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...