That Uncle Pete had built from scratch
And even though Newmar was amazed
He still felt empty inside
Newmar examined the belt
There were knobs and buttons on it
And some small lights
On a panel on the front
It didn't look real
It looked like something out of Flash Gordon
All at once there was a flash of light
And a popping sound
Air being shoved out of the way
Standing next to Newmar
There was another Newmar
Exactly like himself
But he wasn't holding the belt
He was wearing it
"Hi!"
He said
"I'm from the future. Why don't you give it a try?"
Newmar put the belt on
Set it for a minute in the past
And pushed a button
There was a popping sound
Air being pushed out of the way
Newmar was looking at himself
Holding the belt
"Hi!"
He said
"I'm from the future. Why don't you give it a try?"
He watched himself put the belt on
And then set it for a minute in the past
And push a button
A flash
And a pop
And he was alone again
He went upstairs
Got very drunk
And thought about things
In the weeks that followed he saw
Martin and Lewis live
David Bowie in 1972
Blondie
Marilyn Monroe arriving at various movie premieres
The Marx Brothers on tour
His parent's wedding
His own birth
And so on...
(he resisted the urge to visit Uncle Pete
he just wasn't ready for that)
He had fun
And learned a lot
But
He still felt empty
See...
Newmar needed a purpose
A mission in life
A reason to live
He needed to feel full
One day
While visiting the fifties
He took in a movie
And before it was over
He knew what he had to do
So he returned to his own time
And went to a coin shop
And bought all of the fifties money he could
And went to the fifties
And bought comic books
And returned to his own time
And sold them
And bought fifties money
And went back
And bought more comic books
And returned
And sold them
And bought fifties money
And went back
Over and over again
When he was rich
He went around town and bought even older money
And packed a bag
And bid his house goodbye
Standing on the pier
In Santa Monica
He threw the belt into the ocean
Thankfully
It sank
Then he hailed a cab
There are no questions
That money can't answer
So when he signed the papers
There were smiles all around
And he picked up new daughter
And walked out of the orphanage
And smiled wide himself
"Are you really my father?"
She asked
"Yes. I am now."
"Then can we get some ice cream and go see the new Clark Gable picture?"
He watched the sunlight
Dance through her hair
And he patted her head
And smiled again
"Anything you want, Norma Jeane,"
He answered
"Anything at all."
Then he stooped down
And gave her a hug
"He gave me time"
He whispered
"Now I'm doing the same for you."
He didn't feel empty
Game Shows You Will Never See
You Bet Your Ass!
The Check Bouncers
Ooh! My Back!
Twenty Thousand Dollar Pink Belly
Let's Make A Sandwich
Wheel of Blisters
Make Me Puke
Celebrity Bar Room Brawl
Tic Tack Bleed
Bowling For Blowjobs
Squish That Zit!
Fishing With Pistols
I've Got a Chainsaw
Name That Wound
Are Those Real?
Win, Lose, or Die
Who Threw That Brick?
Underwater Checkers
Autopsy!
Shoot the Stars!
Drinking and Driving for Dollars
Beat Your Mom
The Price is Fucked
The Check Bouncers
Ooh! My Back!
Twenty Thousand Dollar Pink Belly
Let's Make A Sandwich
Wheel of Blisters
Make Me Puke
Celebrity Bar Room Brawl
Tic Tack Bleed
Bowling For Blowjobs
Squish That Zit!
Fishing With Pistols
I've Got a Chainsaw
Name That Wound
Are Those Real?
Win, Lose, or Die
Who Threw That Brick?
Underwater Checkers
Autopsy!
Shoot the Stars!
Drinking and Driving for Dollars
Beat Your Mom
The Price is Fucked
The Party Piece
Okay...
You're going to have to help me with this one.
It's cool.
You can handle it.
I promise.
Imagine you are at a party.
Everyone you know is there.
Everybody.
Even me.
I'm there too.
And people you don't know.
There's tons of them.
The place is packed to the rafters, man.
You couldn't fit a poodle in here.
Not without a bottle of salad oil and a crowbar.
There's folk over by the stereo playing strip twister.
Guys and girls faking each other out.
Who's got the coolest car?
That kind of thing.
And there are men in strange uniforms and hats.
Engaged in the most intense game of Risk that's ever been played.
Anywhere.
Ever.
And next to the television there are men in suits and ties.
They are playing Monopoly while wives and girlfriends with big fake nails and big fake hair and even bigger fake tits are cheering them on.
And me?
Where am I?
I'm in the kitchen.
I'm trying to get a beer out of the icebox.
I'm pouring myself a coffee cup of cheap rum.
It's that kind of party.
One of those all night, get down, rammajammas that's not going to end.
At least not until I'm long gone and far forgotten.
It's a lot like a sitcom but nobody knows but me.
But that's another story and I'd rather not get into it right now.
So...
Anyway..
I grab my booze and slowly move.
Slipping inbetween the mass of gameplayers
Sliding into a comfy chair.
Home, sweet home for me.
And I'm sitting there and I look around.
And I can't see the television because a crowd of bullshitters are blocking my view.
And this chick comes up.
And she's beautiful, man.
Blonde.
Green eyes.
The whole deal, right?
And she says, "You know, life is like a game and you should really get in there and play."
And I answer, "Aw, the rules don't make any sense.
I'm not the competitive type anyway.
And besides, "Night of the Lepus" is on TCM tonight and if I miss it it'll screw up my whole week."
And she smiles and kisses my forehead and says, "That's really cool and everything but I have to go hang out with the bullshitters now because the tall one looks a lot like my dad and he seems like the kind of guy that would punch another guy in the face if he caught him flirting with me and that's the kind of thing that really turns me on."
And she walks away.
So...
I pull out my TV Guide and circle the shows that I plan on seeing next week with a purple felt tip pen.
And I get drunk.
Because life is a game and I really should get in there and play.
But
I might be missing something really, really good.
And I don't want to put myself through something like that.
You're going to have to help me with this one.
It's cool.
You can handle it.
I promise.
Imagine you are at a party.
Everyone you know is there.
Everybody.
Even me.
I'm there too.
And people you don't know.
There's tons of them.
The place is packed to the rafters, man.
You couldn't fit a poodle in here.
Not without a bottle of salad oil and a crowbar.
There's folk over by the stereo playing strip twister.
Guys and girls faking each other out.
Who's got the coolest car?
That kind of thing.
And there are men in strange uniforms and hats.
Engaged in the most intense game of Risk that's ever been played.
Anywhere.
Ever.
And next to the television there are men in suits and ties.
They are playing Monopoly while wives and girlfriends with big fake nails and big fake hair and even bigger fake tits are cheering them on.
And me?
Where am I?
I'm in the kitchen.
I'm trying to get a beer out of the icebox.
I'm pouring myself a coffee cup of cheap rum.
It's that kind of party.
One of those all night, get down, rammajammas that's not going to end.
At least not until I'm long gone and far forgotten.
It's a lot like a sitcom but nobody knows but me.
But that's another story and I'd rather not get into it right now.
So...
Anyway..
I grab my booze and slowly move.
Slipping inbetween the mass of gameplayers
Sliding into a comfy chair.
Home, sweet home for me.
And I'm sitting there and I look around.
And I can't see the television because a crowd of bullshitters are blocking my view.
And this chick comes up.
And she's beautiful, man.
Blonde.
Green eyes.
The whole deal, right?
And she says, "You know, life is like a game and you should really get in there and play."
And I answer, "Aw, the rules don't make any sense.
I'm not the competitive type anyway.
And besides, "Night of the Lepus" is on TCM tonight and if I miss it it'll screw up my whole week."
And she smiles and kisses my forehead and says, "That's really cool and everything but I have to go hang out with the bullshitters now because the tall one looks a lot like my dad and he seems like the kind of guy that would punch another guy in the face if he caught him flirting with me and that's the kind of thing that really turns me on."
And she walks away.
So...
I pull out my TV Guide and circle the shows that I plan on seeing next week with a purple felt tip pen.
And I get drunk.
Because life is a game and I really should get in there and play.
But
I might be missing something really, really good.
And I don't want to put myself through something like that.
California Quake
Boom, boom, boom
Crash, crash, crash
The earthquake is coming to town
He knows when you've been sleeping
And he knows when you're awake
But he doesn't give a shit about that stuff
Houses
Cars
Stores
Mirrors
Windows
Books
Televisions
Cats
Dogs
Goldfish
Trees
Any and all manner of nouns
Will be destroyed
Or lost in the rubble of his wake
But, hey!
Look on the bright side
So will many poets...
Crash, crash, crash
The earthquake is coming to town
He knows when you've been sleeping
And he knows when you're awake
But he doesn't give a shit about that stuff
Houses
Cars
Stores
Mirrors
Windows
Books
Televisions
Cats
Dogs
Goldfish
Trees
Any and all manner of nouns
Will be destroyed
Or lost in the rubble of his wake
But, hey!
Look on the bright side
So will many poets...
Hold The Man-Oh
Oh, man!
Some people really piss me off. Like people who say "man-aise" for example. What the fuck is wrong with these assholes?
It's not "man-aise", it's "mayonnaise" for cryin' out loud! It's a French word! It's probably pronounced "may-oh-naise-eee" or "may-oh-naz-ah" or some shit. That's a big pain in the ass through, so here in America we say "may-naise". People who say "man-aise" ought to be killed to fucking death! They should be fucking shot in the kneecaps!
Say you go into a deli and you don't want any of the white creamy stuff. What do you say? Do you say, "hold the "man-oh"."? No! You sure as fuck don't! You say, "hold the "may-oh" Why? Because it's short for "may-oh-naise" That's why!
Suppose you don't want any of the yellow stuff. What do you say then? "Hold the "man-stard"."? No! You don't! There's no such thing as "man-stard"! It's "mus-tard" and "may-naise" you dim bulb motherfuckers!
Get a grip and get out of my face or I'll kill you! Fuck! These assholes prob'ly drink Coors Light too! I hate Coors Light! Coors light? Gimme a break! What? Like a regular Coors is too strong for these people? "Gee...I like a can of Coors now and then but that aftertaste! Yow!" Silver bullet? How'd you like a silver bullet in your fuckin' chest?
Ball Park franks too! They plump when you cook 'em? Big fucking deal! The ads don't say a goddamn thing about how they taste, man! All they say is that they plump when you cook 'em. What does that mean, anyway? Does that mean that some guy at the Ball Park factory beams more hot dog into your hot dog when you heat them up? I don't fucking think so! I think that water in them makes them expand when they get hot. That's what I fucking think!
And those lowfat Oreo's? Fuck you! Don't even get me started with those lowfat Oreo's! If you can't handle a fucking regular Oreo now and then, It's time to end your fucking life! You pussed out, post yuppie motherfuckers! Fuck fucking you!
You wanna know what's wrong with this country? Have a Ball Park frank with some "man-aise" on it, wash it down with a Coors Light, pound a couple of lowfat Oreo's, and give me a call.
I'll tell you what's wrong with this fuckin' country...
Some people really piss me off. Like people who say "man-aise" for example. What the fuck is wrong with these assholes?
It's not "man-aise", it's "mayonnaise" for cryin' out loud! It's a French word! It's probably pronounced "may-oh-naise-eee" or "may-oh-naz-ah" or some shit. That's a big pain in the ass through, so here in America we say "may-naise". People who say "man-aise" ought to be killed to fucking death! They should be fucking shot in the kneecaps!
Say you go into a deli and you don't want any of the white creamy stuff. What do you say? Do you say, "hold the "man-oh"."? No! You sure as fuck don't! You say, "hold the "may-oh" Why? Because it's short for "may-oh-naise" That's why!
Suppose you don't want any of the yellow stuff. What do you say then? "Hold the "man-stard"."? No! You don't! There's no such thing as "man-stard"! It's "mus-tard" and "may-naise" you dim bulb motherfuckers!
Get a grip and get out of my face or I'll kill you! Fuck! These assholes prob'ly drink Coors Light too! I hate Coors Light! Coors light? Gimme a break! What? Like a regular Coors is too strong for these people? "Gee...I like a can of Coors now and then but that aftertaste! Yow!" Silver bullet? How'd you like a silver bullet in your fuckin' chest?
Ball Park franks too! They plump when you cook 'em? Big fucking deal! The ads don't say a goddamn thing about how they taste, man! All they say is that they plump when you cook 'em. What does that mean, anyway? Does that mean that some guy at the Ball Park factory beams more hot dog into your hot dog when you heat them up? I don't fucking think so! I think that water in them makes them expand when they get hot. That's what I fucking think!
And those lowfat Oreo's? Fuck you! Don't even get me started with those lowfat Oreo's! If you can't handle a fucking regular Oreo now and then, It's time to end your fucking life! You pussed out, post yuppie motherfuckers! Fuck fucking you!
You wanna know what's wrong with this country? Have a Ball Park frank with some "man-aise" on it, wash it down with a Coors Light, pound a couple of lowfat Oreo's, and give me a call.
I'll tell you what's wrong with this fuckin' country...
Bees
'round about 4th or 5th grade we all dressed like hippies. those kind of clothes were just about all that you could buy and our moms pretty much wanted us to dress in such a fashion anyway (fashion being the key word here). god forbid we didn't look like everybody else if someone else's mom was looking out a window as we made our way to school.
one day, at recess the best dressed and grooviest guy in the whole school saw a bunch of bees hanging around the monkey bars. i'll never forget how groovy he looked, in his bell bottoms and love beads as he did a bee killing dance. he stomped as many as he could screaming, "BEES! ARRRGGGHHH! BEES!", as i tried to tell him that if he left them alone they wouldn't hurt him. he was a huge hero that day and i was an asshole. he saved the playground from a huge bee attack while i sat there like a lump and did nothing. the truth wasn't importent in the slightest. the cool guy was forever the cool guy. the fact that i had read about bees and was only stung once, when i wasn't looking and stepped on one in my bare feet about a year before that didn't matter. he was cool and i sucked.
years later, as i waited for the light to change at a corner on wilshire blvd. i saw him again. he was sitting in a very shiny car that he didn't need, drinking a starbucks with one hand and holding a cell phone in the other as "all you need is love" pumped out of the car's speakers.
he was still, and forever the grooviest guy you could ever want to see.
i bet he gets laid every night, tossing chicks aside as if they were burnt matches while i live a humble life on line trying to help others. and, if we met face to face i doubt he would have even the slightest trouble telling me what a loser i am. crushing my hopes, dreams, and ideas like so many bees. or the needy. or the homeless.
i'll leave the point of this story up to you.
i'm just not groovy enough to explain it...
one day, at recess the best dressed and grooviest guy in the whole school saw a bunch of bees hanging around the monkey bars. i'll never forget how groovy he looked, in his bell bottoms and love beads as he did a bee killing dance. he stomped as many as he could screaming, "BEES! ARRRGGGHHH! BEES!", as i tried to tell him that if he left them alone they wouldn't hurt him. he was a huge hero that day and i was an asshole. he saved the playground from a huge bee attack while i sat there like a lump and did nothing. the truth wasn't importent in the slightest. the cool guy was forever the cool guy. the fact that i had read about bees and was only stung once, when i wasn't looking and stepped on one in my bare feet about a year before that didn't matter. he was cool and i sucked.
years later, as i waited for the light to change at a corner on wilshire blvd. i saw him again. he was sitting in a very shiny car that he didn't need, drinking a starbucks with one hand and holding a cell phone in the other as "all you need is love" pumped out of the car's speakers.
he was still, and forever the grooviest guy you could ever want to see.
i bet he gets laid every night, tossing chicks aside as if they were burnt matches while i live a humble life on line trying to help others. and, if we met face to face i doubt he would have even the slightest trouble telling me what a loser i am. crushing my hopes, dreams, and ideas like so many bees. or the needy. or the homeless.
i'll leave the point of this story up to you.
i'm just not groovy enough to explain it...
Tuesday, February 20, 2018
Looking
i just noticed the indentation in your chin
and
i think
a thumb would fit there
just right
when holding your face
with one hand
like
if a speck was in your eye
or
if you needed a tear kissed away
or
just to feed you a nibble on a candy bar
you know
something simple like that
and
i think
a thumb would fit there
just right
when holding your face
with one hand
like
if a speck was in your eye
or
if you needed a tear kissed away
or
just to feed you a nibble on a candy bar
you know
something simple like that
My Dad
My dad was the kind of guy who would spend more than the cost of dinner on a fishing pole hoping that he could catch enough fish in his lifetime to make the cost...um...work out in his favor. He wasn’t a very spiritual guy, he was a moron who actually thought that "the system" could be beaten if he could just figure out "all the angles" and latch on to the "right one".
Back in the very late fifties he drug me to the Santa Monica pier on just such a fishing trip. I was about three or four years old at the time. I seriously doubt I was even into TV Guide at the time.
We sat on an edge of the pier and cast our lines into the wind. Somehow (and I don’t even remember this) I reeled in a fish that was roughly the size of a nice "sammich".
There was another kid about my age, bored to death as he hung out with a father who was about the same age as mine. Another asshole who was hell-bent on "beating the system" just like my father was. This poor kid didn’t catch a fish and his dad was more than a bit peeved at this. Fucking fathers, man. You got me on that one. His kid was a fucking KID for Christ’s sake.
This kid’s dad kind of laid into him. "Geezuz! Can’t you even catch a fucking fish?", that whole vibe, so I reached into my dad’s bucket and gave the poor little fucker the fish that I had caught. He and his dad were amazed and both got real happy real fast, the whole point of life (at least in that moment) being "FISH!!!!" and not at all connected to real life at all.
My dad smiled and "let things slide", saying something sage like, "Kids? What you gonna do?" and let the dad and the now happy kid stalk off into the night.
On the way home he threw the fucking book at me and called me a pussy. Many, many, many times.
This is how I deal with my friends. Both in real life and on line. I give away my fish.
It’s left up to you to figure out what I mean by this. I’m not a professor. I’m an asshole with a ton of fish and it’s up to you to pick out the bones.
Back in the very late fifties he drug me to the Santa Monica pier on just such a fishing trip. I was about three or four years old at the time. I seriously doubt I was even into TV Guide at the time.
We sat on an edge of the pier and cast our lines into the wind. Somehow (and I don’t even remember this) I reeled in a fish that was roughly the size of a nice "sammich".
There was another kid about my age, bored to death as he hung out with a father who was about the same age as mine. Another asshole who was hell-bent on "beating the system" just like my father was. This poor kid didn’t catch a fish and his dad was more than a bit peeved at this. Fucking fathers, man. You got me on that one. His kid was a fucking KID for Christ’s sake.
This kid’s dad kind of laid into him. "Geezuz! Can’t you even catch a fucking fish?", that whole vibe, so I reached into my dad’s bucket and gave the poor little fucker the fish that I had caught. He and his dad were amazed and both got real happy real fast, the whole point of life (at least in that moment) being "FISH!!!!" and not at all connected to real life at all.
My dad smiled and "let things slide", saying something sage like, "Kids? What you gonna do?" and let the dad and the now happy kid stalk off into the night.
On the way home he threw the fucking book at me and called me a pussy. Many, many, many times.
This is how I deal with my friends. Both in real life and on line. I give away my fish.
It’s left up to you to figure out what I mean by this. I’m not a professor. I’m an asshole with a ton of fish and it’s up to you to pick out the bones.
Chix
she said: "i think a woman should be able to breast feed wherever she wants."
i said: "why?"
she said: "because it's a beautiful, natural, wonderful thing."
i said: "then i should be able to watch."
she said: "that's sick!"
i said: "how come? it's a beautiful, natural, wonderful thing."
she said: "but it's a private thing. something shared between a mother and child."
i said: "then it should be done somewhere private."
she said: "god! you just don't get it, do you?"
this is one of the many reasons i don't have a girlfriend.
i said: "why?"
she said: "because it's a beautiful, natural, wonderful thing."
i said: "then i should be able to watch."
she said: "that's sick!"
i said: "how come? it's a beautiful, natural, wonderful thing."
she said: "but it's a private thing. something shared between a mother and child."
i said: "then it should be done somewhere private."
she said: "god! you just don't get it, do you?"
this is one of the many reasons i don't have a girlfriend.
A Piece Of A Screenplay
EXT. AN ALLEY - NIGHT
We hear gunshots. Manning and RADCLIFFE duck into the alley. They both have pistols and are a bit out of breath. Radcliffe wears a black jacket over a Marilyn Monroe T-shirt.
Their friendship is quite like that of Butch and Sundance.
RADCLIFFE
Damn! Those guys are good!
MANNING
Not as good as us. Close, but not as good as us.
RADCLIFFE
They have us cornered in an alley, Glen. They're pretty good.
MANNING
We've been cornered before.
RADCLIFFE
Okay. I don't want to argue. It's my birthday. Let's play nice, okay?
MANNING
Here's what we're gonna do: I'll take out Castle and you go for Woolsey. We'll ice these assholes, drop off the microfilm, and then go get drunk.
RADCLIFFE
I want Castle.
MANNING
No way. Castle's mine.
RADCLIFFE
But it's my birthday.
MANNING
Throw that up in my face.
RADCLIFFE
I just did.
MANNING
All right. You can have Castle. But you owe me big time. I hate that Castle.
RADCLIFFE
And don't forget our deal.
MANNING
You're getting on my nerves with that.
RADCLIFFE
C'mon, we made a pact. Say it with me. You know you want to.
MANNING
I don't like saying it, Cliffie. It scares me when we say it.
RADCLIFFE
Remember that night in Sheboygan? We made the pact and got the tattoos?
MANNING
That's true! What were we thinking that night?
RADCLIFFE
It wasn't the thinking it was the drinking. Now...are you gonna say it with me or what?
MANNING
Aw, hell. Alright. I hereby swear...
RADCLIFFE
...that if anything happens to one of us...
MANNING
...the one of us that is not dead...
RADCLIFFE
...will find someone else and...
MANNING
...teach him...
RADCLIFFE
...or her...
MANNING
...everything that we now know.
RADCLIFFE
That wasn't so hard, was it?
MANNING
Are you happy now, birthday boy?
RADCLIFFE
Yes. Very. My nipples are stiff and I'm starting to get damp.
MANNING
Swell. Can we go kill these guys?
RADCLIFFE
There's nothing I'd rather do.
They brace themselves, count to three, and step into the street.
STREET
WOOLSEY waits in the doorway of a closed liquor store.
CASTLE is hiding behind a parked car.
Woolsey fires at Manning, missing him completely but blowing two holes in a phonebooth.
Manning shoots Woolsey, who falls through the window of the liquor store.
Castle fires an Uzi at Radcliffe.
Radcliffe spins around in a circle and shoots Castle in the shoulder. Castle falls to the street.
Radcliffe slumps down on a bus bench and sighs. Manning steps up to him.
MANNING
Goddamn! That was easy! Let's go have a birthday party, tough guy!
Radcliffe is very depressed and whiney.
RADCLIFFE
I don't wanna.
MANNING
Why not?
Radcliffe mumbles something.
MANNING
What?
Radcliffe mumbles again.
MANNING
Can you try that with an American accent? You know, just once?
RADCLIFFE
I'm shot in the chest.
Manning laughs. Hard. He doesn't believe it for a second.
MANNING
That's a good one! Let's go.
Radcliffe opens his jacket. His Marilyn Monroe T-shirt has three holes in it and he is bleeding. Radcliffe is angry, both at Manning and himself.
RADCLIFFE
See the holes? Do you have holes? I do! You wanna know why? Because I'm shot in the fucking chest, that's why!
MANNING
Does it hurt?
Radcliffe points his gun at Manning.
RADCLIFFE
Hell if I know! Why don't you stand back and I'll shoot you in the chest a few times? That way you can tell me!
He drops the gun.
MANNING
Hang on, tough guy. I'll get you an ambulance.
RADCLIFFE
Ambulance? Get me a priest! I'm shot in the fucking chest!
MANNING
Maybe you should take it easy, huh?
RADCLIFFE
Take it easy? Are you blind? I'm shot in the fucking chest!
MANNING
I don't know what to do.
RADCLIFFE
Shit! Me either! This was my favorite shirt! I guess this screws the hell out of my birthday, huh? I already paid for the hookers and everything!
MANNING
You got hookers?
RADCLIFFE
Yeah. I was gonna take the redhead and let you have the blonde.
MANNING
It's your birthday! You should've picked the blonde, you know? You love blondes!
RADCLIFFE
Yeah, that just shows you what a good heart I have! Now I'm shot in the fucking chest! Is that ironic or what? Heart? Chest? Holes? Do you see what I'm getting at here?
He coughs and spits up about a half a cup of blood.
RADCLIFFE
Oh, great! Now I'm coughing up blood! What's next? A paper cut?
MANNING
Hang on, man. I'm gonna go to that pay phone over there and get you some help.
Manning takes a step toward the phonebooth. Radcliffe calls to him. He is suddenly calm and serious.
RADCLIFFE
Glen? Don't bother, okay?
MANNING
Hey, c'mon now. Don't give up on me, tough guy. You're gonna make it through this.
RADCLIFFE
It's out of my hands, Glen.
MANNING
C'mon, Cliffie. Hang in there.
RADCLIFFE
I'll say hi to Marilyn Monroe for you.
MANNING
Cliffie. Fight it, man.
RADCLIFFE
Don't forget our deal. Promise me.
MANNING
I promise, tough guy. I promise.
Radcliffe breathes his last breath. He slides over to a laying position on the bench. He is smiling. Ever so slightly, but smiling none the less.
Manning takes an old broom out of a trash can next to the bench and snaps it in half over his knee.
MANNING
Aw...shit...
We hear a weak voice. Castle is still alive.
CASTLE
Manning? I could use an ambulance.
Castle is laid out on the sidewalk. Manning starts toward him.
MANNING
Castle? You're not dead?
CASTLE
No, Manning. Not yet.
Manning moves closer, holding the broomstick like a club.
He smiles at Castle.
MANNING
Let's see what we can do about that.
Castles eyes get wide. He's about to get beaten to death and he knows it.
CASTLE
Oh, fuck...
Manning raises the broomstick. He brings it down with full force.
Just before it makes contact with Castle's head we...
JUMP CUT TO BLACK
We hear gunshots. Manning and RADCLIFFE duck into the alley. They both have pistols and are a bit out of breath. Radcliffe wears a black jacket over a Marilyn Monroe T-shirt.
Their friendship is quite like that of Butch and Sundance.
RADCLIFFE
Damn! Those guys are good!
MANNING
Not as good as us. Close, but not as good as us.
RADCLIFFE
They have us cornered in an alley, Glen. They're pretty good.
MANNING
We've been cornered before.
RADCLIFFE
Okay. I don't want to argue. It's my birthday. Let's play nice, okay?
MANNING
Here's what we're gonna do: I'll take out Castle and you go for Woolsey. We'll ice these assholes, drop off the microfilm, and then go get drunk.
RADCLIFFE
I want Castle.
MANNING
No way. Castle's mine.
RADCLIFFE
But it's my birthday.
MANNING
Throw that up in my face.
RADCLIFFE
I just did.
MANNING
All right. You can have Castle. But you owe me big time. I hate that Castle.
RADCLIFFE
And don't forget our deal.
MANNING
You're getting on my nerves with that.
RADCLIFFE
C'mon, we made a pact. Say it with me. You know you want to.
MANNING
I don't like saying it, Cliffie. It scares me when we say it.
RADCLIFFE
Remember that night in Sheboygan? We made the pact and got the tattoos?
MANNING
That's true! What were we thinking that night?
RADCLIFFE
It wasn't the thinking it was the drinking. Now...are you gonna say it with me or what?
MANNING
Aw, hell. Alright. I hereby swear...
RADCLIFFE
...that if anything happens to one of us...
MANNING
...the one of us that is not dead...
RADCLIFFE
...will find someone else and...
MANNING
...teach him...
RADCLIFFE
...or her...
MANNING
...everything that we now know.
RADCLIFFE
That wasn't so hard, was it?
MANNING
Are you happy now, birthday boy?
RADCLIFFE
Yes. Very. My nipples are stiff and I'm starting to get damp.
MANNING
Swell. Can we go kill these guys?
RADCLIFFE
There's nothing I'd rather do.
They brace themselves, count to three, and step into the street.
STREET
WOOLSEY waits in the doorway of a closed liquor store.
CASTLE is hiding behind a parked car.
Woolsey fires at Manning, missing him completely but blowing two holes in a phonebooth.
Manning shoots Woolsey, who falls through the window of the liquor store.
Castle fires an Uzi at Radcliffe.
Radcliffe spins around in a circle and shoots Castle in the shoulder. Castle falls to the street.
Radcliffe slumps down on a bus bench and sighs. Manning steps up to him.
MANNING
Goddamn! That was easy! Let's go have a birthday party, tough guy!
Radcliffe is very depressed and whiney.
RADCLIFFE
I don't wanna.
MANNING
Why not?
Radcliffe mumbles something.
MANNING
What?
Radcliffe mumbles again.
MANNING
Can you try that with an American accent? You know, just once?
RADCLIFFE
I'm shot in the chest.
Manning laughs. Hard. He doesn't believe it for a second.
MANNING
That's a good one! Let's go.
Radcliffe opens his jacket. His Marilyn Monroe T-shirt has three holes in it and he is bleeding. Radcliffe is angry, both at Manning and himself.
RADCLIFFE
See the holes? Do you have holes? I do! You wanna know why? Because I'm shot in the fucking chest, that's why!
MANNING
Does it hurt?
Radcliffe points his gun at Manning.
RADCLIFFE
Hell if I know! Why don't you stand back and I'll shoot you in the chest a few times? That way you can tell me!
He drops the gun.
MANNING
Hang on, tough guy. I'll get you an ambulance.
RADCLIFFE
Ambulance? Get me a priest! I'm shot in the fucking chest!
MANNING
Maybe you should take it easy, huh?
RADCLIFFE
Take it easy? Are you blind? I'm shot in the fucking chest!
MANNING
I don't know what to do.
RADCLIFFE
Shit! Me either! This was my favorite shirt! I guess this screws the hell out of my birthday, huh? I already paid for the hookers and everything!
MANNING
You got hookers?
RADCLIFFE
Yeah. I was gonna take the redhead and let you have the blonde.
MANNING
It's your birthday! You should've picked the blonde, you know? You love blondes!
RADCLIFFE
Yeah, that just shows you what a good heart I have! Now I'm shot in the fucking chest! Is that ironic or what? Heart? Chest? Holes? Do you see what I'm getting at here?
He coughs and spits up about a half a cup of blood.
RADCLIFFE
Oh, great! Now I'm coughing up blood! What's next? A paper cut?
MANNING
Hang on, man. I'm gonna go to that pay phone over there and get you some help.
Manning takes a step toward the phonebooth. Radcliffe calls to him. He is suddenly calm and serious.
RADCLIFFE
Glen? Don't bother, okay?
MANNING
Hey, c'mon now. Don't give up on me, tough guy. You're gonna make it through this.
RADCLIFFE
It's out of my hands, Glen.
MANNING
C'mon, Cliffie. Hang in there.
RADCLIFFE
I'll say hi to Marilyn Monroe for you.
MANNING
Cliffie. Fight it, man.
RADCLIFFE
Don't forget our deal. Promise me.
MANNING
I promise, tough guy. I promise.
Radcliffe breathes his last breath. He slides over to a laying position on the bench. He is smiling. Ever so slightly, but smiling none the less.
Manning takes an old broom out of a trash can next to the bench and snaps it in half over his knee.
MANNING
Aw...shit...
We hear a weak voice. Castle is still alive.
CASTLE
Manning? I could use an ambulance.
Castle is laid out on the sidewalk. Manning starts toward him.
MANNING
Castle? You're not dead?
CASTLE
No, Manning. Not yet.
Manning moves closer, holding the broomstick like a club.
He smiles at Castle.
MANNING
Let's see what we can do about that.
Castles eyes get wide. He's about to get beaten to death and he knows it.
CASTLE
Oh, fuck...
Manning raises the broomstick. He brings it down with full force.
Just before it makes contact with Castle's head we...
JUMP CUT TO BLACK
Walking On Glass
if you'd be my jigglypuff
i'd be your pokemon
we could move to paris
or sheboygan if you'd like
cuz i think of you nightly
and my heart warms with your image
but my mind gets lonely
without the sense of your touch
and they tell me i'm wrong
just like they always do
and their buzz in my ears
replaces sweet sound
but i'm not gonna stop
cuz i'm afraid if i did
i'd wake up in heaven
and god would say:
"what? are you nuts?
you were almost there, man!"
so i button my coat
and tread into the dark
lightly i tread
always lightly
for i know i'm only
walking. walking on glass
and i'm walking alone
again.
on glass
i'd be your pokemon
we could move to paris
or sheboygan if you'd like
cuz i think of you nightly
and my heart warms with your image
but my mind gets lonely
without the sense of your touch
and they tell me i'm wrong
just like they always do
and their buzz in my ears
replaces sweet sound
but i'm not gonna stop
cuz i'm afraid if i did
i'd wake up in heaven
and god would say:
"what? are you nuts?
you were almost there, man!"
so i button my coat
and tread into the dark
lightly i tread
always lightly
for i know i'm only
walking. walking on glass
and i'm walking alone
again.
on glass
Flash
The sun is liquid and gold with love and promise
It flows aside me, watching
Flows inside me, talking
My eyes are aglow with heart's desire
Birds sing both opera and doo-wop all at once
Blues and greens collide and dance along
Flowers whisper my name as a chorus
Love rains down, taking the solo
Soaking us all with the music
Its wet resolve hums the backbeat
The sky looks down
And smiles it's kindly smile
It's yet another beautiful day
And we are the children and the owners
Of the earthly homeland that swings
Beneath our feet.
Man!
Sometimes these acid flashbacks are fun!
It flows aside me, watching
Flows inside me, talking
My eyes are aglow with heart's desire
Birds sing both opera and doo-wop all at once
Blues and greens collide and dance along
Flowers whisper my name as a chorus
Love rains down, taking the solo
Soaking us all with the music
Its wet resolve hums the backbeat
The sky looks down
And smiles it's kindly smile
It's yet another beautiful day
And we are the children and the owners
Of the earthly homeland that swings
Beneath our feet.
Man!
Sometimes these acid flashbacks are fun!
Rant
i didn't plan on being like this
you know?
there were these dinosaurs
then this big ass chunk of iridium
smacked into the earth
and then the fifties showed up
and my parents thought that being in love meant having kids
and you're pretty much up to speed at this point
the most amazing thing to me is
that i'm not totally fucking drunk every fucking day
how do you people handle this shit?
is it a desire to own things?
is that how you stay unsane?
i try
i swear i try
i just don't get it
big houses
big cars
getting laid every night
voting for assholes
gripping things until you die
i do not understand your simple ways
i am not one of you
i'm fucking crazy
i'm the last human on earth
you know?
there were these dinosaurs
then this big ass chunk of iridium
smacked into the earth
and then the fifties showed up
and my parents thought that being in love meant having kids
and you're pretty much up to speed at this point
the most amazing thing to me is
that i'm not totally fucking drunk every fucking day
how do you people handle this shit?
is it a desire to own things?
is that how you stay unsane?
i try
i swear i try
i just don't get it
big houses
big cars
getting laid every night
voting for assholes
gripping things until you die
i do not understand your simple ways
i am not one of you
i'm fucking crazy
i'm the last human on earth
Poetry For mobsters
"Jersey By Moonlight"
Three shots rang out
the noise bouncing off of the brick walls
that lined the alley
behind Big Tony Monstasquigleoni's Bar and Grill
it sounded like somebody had thrown a housecat
into a fucking gong
like they got in one of those pagodas
or some shit like that
The first bullet hit that Louie
the scumbag poodle fucking motherfucker
in the crook of his arm
it blew his fucking elbow
out the back of his shirt sleeve
funny bone and all
(I swear I heard it clank into one of those dumpsters
Big Tony's got back there
but I could be wrong)
Anyways...
The second slug
entered Louie's belly
blood shot out of his stomach
like some big ass weightlifter fuck
had shoved a tomato into a fucking funnel
so hard that spaghetti sauce sprayed out the small end
(He was really screaming now
"Oh,fuck! I'm fucking shot!
Please don't kill me!
Please,God,please!"
I'm telling you
you should've been there
it was fucking great!)
The third bullet
hit that scumbag
square in the mouth
and the back of his head
fucking exploded
baad-ah-bang!
"Hey,asshole!"
I laughed
"I betcha won't be messing with my wife anytime soon!
at least...
not till you get a new fucking face!"
Hey,Bobby?
Where's our waitress?
She's got my scotch and soda...
"BAD NIGHT NO.12"
I lift him up
I drop him
I lift him up
I drop him
I lift him up
I fucking drop him
If you're going to drink
don't try to hang a squealer on a meat hook
"REFLECTIONS OF LOVE"
You tell me you love me
that you'll always be mine
You tell me you'll need me
until the end of time
You tell me want me
like two turtledoves
So why can't you tell me
how to get this fucking blood stain out of my rug?
Three shots rang out
the noise bouncing off of the brick walls
that lined the alley
behind Big Tony Monstasquigleoni's Bar and Grill
it sounded like somebody had thrown a housecat
into a fucking gong
like they got in one of those pagodas
or some shit like that
The first bullet hit that Louie
the scumbag poodle fucking motherfucker
in the crook of his arm
it blew his fucking elbow
out the back of his shirt sleeve
funny bone and all
(I swear I heard it clank into one of those dumpsters
Big Tony's got back there
but I could be wrong)
Anyways...
The second slug
entered Louie's belly
blood shot out of his stomach
like some big ass weightlifter fuck
had shoved a tomato into a fucking funnel
so hard that spaghetti sauce sprayed out the small end
(He was really screaming now
"Oh,fuck! I'm fucking shot!
Please don't kill me!
Please,God,please!"
I'm telling you
you should've been there
it was fucking great!)
The third bullet
hit that scumbag
square in the mouth
and the back of his head
fucking exploded
baad-ah-bang!
"Hey,asshole!"
I laughed
"I betcha won't be messing with my wife anytime soon!
at least...
not till you get a new fucking face!"
Hey,Bobby?
Where's our waitress?
She's got my scotch and soda...
"BAD NIGHT NO.12"
I lift him up
I drop him
I lift him up
I drop him
I lift him up
I fucking drop him
If you're going to drink
don't try to hang a squealer on a meat hook
"REFLECTIONS OF LOVE"
You tell me you love me
that you'll always be mine
You tell me you'll need me
until the end of time
You tell me want me
like two turtledoves
So why can't you tell me
how to get this fucking blood stain out of my rug?
For Puff
i've just said something funny. a perfect face on a body built like both sizes of marshmallows in perfectly stacked puffs is smiling. then laughing. then speaking in flirty tones as fingers brush my shoulder. the marshmallows are soft and warm like fresh out of the bag and microwaved to an almost liquid state (but not exactly). virtual scoops of the stuff speaking in visual girly rhythms. fluffy and bouncing and next to dancing as it laughs. almost too painful for a simple human to look at. somehow more than alive and flowing with it's own inner heat as it moves warmly through both time and space at the same moment. on a trip across a timeline without either limits or a worry. then i watch and melt a bit myself as you pass me in this narrow doorway. sometimes my hands reach out to caress you. sometimes they don't. i'm never sure of the impending reaction. i'm willing to take a chance at least half the time however. it goes either way. you hold me close or squirm to freedom. both feel fine as i'm not all that forceful or determined. but my heart always reaches. sometimes when mearly aware that you are in the next room. or a town or two away. and when you laugh hard enough your head moves forward and back in near jerky nods. your hair bounces as well. it dances on it's own to the music of your giggling. then your tongue wets your lips. and that is why i often bark at you like a dog in a bad cartoon.
Sunday, February 18, 2018
sometimes
sometimes
i feel bad about how much i love television
but
then again
it did stop me from beating my family to death
with a toaster oven...
i feel bad about how much i love television
but
then again
it did stop me from beating my family to death
with a toaster oven...
psssssst...
you should be thinking about who's holding the string)
Friday, February 16, 2018
Toong! Boof! Splat!
I knew this guy named Newmar, right? He worked in construction, heat sealing plasti-beams for the MondoCorp building downtown. He was an average guy. Kept to himself. Never caused any problems or nothing. What you might call a square egg.
So...one day he's up on, um...I dunno, like the two hundred and thirty fourth floor or whatever and he stops for lunch. Opens his lunch pail and starts munching on an egg salad sandwich with bacon bits. Real bacon bits, mind you. None of that fake stuff for this guy.
And
He's gulping down his chow with his feet dangling over the edge of the building and this swinging crane pops him in the head with a beam. Right in the fucking head. He's not looking behind himself and he gets whacked it the head. And his helmet goes TOONG! That was the sound it made when the beam hit him.
TOONG!
Like a tuning fork or something, right?
BOOF!
He goes flying over the edge of the building! And he's falling and screaming and suddenly he can't see anything. His eyes go black and then his whole life goes reeling by. He sees himself being born, and growing up, and going to school, and all these old girlfriends, and houses that he lived in and such. All the way up to being smacked in the fucking skull and falling off of the building.
Then.
And this is the weird part, he sees a baby being born. A little girl. And she grows up, and goes to school, and has some boyfriends, and some houses and jobs, and she dies in a plane crash.
And Newmar says, "What the fuck was that?"
And then this voice enters his head. Deep in tone and rather soothing. It comes from inside and outside of him all at the same time.
It says, "Scenes from next time."
SPLAT!
He hit the pavement at about nine zillion miles an hour and was buried in a sponge.
The end.
So...one day he's up on, um...I dunno, like the two hundred and thirty fourth floor or whatever and he stops for lunch. Opens his lunch pail and starts munching on an egg salad sandwich with bacon bits. Real bacon bits, mind you. None of that fake stuff for this guy.
And
He's gulping down his chow with his feet dangling over the edge of the building and this swinging crane pops him in the head with a beam. Right in the fucking head. He's not looking behind himself and he gets whacked it the head. And his helmet goes TOONG! That was the sound it made when the beam hit him.
TOONG!
Like a tuning fork or something, right?
BOOF!
He goes flying over the edge of the building! And he's falling and screaming and suddenly he can't see anything. His eyes go black and then his whole life goes reeling by. He sees himself being born, and growing up, and going to school, and all these old girlfriends, and houses that he lived in and such. All the way up to being smacked in the fucking skull and falling off of the building.
Then.
And this is the weird part, he sees a baby being born. A little girl. And she grows up, and goes to school, and has some boyfriends, and some houses and jobs, and she dies in a plane crash.
And Newmar says, "What the fuck was that?"
And then this voice enters his head. Deep in tone and rather soothing. It comes from inside and outside of him all at the same time.
It says, "Scenes from next time."
SPLAT!
He hit the pavement at about nine zillion miles an hour and was buried in a sponge.
The end.
Hi, kids!
Hi, kids!
How are you all doing today?
Good.
That's real good.
Today I'm going to show you how to make people's eyes lock up like a raccoon caught in a pair of headlights.
Does that sound like fun?
Are you ready?
Then let's go...
Don't you hate it when someone asks how you are doing? I know I do. I always have to say, "Fine. Everything's just fine." Or, "Not bad. How are you today?" Sometimes I just want to grab their face and yell, "None of your fucking business, asshole! What are you? A fucking cop?" But that's not very nice, is it boys and girls? No. That's not very nice at all. So what do you do when you feel like that?
Do what I do.
Tell them how you really really feel. That will show them but good.
Say something like
Geeze...
I've got this pain in the small of my back, a huge ass headache, I think my lover is cheating on me, I'm late with the rent, my goldfish doesn't understand me, and what's the deal with this fake metal shit? I mean, what the fuck ever happened to good old rock and roll?
You'd be suprised at the number of people who won't know that you are just messing with them. Most folks will leave you alone real quick. It works most of the time. If you are a girl throw in a mention of "that time of the month", or vaginal warts or something like that. If some guy is bothering you he'll walk away in no time flat. That should work about eighty-five percent of the time.
Of course sometimes you don't feel that angry, just a little bugged.
In that case try this:
Point to your arm and say, "Well, my Aykroyd is grinding against my Verhoeven., you know? Right where the Zemeckis meets the Beatrice Dalle? It makes my Coppola throb like a son of a bitch. My doctor gave me some of that Bon Jovi and, as long as I rub it in deep enough i seem to have it under control."
That ought to show the bastards, huh?
And always remember to tell those Christians, "Um. No thanks! I tried that in my last life and it didn't work out all that great for me."
Welp
I can see by the clock on the wall that i have to go buy a new clock.
Until next time
See ya next time!
How are you all doing today?
Good.
That's real good.
Today I'm going to show you how to make people's eyes lock up like a raccoon caught in a pair of headlights.
Does that sound like fun?
Are you ready?
Then let's go...
Don't you hate it when someone asks how you are doing? I know I do. I always have to say, "Fine. Everything's just fine." Or, "Not bad. How are you today?" Sometimes I just want to grab their face and yell, "None of your fucking business, asshole! What are you? A fucking cop?" But that's not very nice, is it boys and girls? No. That's not very nice at all. So what do you do when you feel like that?
Do what I do.
Tell them how you really really feel. That will show them but good.
Say something like
Geeze...
I've got this pain in the small of my back, a huge ass headache, I think my lover is cheating on me, I'm late with the rent, my goldfish doesn't understand me, and what's the deal with this fake metal shit? I mean, what the fuck ever happened to good old rock and roll?
You'd be suprised at the number of people who won't know that you are just messing with them. Most folks will leave you alone real quick. It works most of the time. If you are a girl throw in a mention of "that time of the month", or vaginal warts or something like that. If some guy is bothering you he'll walk away in no time flat. That should work about eighty-five percent of the time.
Of course sometimes you don't feel that angry, just a little bugged.
In that case try this:
Point to your arm and say, "Well, my Aykroyd is grinding against my Verhoeven., you know? Right where the Zemeckis meets the Beatrice Dalle? It makes my Coppola throb like a son of a bitch. My doctor gave me some of that Bon Jovi and, as long as I rub it in deep enough i seem to have it under control."
That ought to show the bastards, huh?
And always remember to tell those Christians, "Um. No thanks! I tried that in my last life and it didn't work out all that great for me."
Welp
I can see by the clock on the wall that i have to go buy a new clock.
Until next time
See ya next time!
top ten reasons that stalking is a bitch
(10) the hours suck
(9) you lose sleep
(8) it doesn't pay for shit
(7) "the catcher in the rye" gets boring the 12th time you read it
(6) in the tv movie of your story you never get a writing credit
(5) clothes get torn when climbing barb wire fences
(4) the annual stalker's dinner and dance has a no host bar
(3) it's hard to think of something new to leave on the answering machine when you call 25 times a day
(2) them stinking headaches
(1) you get rubber cement all over the place when pasting cut-out words on notes
(9) you lose sleep
(8) it doesn't pay for shit
(7) "the catcher in the rye" gets boring the 12th time you read it
(6) in the tv movie of your story you never get a writing credit
(5) clothes get torn when climbing barb wire fences
(4) the annual stalker's dinner and dance has a no host bar
(3) it's hard to think of something new to leave on the answering machine when you call 25 times a day
(2) them stinking headaches
(1) you get rubber cement all over the place when pasting cut-out words on notes
Thursday, February 15, 2018
The Eloi Blues
The siren blow and they fall in line
My old lady is an Eloi
She gots that pure white skin
I say my old lady is an Eloi
Gots that pure white skin
When she smile I lose my senses
Don't know what time zone I'm in
Well, my baby is an Eloi
Just hang around all day
You know, my baby is an Eloi
She hang around all day
When she kiss me I go crazy
I don't know what to say
(middle eight)
Well, my woman is an Eloi
Looks like Yvette Mimieux
I say, my woman is an Eloi
Looks like Yvette Mimieux
You know, she's just meat for the Morlocks
I don't know what to do
(for H.G. Welles)
Positive Schmositive
whatever you believe in.
what is not?
whatever you don't.
i should give up the ramones, stephen king, and zombie movies because you don't have a total sense of art and/or humor?
blow me.
let's say i was going to get a movie made and i said to you, "here's five thousand dollars. i wannna make a cast of your head and blow the fucker up with fake blood and fake brains in it and we're gonna use a ramones tune when it happens."
would you do it?
if you would take a lesson.
if you wouldn't you are full of shit.
let's move on from there...
Drinks
How about some calm the fuck down drinks?
I wouldn't mind having a couple of cases of that stuff on hand at all tines.
The Top Ten Reasons The Burffle Isn't A Korf
9) there once was a driff on the keegle
8) two knoigles don't add up to a roalff
7) he stuppled a cloygle
6) a pluggle and a burufnez ain't no groff
5) what? me tuuurglee?
4) tuesday
3) nine
2) mom says burffley
1) kersploygoin!
Sun Lite
therefore, when you look to the sun it isn't there anymore. it's where it was about six minutes before you are seeing it. it takes about six minutes for sunlight to reach us. you are actually seeing just the light from the sun. a light that is six minutes old.
it amazes me that there are people who think that they have control over their lives. that if they try hard enough and believe hard enough that they can have anything that they want. that people that can't get the things that they want just don't really want it bad enough. that if everybody felt the same way that they do that the world would be a perfect place.
people that can't really see the sun.
but that think that they do.
Possible Bumper Stickers
2. Honk if I'm in your way
3. My child is fine just the way he is
4. Your guru has emotional problems or he wouldn't need to have people pay so much attention to him
5. If you can read this you really should be reading more
6. I voted for Blofeld
7. Burn your self help books and start helping
8. creativity + boredom = art
9. Bumper stickers are pointless
Wednesday, February 14, 2018
One Of Those Nights
I had just closed the front door. Was standing in the foyer of the big house when there was a huge, ham fisted pounding on the great slab of oak. I thought this was a bit strange. Didn't see anyone behind me as I made my way up the driveway, right?
Now, you have to consider the condition of my brain at this point. I had gotten a ride to the party in Stan Lee's limo, Stan was hitting the Jack rather fiercely that night and, seeing as to how he hadn't been invited to said party felt a need to challenge me to some guzzling. "C'mon, you true unbeliever! Suck some back!" I tried to be polite. Told him I'd be having my fill soon enough but when he started calling me a pussy I figured the gauntlet had been thrown and chugged about a third of the bottle with my right hand while flipping his ass off defiantly with my left. "Pussy THAT, old-timer!", I snarled and handed the bottle back. It was about that time that he laid out some Godzilla sized lines of what he liked to call "South American Jumping Powder". Suffice to say that on the way up the drive the drops of water glittering on the oh so green of the lawn struck me as solid and complete proof of God's existence. "How could anything that beautiful come into our reality without some kind of divine handiwork involved?" You know, that whole drinky/druggy vibe.
So I opened the door and Robert Conrad is standing there with a huge tank of nitrous (the kind with wheels and a handle attached for easy transportation) and a case of Night Train. I guess he was slumming it that night. "Hey, asshole! Where's the fucking party at?", he screamed, and by the smell of near cheese on his breath I could tell he had been into the 'train for quite some time.
He shoved a bottle in my face and said, "Drink this, nancy boy or I'll strangle you with a live dachshund." Laugh? I nearly crapped. The guy did have his moments, humor-wise, I have to give him that.
I'm standing there, putting away the Night Train when he bellows, "Where the fuck do I put my coat?". He opens a door and Paul Lynde sticks his head out of the crack, sees the confusion on Conrad's face, and says, in a Chardonnay fueled impression of himself, "Sorry, Bob. I'm not out of the closet yet!"
Conrad: "Suck my dick!"
Lynde: "Take a number, cowboy!"
That did it. I totally lost it at that point. Was laughing so hard I started to lose my balance, right? So I stick my left hand out and grab the first thing I feel to steady myself. Wrong move on my part. I found myself hanging onto Margaret Dumont's left breast! She says, in that shocked, upper crust kind of way that is all hers, "Well! I never!"
Pat Sajak is walking by at that point, helping Dianne Arbus to the bathroom. You know how she gets after seven or eight Bloody Marys, just a full on pain in the ass. Pat says to Miss. Dumont, "Oh, yeah? What about that night with the donkey at that boat show in Sheboygan?"
Dumont blushes and, just as she's about to answer him Dianne Arbus says, "Aw, shut up, bitch! I've got pictures to prove it." That Dianne Arbus being ever at the ready with a cutting rejoinder, to be sure.
I'm on the floor at this point, laughing as if insane. Dumont shoves her hand into a nearby salsa bowl and crams a fist full into my open mouth. I'm so wasted I don't even feel it. Either that or it was one of those wimpy mild brands of salsas. I swallowed it and flipped her off as well.
Just then I look up and I see Wavy Gravy hanging from the chandelier. I guess he had been there the whole time and I just hadn't noticed him. He says, "Wow! Bad news, man! I spiked the salsa bowl with some acid I got from Walter Cronkite! First class government stuff! You're gonna be tripping for a month, man! It's heavy duty shit! The kind they use on blue whales! Fast acting too!"
I look down at this point and see that I'm slowly sinking into the floor. I'm waist deep in some kind of retro/googie/post-moderne space ship pattern that's like something right out of George Jetson's kitchen. Blurp, blurp! It a matter of moments I find myself chest deep and sinking deeper. Fast acting doesn't do this electric salsa justice. I'm fucking ripped!
A voice screams out, "Just the asshole I've been looking for!"
Oh, Christ! It's Billy Barty! He's been gunning for me ever since he got burned on that heroin deal. I've tried to explain that I had nothing to do with it. That I don't even know Bill Cullen but he just won't listen. The blame has to fall somewhere and he's picked me for the fall guy. He kicks me in the nuts, awfully hard for a guy his size but I'm so fucked up I just laugh even harder. Now he's crazed. "Nobody laughs at me!", he screams.
I'm about to shoot back with, "Yeah. You're just not very funny any more, Tiny!", when I see that I'm sunk into the floor up to my chin. Billy straps the mask from the nitrous tank on my face and cranks the gas up to eleven.
Just before I pass out I think, "Great... It's one of THOSE nights?"
Now, you have to consider the condition of my brain at this point. I had gotten a ride to the party in Stan Lee's limo, Stan was hitting the Jack rather fiercely that night and, seeing as to how he hadn't been invited to said party felt a need to challenge me to some guzzling. "C'mon, you true unbeliever! Suck some back!" I tried to be polite. Told him I'd be having my fill soon enough but when he started calling me a pussy I figured the gauntlet had been thrown and chugged about a third of the bottle with my right hand while flipping his ass off defiantly with my left. "Pussy THAT, old-timer!", I snarled and handed the bottle back. It was about that time that he laid out some Godzilla sized lines of what he liked to call "South American Jumping Powder". Suffice to say that on the way up the drive the drops of water glittering on the oh so green of the lawn struck me as solid and complete proof of God's existence. "How could anything that beautiful come into our reality without some kind of divine handiwork involved?" You know, that whole drinky/druggy vibe.
So I opened the door and Robert Conrad is standing there with a huge tank of nitrous (the kind with wheels and a handle attached for easy transportation) and a case of Night Train. I guess he was slumming it that night. "Hey, asshole! Where's the fucking party at?", he screamed, and by the smell of near cheese on his breath I could tell he had been into the 'train for quite some time.
He shoved a bottle in my face and said, "Drink this, nancy boy or I'll strangle you with a live dachshund." Laugh? I nearly crapped. The guy did have his moments, humor-wise, I have to give him that.
I'm standing there, putting away the Night Train when he bellows, "Where the fuck do I put my coat?". He opens a door and Paul Lynde sticks his head out of the crack, sees the confusion on Conrad's face, and says, in a Chardonnay fueled impression of himself, "Sorry, Bob. I'm not out of the closet yet!"
Conrad: "Suck my dick!"
Lynde: "Take a number, cowboy!"
That did it. I totally lost it at that point. Was laughing so hard I started to lose my balance, right? So I stick my left hand out and grab the first thing I feel to steady myself. Wrong move on my part. I found myself hanging onto Margaret Dumont's left breast! She says, in that shocked, upper crust kind of way that is all hers, "Well! I never!"
Pat Sajak is walking by at that point, helping Dianne Arbus to the bathroom. You know how she gets after seven or eight Bloody Marys, just a full on pain in the ass. Pat says to Miss. Dumont, "Oh, yeah? What about that night with the donkey at that boat show in Sheboygan?"
Dumont blushes and, just as she's about to answer him Dianne Arbus says, "Aw, shut up, bitch! I've got pictures to prove it." That Dianne Arbus being ever at the ready with a cutting rejoinder, to be sure.
I'm on the floor at this point, laughing as if insane. Dumont shoves her hand into a nearby salsa bowl and crams a fist full into my open mouth. I'm so wasted I don't even feel it. Either that or it was one of those wimpy mild brands of salsas. I swallowed it and flipped her off as well.
Just then I look up and I see Wavy Gravy hanging from the chandelier. I guess he had been there the whole time and I just hadn't noticed him. He says, "Wow! Bad news, man! I spiked the salsa bowl with some acid I got from Walter Cronkite! First class government stuff! You're gonna be tripping for a month, man! It's heavy duty shit! The kind they use on blue whales! Fast acting too!"
I look down at this point and see that I'm slowly sinking into the floor. I'm waist deep in some kind of retro/googie/post-moderne space ship pattern that's like something right out of George Jetson's kitchen. Blurp, blurp! It a matter of moments I find myself chest deep and sinking deeper. Fast acting doesn't do this electric salsa justice. I'm fucking ripped!
A voice screams out, "Just the asshole I've been looking for!"
Oh, Christ! It's Billy Barty! He's been gunning for me ever since he got burned on that heroin deal. I've tried to explain that I had nothing to do with it. That I don't even know Bill Cullen but he just won't listen. The blame has to fall somewhere and he's picked me for the fall guy. He kicks me in the nuts, awfully hard for a guy his size but I'm so fucked up I just laugh even harder. Now he's crazed. "Nobody laughs at me!", he screams.
I'm about to shoot back with, "Yeah. You're just not very funny any more, Tiny!", when I see that I'm sunk into the floor up to my chin. Billy straps the mask from the nitrous tank on my face and cranks the gas up to eleven.
Just before I pass out I think, "Great... It's one of THOSE nights?"
Sunday, February 11, 2018
Hitting My Head On The Ironyboard
it hit the floor and broke open
scattering the batteries under the desk
i can only see one of them
it's odd
the one thing i need to look for the battery
is lost under my desk
that's my life, gang
the whole mother fucker in a nutshell...
Thursday, February 8, 2018
Cockfighting
What's the deal with that stuff?
Am I the only person in the world that still loves a good tit fight?
The Shithouse Effect
He sat at the motor lodge bar
Drinking
And smoking his brains out
A guy sat next to him
Offered his hand
A salesman from Sheboygan
Both said hello
Bought each other drinks
Joked about sports
And presidents
And cars
And such
At one point
The talk turned to women
And the problems that pop up with them
When you least expect it
The salesman laughed
And told him a story
"I don't really know how it happened. Nope, not me. Not really. I'm not very good with real life. She was a blonde, I do know that much, and a babe to boot. Matching collar and cuffs. The whole deal, man. Hooo-weee! A total dollface, that's for sure."
"She met another guy and caught a plane to dreamland or whatever. I guess he was a better hunter/gatherer than I was, you know? Fuckin' life, man! Don't ask me. All I know is movies. Yeah, life is kind of like a movie. Takes too long for stuff to happen though, no fades or lap dissolves. There was a time when you didn't have music anywhere you wanted but the Japanese invented the Walkman and that was the end of that problem. One down, etc..."
"The babe left. Busted my ass up pretty bad, if you catch my drift. Spent a whole lot of time curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor cryin' all four of my eyes out, bad news time and all like that. Woulda just got drunk and stayed there but I lost my job too. It was a very shitty month. The sort of thing that turns quiet guys into psycho killers and makes heroin such a popular way to spend your free time."
"One night: I'm done, man. This shit has got to end. The floor is really talking my bones into all new states of pain. Besides, now and then somebody will knock on the bathroom door, "Hey, man! Ya wanna snap it up in there? I had Mexican for lunch!" Then I have to wipe my eyes and act like everything's okay, Sorry about that. I was reading the new TV Guide, Lemme know when you're done. I gots to finish the crossword puzzle, blah blah blah..."
" I can't take this hurting any longer. Must pull my stuff together, you understand."
"I start to work it out in my head. Why does this happen? Why do relationships fall apart? Who's the blame for crap like this? After a couple of days the thoughts jell and I figure it out. Shall I tell you? Would you like to know?"
"The process of natural selection in conjunction with the second law of thermodynamics'. That's it man. That why it all crumbles. That's why shit like that falls apart."
"There was this guy a long time ago. He was a doctor or a writer, some shit like that. His name was Darwin and he said that women tend to seek out strong and dominate males in order to propagate, to reproduce, and keep their species alive. Chicks dig big, strong, bad ass guys with shitloads of cold hard cash. They can't really help it, it's in their DNA. It's called the process of natural selection. Oh, and guys do it too. That's part of why guys like big tits."
"Also there was this other guy, I don't who the fuck he was but he discovered entropy."
"Let's say you've got s nice ice cold glass of Dr Pepper sitting on your coffee table and you get tired and leave it there when you go to bed. In the morning you wake up and what do you have? You've got a flat glass of warm brown crap, that what you have. The soda has fallen from the cool goodness to the harsh badness. That's entropy, man, things collapse. Entropy is the second law of thermodynamics."
"And that all you need to know. The process of natural selection in conjunction with the second law of thermodynamics. It's my own theory. I call it "the shithouse effect" for short. The other person's ass is always greener and most things fall apart anyway. It's not her fault and it wasn't mine either. So I got up off the floor and grabbed the remote control and got the fuck on with my life."
"Now so can you."
He slapped the salesman on the back
Offered him a smoke
And told him how he understood
How he had been there as well
How women are nothing but trouble
But...
What can you do?
Take up knitting?
Build ships in bottles?
Maybe go homo?
Real guy talk stuff
He shoved some quarters in the jukebox
Played some old R and B
Called the bartender over
And bought a couple more doubles
It was time to move on to the knock knock jokes.
Drinking
And smoking his brains out
A guy sat next to him
Offered his hand
A salesman from Sheboygan
Both said hello
Bought each other drinks
Joked about sports
And presidents
And cars
And such
At one point
The talk turned to women
And the problems that pop up with them
When you least expect it
The salesman laughed
And told him a story
"I don't really know how it happened. Nope, not me. Not really. I'm not very good with real life. She was a blonde, I do know that much, and a babe to boot. Matching collar and cuffs. The whole deal, man. Hooo-weee! A total dollface, that's for sure."
"She met another guy and caught a plane to dreamland or whatever. I guess he was a better hunter/gatherer than I was, you know? Fuckin' life, man! Don't ask me. All I know is movies. Yeah, life is kind of like a movie. Takes too long for stuff to happen though, no fades or lap dissolves. There was a time when you didn't have music anywhere you wanted but the Japanese invented the Walkman and that was the end of that problem. One down, etc..."
"The babe left. Busted my ass up pretty bad, if you catch my drift. Spent a whole lot of time curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor cryin' all four of my eyes out, bad news time and all like that. Woulda just got drunk and stayed there but I lost my job too. It was a very shitty month. The sort of thing that turns quiet guys into psycho killers and makes heroin such a popular way to spend your free time."
"One night: I'm done, man. This shit has got to end. The floor is really talking my bones into all new states of pain. Besides, now and then somebody will knock on the bathroom door, "Hey, man! Ya wanna snap it up in there? I had Mexican for lunch!" Then I have to wipe my eyes and act like everything's okay, Sorry about that. I was reading the new TV Guide, Lemme know when you're done. I gots to finish the crossword puzzle, blah blah blah..."
" I can't take this hurting any longer. Must pull my stuff together, you understand."
"I start to work it out in my head. Why does this happen? Why do relationships fall apart? Who's the blame for crap like this? After a couple of days the thoughts jell and I figure it out. Shall I tell you? Would you like to know?"
"The process of natural selection in conjunction with the second law of thermodynamics'. That's it man. That why it all crumbles. That's why shit like that falls apart."
"There was this guy a long time ago. He was a doctor or a writer, some shit like that. His name was Darwin and he said that women tend to seek out strong and dominate males in order to propagate, to reproduce, and keep their species alive. Chicks dig big, strong, bad ass guys with shitloads of cold hard cash. They can't really help it, it's in their DNA. It's called the process of natural selection. Oh, and guys do it too. That's part of why guys like big tits."
"Also there was this other guy, I don't who the fuck he was but he discovered entropy."
"Let's say you've got s nice ice cold glass of Dr Pepper sitting on your coffee table and you get tired and leave it there when you go to bed. In the morning you wake up and what do you have? You've got a flat glass of warm brown crap, that what you have. The soda has fallen from the cool goodness to the harsh badness. That's entropy, man, things collapse. Entropy is the second law of thermodynamics."
"And that all you need to know. The process of natural selection in conjunction with the second law of thermodynamics. It's my own theory. I call it "the shithouse effect" for short. The other person's ass is always greener and most things fall apart anyway. It's not her fault and it wasn't mine either. So I got up off the floor and grabbed the remote control and got the fuck on with my life."
"Now so can you."
He slapped the salesman on the back
Offered him a smoke
And told him how he understood
How he had been there as well
How women are nothing but trouble
But...
What can you do?
Take up knitting?
Build ships in bottles?
Maybe go homo?
Real guy talk stuff
He shoved some quarters in the jukebox
Played some old R and B
Called the bartender over
And bought a couple more doubles
It was time to move on to the knock knock jokes.
Wednesday, February 7, 2018
New Pair Of Shoes (a song from the 20's)
I'm gonna up and pick and choose
Go to a store and ditch the barefoot blues
Drop some money, gonna pay my dues
And buy me a new pair of shoes
I saw an ad in the morning news
Believe me, buddy, I ain't no fool
So I caught a bus, had no time to lose
Now I got a new pair of shoes
They've got black laces and they match my pants
It says on the box that they were made in France
Gonna take my honey to the springtime dance
This ain't no time to snooze
Then it's down the aisle between the pews
We're both gonna say our yes I do's
A wife, a house, and a baby too
'cause I gotta new pair of shoes
Dude
I gotta new pair of shoes
Go to a store and ditch the barefoot blues
Drop some money, gonna pay my dues
And buy me a new pair of shoes
I saw an ad in the morning news
Believe me, buddy, I ain't no fool
So I caught a bus, had no time to lose
Now I got a new pair of shoes
They've got black laces and they match my pants
It says on the box that they were made in France
Gonna take my honey to the springtime dance
This ain't no time to snooze
Then it's down the aisle between the pews
We're both gonna say our yes I do's
A wife, a house, and a baby too
'cause I gotta new pair of shoes
Dude
I gotta new pair of shoes
My Two Minutes Of Fame: The Real Story Of "The New Monkees"
(Or: The Autumn Of My Discontent)
"Welcome to the world of The New Monkees, a show where rock and roll,
high comedy, warm funny characters, and fantasy collide. It's a show
where a simple story can lead somewhere you never expected to go. It's
a show where the fourth wall is so full of holes why even discuss it?
It's full of upbeat, irreverent humor, fast funny visuals and, most
importantly, it's in color."
- From the writer's guide
INTRODUCTION:
In 1986 my life had hit bottom city. The pits. It was as if God had
pulled the rug out from under me and I wound up in the basement after
falling down the stairs one at a time. I was saved by the one constant
that runs through my world. That's right, sports fans! I'm talkin'
Television! The box with the little window pulled me up and shook me
out. It was a time I'll never forget (and that you don't remember).
Giants roamed the earth for a short while and I was lucky enough to
ride piggy back with them. It was pretty cool. And the money was okay too.
What follows is a hand full and a half of memories from a guy who wrote
for The New Monkees T.V. show. It amazes me that no one has done this
yet. The world is full of people with weird taste in media and somebody
somewhere just might give enough of a shit to want to be filled in a
little as to what went down. If you are one of those people this was
written for you. If not, exit now and surf for some porno or whatever.
It's okay by me. Really. I won't mind in the slightest. I promise.
SOME GUIDE LINES:
Wow! You've hung in there! Too cool! Thanks and a big fat howdy to you
and all that you hold near and dear. Do me a favor, will ya? As you
read this stuff keep a couple of things in mind:
1) These are my memories. I drug them out of my own mind and wrote them
down. Therefore, I just might have no idea of what I'm talking about. I
don't know what really happened I only know how it looked to me. If, in
reading this, you feel slighted in any way, shape, or form I'm sorry.
Really. I hold no grudges and am not trying to attack anyone by writing
this. Feel free to write your own version or send me one of those flame
thingies. I can take it (in fact it would be kinda cool to hear from
you!)
.
2) I don't splel or tyPe very well. If that kind of thing hampers your
reading enjoyment I'm sorry about that too.
3) This isn't a big deal. It's just a story. Sure, we all know that the
show sucked. If it didn't I'd be making movies by now and you'd know
who I am. I'd also have a cool house and lots and lots of cash and a
very beautiful blonde woman with a real nice set of cochangas in a pink
bathing suit that's about two sizes too small would be typing this
right now while I drank champagne and hung around the pool listening to
Oingo Boingo on my zillion dollar turntable. I'm not trying to defend
the show or make you think that it was any better than it actually was.
Let's leave that to people who are A) smarter than I am, B) much more
fluid in the ways of media than I am, or C) the brain damaged.
4) Some of the names will be changed here and there. As I said before,
I don't want to attach any blame to anyone (see above). Also, I've told
this story a couple of times already and I'd like to keep a sense of
flow throughout the various versions of the tale.
5) I'd also like to give a crazy mad shout out to all the homeys and
sister girlies out there who jammed on the muthafuckah and kicked the
sucka all the way up in there and shit. But I'm a white guy and if I
did it'd sound real stupid (and I don't mean "dope", brother man).
6) I never got copies of the show. If you know how I can feel free to
e-me.
7) Sorry this thing hasn't got any big time graphics or anything like
that. It's nothing more than a simple little story told in simple
little words. I think being subtle has it's place now and then anyway.
PART ONE: BEFORE
Okay...
here we go..
I grew up in the sixties. Pop culture back then was wonderful, or, at
least it seems so in retrospect. We had The Man From U.N.C.L.E. and The
Pink Panther and Motown and Hammer horror movies and The Who and James
Bond and Marvel Comics and Fizzies and Top Cat and Flint movies and
Warhol and Matt Helm and Jerry Lewis and Laugh-In and The Avengers and
Bill Cosby and Fearless Fly and G.I. Joe and The Outer Limits and Rat
Fink and Star Trek and Aurora and Revell and Famous Monsters Of
Filmland and The Munsters and Fantastic Voyage and Batman and
Vampirella and Planet Of The Apes and "Mama Mia! That's a spicy
meatball!" and...well...you know what I mean,right?
The Beatles made a movie back then. It was called "A Hard Days Night"
and these guys in Hollywood stole the idea (with love, mind you) and
hired some other people and made a t.v. show called "The Monkees". It
was on once a week and it grew to hold a very special place in my
heart. Part rock and roll, part real weird comedy, and little messages
now and then about life and love and all of that stuff. It was my
favorite show at the time and I saw every single one of them.
Oh...
they made records too. I owned two or three of them as well.
Cut to:
INT. AN APARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD - 1986
I was living in Hollywood with a friend named Harold. I couldn't find
work (I suck at that stuff, man!) and my presence was really getting on
Harold's nerves. I called up an old friend from high school to see if
he'd put me up for a while.
ME
(Into phone)
Hey, man! Can I stay with you a while?
RICK
(Filtered v.o.)
Sure...but you'll have to work for it.
ME
Okay. Fair's fair.
So...
I moved into a tent in Rick's backyard.
I swear.
PART TWO: THE TENT
"Hey, dude! Wake the fuck up!".
Rick is outside the tent. It's time for work. I have a smoke and a
beer, climb into the truck and off we go. We drive across a lot of
freeway and end up at the first lot. Rick starts up the leaf blower,
helps me get it on my back and I start walking, blowing the trash away
from the buildings and sidewalks so Rick can suck it up with the truck.
The blower weighs a ton but I don't know how to drive, it's not like we
can switch places or anything...ho hum...at least Rick's happy.
I'm sort of like a Ghostbuster. I've got this pack on my back and a
wand in my hand and Rick drives around in the Ectomobile. It's a hell
of a lot better on me if I deal with it in movie terms. When I get back
to the truck I mention the Ghostbusters thing to Rick. He has no idea
of what I'm talking about,having never seen the movie.
"What?", this freaks me out, "You've never seen Ghostbusters? Where are
you from? Mars?".
Rick laughs at this..,
Well, mainly he laughs at me.
"You and your movies,man! We gotta get you back to reality and it better be soon!"
See...
Rick feels that since I think I'm a writer type I have no idea of
how the real world works. In fact Rick's new goal in life is teaching
me how the real world works. "You'll never amount to anything if you
think you'll get a kickback job like writing.", as he likes to say.
Rick doesn't read and so, doesn't know shit about writing.
One night Harold calls. It seems Jared was chosen to be in the cast of
The New Monkees. He knows that Harold and I like to write and said that
if we can pull something together he'll show it to the producers. I
like Jared. He's a cool guy. I bet he'd help us in a minute. I tell all
of this to Rick.
"Fuck, dude...Why don't you get a grip,dude? Get some food stamps and
work harder. If you really think you're gonna get a kickback job like
writing for a t.v. show you're only gonna end up...", and blah blah
blah. Did I say that Rick likes to call writing a kickback job? I lied.
He loves it.
One day I couldn't take any more of his shit. I told him to bite me in
front of his friends. Not friends like me, of course. Some of Rick's
real friends. Coors light drinking, black joke telling, snotty to me
because I like to write instead of talk about sports type friends.
After Rick's zombie pals leave he has me pack my shit and we drive to
my sister's place. I tell Rick that I'm sorry I blew up like that and
that I hope I didn't hurt him.
He drops me off and, as he drives away he flips me off. What a jerk.
PART THREE: FOUND A JOB
So...
Harold and I wrote a script, the producers met with us, bought the
script for a thousand dollars (the show being non-union) and a couple
of weeks later met with us again. We were hired as staff writers for
The New Monkees! It was just that easy. We were pulling in five hundred
bucks a week...each!
Man! I love television!
Meetings were a fucking trip. We'd get a cab, say, "Burbank Studios,
please.", and sit back and dig on the ride. Once there we'd walk up to
the little guard booth and tell them who we were. Then the guard says,
"Go on in and have a nice day!", just like in the movies.
So...
We stroll on to the lot and make our way to the Columbia Building, a
large mirrored box that looks like it's out of Logan's Run or Clockwork
Orange or something. We go in, sit down and have a Coke (Coca Cola owns
Columbia so the soda's free) and get down to bizness. It's pretty easy.
The producers are wise asses. Just my kind of guys. They say, "This is
good, change this and here's your check.". Then we go have lunch and
write a bit at the studio cafeteria. You know how when you really
belong somewhere it feels safe and warm no matter what you do or how
you look? That's how it feels on the lot. I mean, I fuckin' work here!
Dream come true time, daddy-o! No shit! After lunch we cruise the back
lot. I fire up a butt and sneak hits off of a pint I have in my coat.
There's a New York street, a hometown looking street, the water tower
that later showed up in Animaniacs and, best of all, a western town.
Blazing Saddles was shot here! Mel Brooks romed these dirt streets! I'm
so fucking happy I almost can't stand it. I walk around saying, "Rock
Ridge. Rock Ridge.", over and over. I get paid for this? It's better
than sex, man.
I promise.
Here's how the show works.
Four guys:
Dino - The tough guy with a heart of gold
Larry - The innocent guy
Marty - The genius/artist
and
Jared - The surfer guy
Live in a huge house that has nine hundred and ninety nine rooms. In
the rooms is anything a writer can imagine. Anything at all. From
swimming pools to other planets. From railway stations to fancy
schmancy Hollywood parties.
There's also a butler, named Manford, and, in a sixties looking diner
that sits just off from the living room, there's a waitress named Rita.
The four guys are in a rock and roll band and they have a computer who
talks.
That's pretty much all there is to it.
Writing scripts is sort of hard at first then,one night I have a moment
of slight Satori. By mentally splitting myself into seven segments,
each segment being the core mind frame of the seven main characters, a
sort of flow occurs. For example, all of Dino's actions and dialogue
are written as if he were a guy from the Bronx and Jared's are written
in the style of two or three guys that I went to high school with.
After that it comes pretty easy. The stuff just pours out of Harold and
I and, goddamn it, it's some good stuff.
The producers think so too. It's as if we can do anything we want on
paper. When it's time for sleep, when I bother sleeping, I sometimes
dream little scenes that can be used in episodes. Other times I dream
of The Big Goal. What is The Big Goal?
CHANGING THE FACE OF TELEVISION AS WE KNOW IT.
I love this job!
And then....
slowly at first...
things started to change...
First of all, we move from the Columbia Building to a building called
"Producer's 7" (or maybe it was "Producers 4") or whatever. It's Ivan
Rietman's building and Dan Aykroyd has an office there too! Going to
the men's room becomes an event of total fright and worry...I picture
myself taking a leak, Aykroyd comes in and says "Hello", my head
explodes and I am found dead and on my back with my dick in my hand, a
small fountain of whiz my last act of nature. I never see him though
and I feel a bit cheated by this. I mean, we could've exchanged a
"Howareya?" in the hallway.
Ah, well...
The buzz around the office isthat we're going to get Peter Cook to play the butler! I'm one happy ass son of a bitch. Many fantasies fill my head: Peter Cook and I
drinking together, Peter Cook and I having dinner, Peter Cook and I
drinking some more and then dropping in on friends of mine (who have
seen the movie "Bedazzled"" about seventy times just like I have) at
three or four in the morning with the express purpose of freaking them
the fuck out.
But alas...Mr. Cook asks for too much money, isn't hired and I never
get to meet him as well. This job does have it's bummers I guess.
It gets to the point where the guards know us. Harold and I walk up,
wave, and stroll on in. Sometimes we go to the studio just to have lunch
and to pick up a couple of things at the company store, a place where
you can get albums for five bucks and t-shirts for ten. The amount of
famous people we run into is greatly increased as well. Like, I do a
little shopping and get in line for food. A small blonde woman is in
front of me. She says, in a squeeky New Yorkish voice,"I'm tryin' to
find the salad bar!". She turns around...it's Cyndi Lauper! She's cute,
I mean "Cee-Fuckin-Youte!", man, I wouldn't kid ya at a time like this.
We make eye contact and I freeze like a chipmunk in her headlights. She
smiles and I say, "Gerrrf. Mell havfff outollel beedopherer.", or
something along those lines so she shrugs and turns back around. I love
this place!
In order to make writing more efficient I start staying at Harold's
apartment. I give him a hundred dollars a week for rent. It's okay with
me.
My day goes something like this:
4:00 - I wake up,have a beer and, if need be, call the office.
5:00 - Take a shower
.
6:00 - Go out for food.
7:00 - I notice that my shirt is dirty so I walk to Hollywood Blvd.,
buy a new shirt, see a movie, hit a record store, eat again, go to a
book store, and buy more booze.
11:00 or 12:00 - Come home, rest, drink, watch t.v. listen to music,
etc.
2:00 - Take the small t.v. into the bathroom and write.
5:00 or 6:00 - sleep.
Harold starts to have some problems. First of all he can't write late
night/early morning anymore. Seems he needs his sleep. Also: he can't
write with the t.v. on. I can't write without it so I write in the
bathroom while he sleeps. Third: he's really becoming a pain to work
with . He snaps at me a lot and the scenes that he does write tend to
ramble away from the story line. When I call him on this it only makes
him angrier.
Like I need this shit...
After a while pre-production is finished. It seems we can't shoot on
the Burbank lot because of the cost. Damn! Filming and such is going to
happen at a place in Valencia, you know, near Magic Mountain? It's
quite a trek...
PART FOUR: HOW MANY WRITERS DOES IT TAKE TO CHANGE A LIGHT BULB?
We get a ride to the studio. Lisa drove us. Lisa is a very smart, very
cute, slightly momlike redhead that I get a fast crush on. Flirting
with her goes nowhere even faster, which, all in all is kinda cool. We
become friends...no pressure on us or anything. I like knowing where
things stand straight from the beginning...it makes me feel sort of
mature (well, maturesque anyway) but I gotta tell ya, I would've loved
to have gotten her drunk and naked just once... hey! I'm a guy! Sue
me,P.C. boy! She was a babe,okay?
Anywayz...
We get to the studio. You walk through these glass doors which open on
a entry room - sitting room - waiting room kind of place. A flight of
stairs takes you to the Art Dept. or you can pass through another door
which leads to the offices. Although some of the offices are, in fact,
offices most of them are spaces that are sectioned off with those free
standing/half a wall/room splitter-upper things. It's pretty powerful
walking through these working stiffs knowing that you're the guys who
do the writing. We meet a lot of people, clothes folk, grips, artists,
sound techies, the whole deal. They all say the same thing, " You're
Harold and Cat? The producers love you guys!". Our hat sizes swell a
notch or two.
They're shooting a scene in the diner. The director yells, "Cut!"
So Harold sticks his head in a fake window to say hello to Jared.
"Hey!", Harold says, to me, "C'mere a minute!".
I stick my head in the window and see Rita, the waitress. Woah, lawdy
mama! Rita is played by Bess Motta. Bess used to be on a show called
"Twenty Minute Workout". I spent many a morning alone watching Bess
workout, if you know what I mean (and I bet you do). She was also in a
little movie called "The Terminator", she had a pet lizard, wore a
Walkman and was killed by Arnold as she made a sandwich - good ol'
family entertainment. Well, my family anyway.
Now...
I've never met Bess and I'm sure she has no idea who the hell I
am but there she is, standing around waving at me with a big girly
smile. I wave back and find a place to sit down. It's time to play
"Catch Your Breath"! Wow, I love this place too!
One night Harold and I get in a fight. Not with fists or anything, he'd
have beat me into next month! Just a lot of yelling. To be honest,
Harold did most of the yelling. I don't yell very often...you really
have to piss me off to get me going. Don't get me wrong, I do yell and
it's not a pretty sight but I really have to feel stepped on before I
let loose. I'm easy going most of the time, you understand.
Anywayz...
Harold's yelling away. I'm sitting there watching him pontificate and I
notice a poster on the wall. It's a framed poster from the movie
"Alien" without glass. There is a postcard stuck up between the edge of
the frame and the poster itself at each of the top corners. Both the
"A" and the "N" are covered by a postcard so I'm pretty much looking at
a poster that says "LIE"in big white letters. Man! He sleeps under the
thing! I mean, what would Freud say? The image of this strikes me like
a truck. "LIE"? Jesus! I decide it's time to leave.
So...
back to my sister's place...
Hooray for Hollywood! The Blvd! Man! This place is nuts! Check this
shit out and keep in mind it's all true...
1) I'm walking on The Blvd. and laying on the sidewalk is a large pile
of assorted footwear. It looks like it was tossed out of a ten or
twenty story window. "Oh, my God!", I scream, "It's a shoe-a-cide!". No
one reacts. It's as if this kind of thing happens every day.
2) I'm coming home from a movie and two guys are fighting on the
sidewalk. One guy picks up the other guy and throws him into the
street. The second guy arcs into the air and lands on the yellow line
in the middle of The Blvd. He screams, "Nice fucking toss, man!". Do
people act like this in Ohio?
3) I'm doing laundry. The only pants I have to wear were torn in the
front so I had to sew them up. The seam runs from from the bottom of
the fly in a straight line to the top of the right pocket. It looks so
lame that I only wear them on laundry day. Aw, shit! I'm out of
cigarettes so I go to the store in these stupid pants. It's a sunny day
so I have my baseball cap pulled down tight and I'm walking with my
head low to keep the sun out of my eyes.
I glance up and see, coming toward me, a nice set of tits. Not too big.
Not too small. Just nice. Cleavage City, if you catch my drift.
So...
these hooters are bouncin' my way in this tight top and I'm
thinking, "Wow! I wonder what she looks like?".
She gets closer and I look up at her face... she has stubble! Like a
seven or eight o'clock shadow! It's a fucking guy! He looks at the
lousy sewing job on my pants and says, "Hey! Nice penis!", like it's
exactly what someone would say in a situation like this!
Laugh?
I thought I'd Die!
I love this town!
Producer number one has a problem...he's gaining weight. His girlfriend
calls his potbelly "Poochie" so, to prove his love (or whatever), we
have to write an episode where Jared's brain is put into a dog called
Poochie so the word Poochie is spoken a whole bunch of times on T.V.
and everybody will know how much he loves his girlfriend (or whatever).
Hey, why do you think they call it work?
Now...
I've written an episode where a soul comes back from the afterlife and
explains that death isn't as bad as we all fear it is because we all
end up going to heaven. I mainly wrote it for and because of my dead
grandfather, both to deal with my feelings about his death and to give
the kids who will watch a little something to think about. The
producers won't even read it. I'm being too heavy for a comedy show
and, besides teaching viewers something isn't as cool as saying the
word Poochie a whole bunch of times. The "Death Episode" was, in fact
very fucking funny and not that heavy at all. But when you won't even
take the time to read something I guess you get to draw any conclusions
you'd like.
Okay...
I'm doing a job here and my bosses want something...besides,they are
paying me so... what can I say? I'll swallow it and, once the show
picks up, I'll try for smarter scripts. Harold and I write the dog
show. It's not what they want. We write it again. It's still not what
they want. We write it again. And again. And again. I hate it. Harold
hates it. They love it. And change it. Why didn't they just change it
the first time?
You tell me.
Producer one has another problem (what's with this guy?). There's a
line in a script that he'd like me to make funnier. Can I do it?
"No. I Can't.".
"Why not?".
"It's the set up to the joke. If the set up is funny then the joke
won't work. Two straights and a left, you know? Carson's Rule Of
Three?".
"What?".
"Look...Comedy and horror movies work exactly the same way. The girl,
who's usually naked, looks in the closet... nothing's there... she looks
in the shower... nothing's there... she looks out the window... WHAMMO!
She gets an ax in the face!".
"Huh?".
"Comedy works the same way. Nothing... nothing.. .WHAMMO! You throw in
the monkey wrench. It's the rule of three. Three guys walk into a bar.
Three nuns are on a waterbed... like that. If I change number two in a
list set up then number three is pointless.".
"Well...", he says, after a long pause, "I don't like horror movies and
try to make number two a little funnier.".
I went home and got drunk.
So...
I'm at Harold's place one night. We've finished a long writing session
and are hanging out drinking and smoking and talking. He doesn't always
yell and when he doesn't he's a pretty cool guy.
"I love this job!", I say, "It's one of my dream jobs from childhood!".
"What are some of the others?", he asks.
"Well...you know those posters that are plastered up on those wooden
fence things that are put up around buildings before they're finished?
They're starched or whatever? It would be so hip to do that. Riding
around in a van with three or four other guys drinking and listening to
cool music, you know, like Miles Davis or the Peter Gunn soundtrack,
something like that and then stopping at one of those wood things,
leaping out of the van, sticking those posters up, jumping back in and
then driving to the next place. It'd be like art patrol or something!
That'd be the life, man!".
"Yeah...",Harold says, "That'd be kind of cool, I guess.".
"You guess? What could be cooler than that?".
Harold smiles. "The United States ambassador to Switzerland.",he
says,"How hard could that be? Hanging around with women at parties
going 'Oh, fine. Everything's fine.' Handing out chocolate and army
knives. 'Sure, Mr. President. I think I could get you a clock.' That's
the life, smart guy!".
I lit up another bowl and passed it to Harold.
"Alright...", I said,
"You win.".
The producers go nuts over a script of mine!
Hooray!
It's called "All My Martys" and deals with Marty being cloned a few
hundred times and going KA-RAY-ZEE all over the house. I stand around
watching as it"s shot.
The director of the episode sits in a chair and watches the action on a
video monitor. "Hey!", I say, to producer number two, "I could do that!
Watching television was my major in high school!".
Number two looks me over a moment. "I'll tell you what...when we get
picked up for the second set I'll let you do one.How does that sound!".
How does it sound!?!?
It sounds like I'm gonna direct, that's how it fucking sounds!
YAHOOOO!
So...
.Harold goes to a meeting without me. He comes home with a check for
each of us and some bad news...the first thirteen shows are done so
there's no more work for us to do until we get picked up for the second
set of episodes (what they call "The Back Nine". Thirteen plus nine is
twenty two, and twenty two is how many episodes there are in a season).
That's right...We're out of work. Harold is crazed by this. He stomps
around his apartment ranting and raving about the injustice in this
town, how he never should have left New York, etc. Me? I take a hike. I
walk Hollywood Blvd. drinking off a pint of Cap't Morgan's and8
thinking... we have to wait for the show to go on the air then, after we
get picked up, we'll have nine more shows to do. The producers already
want one of the ones that I wrote alone. Things'll work out. I'm gonna
direct! Screw it. I've got money...
PART FIVE: AW,FUCK!!!
Months pass. The show goes on the air and it's not very well
liked..Well.okay... it sucks. It sucks so bad that channel 5, the
channel that showed it here in L.A., yanked it out of it's 7:30 time
slot and ran it at 1:30 in the morning.
AW,FUCK!!!
What a bummer! We
were canceled and were not picked up for the back nine. I never got to direct.
PART SIX: AND SO...
The show faded away. We were made fun of on Letterman and, although I
don't remember which episode, Joel made fun of us on MST 3K, both of
which I'm pretty fucking proud of (hey! have they ever made fun of you?).
Things could've been worse.
Of course, they could've been better...
Nowadaze nobody even remembers the show. In fact, Harold and I are the
answer to one of the hardest trivia questions you could possibly
imagine. Nope! You ain't gonna be seeing our names on "Jeopardy" any
time soon...say-la-vee.
Me?
I see it like this: I met a lot of real cool people and got paid a
hundred dollars a day to attend a mid-level writing school. I got to
mingle with creative types and hung around drunk on a real working
sound stage. It was kind of like being in love...you meet someone,
there are fireworks a plenty, and then - POOF! - it all fades away
except the memory. But, sometimes, on cold and lonely nights,those
memories warm you and keep you safe and you laugh to yourself and
button up your coat and say, "Fuck you, man! Hit me with all you've got.
I wrote for The New Monkees!",. And then you grit your teeth and trudge
out into the night.
I only wish I'd never called everyone I've ever known and told them to
watch the show.
Oh...
I really miss the money too...
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