Hitting My Head On The Ironyboard

i just knocked over a flashlight
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...

Cockfighting

They busted up some cock fighting in town today.
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.

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

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...

Goldfish (a neo-beatnik thing)

I got this fish...

A goldfish, you know? His name is Dave, Dave the goldfish. And all he does. All he ever does, man, is swim around in his bowl.

That's his whole life, that bowl. And he's swimmin'. Swimmin' around and around in his bowl.

Around and around in his bowl and I thought...

Hey!

My man the fish needs a change, a new look at his life and the life that exists around him. A piece of greenscreen behind that little castle that sits atop those colored rocks that line the bottom of his world and that little castle, man, the one that he never seems to use

(At least he doesn't seem to use it while I'm awake).

And I thought I could take him to Marineland or something. A trip to his own private gene pool to see his ancestors and brethren. A higher link in the foodchain of fishlife.

Or out on a boat. Looking bird's eve view wise at my buddy bud's homeland...

A new bowl perhaps? A larger than large, tank type, mansion sized lake of a cage with room to move, man.

With room to scoot.

And then, captured in the moment I flashed away, man. I went to a mindspace where all fish are equal and freedom is the only buzzword and people (normalsville, you know?), we should be kinder to the souls of the sea. And I thought, man, fish need help. My fish needs help.

And me?

I'm the type of guy who could...

I mean, I am just the kind of guy who could help fish and people band together in a life of love and honor. A whole wide world where nobody has to worry and time alone will be in charge of everyone and everything that we happen to come into contact with and, maybe someday...

And then it hit me...

He's more than happy just being a goldfish, man.

Seeing Orange

It's been going on for years, man.

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.

But

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.

Which is strange.

I don't like the color orange. It makes me feel nervous and jumpy inside.

Be A Jerk, Save A Tree

You know those little cards?

The ones stuck inside magazines?

The ones with the postage already on them so if you want to join a CD club or get a plate with Elvis on it or whatever all you have to do is fill it out and stick it in a mail box? I hate those damn things. I'm looking at a TV Guide, a Playboy, or something and I can't control the pages because the magazine keeps automatically flipping to the page with the card! I hate that to death! Don't you too? What the hell can be done about those damn things?

Well...

I have a job for you. Consider it a social experiment. An art project. Hell! If it works for you feel free to consider it as being a good old American pain in the ass.

The next time you find yourself trapped in the evil web of those stinking cards simply tear it out of the magazine, write "NO THANKS, TREE KILLER!!!" on it, and mail it away. Do it as often as you can. All the time every time and get your friends to do it too. Have them get their friends to do it. And their friends of friends. It would be a chain protest! Pretty cool, ain't it? It'd be like throwing tea in the harbor! Good old American ass pain, kids!

See...

The reason those cards are in magazines is because they are monetarily valid. I mean, enough people are stupid enough to order things with those cards that they turn a profit for the companies that pay to have them stuck into our magazines.

It seems to me the most effective way to get rid of those cards would be to somehow make them monetarily INVALID. Every one that goes through the postal system is that much more postage that the company has to pay and if they end up paying for nothing over and over and over again it seems to me like they'd get the message eventually and stop polluting our magazines with their mindless crap. See what I'm getting at here?

Now:

You don't have to write "NO THANKS, TREE KILLER!!!" on it. You can write anything you'd like. "GO YANKEES!" would work. As would "HI, MOM! CAMP IS GREAT!", "THE PRESIDENT IS FULLA BEANS!", or, my personal favorite "STUFFING! NOT POTATOES!" (get cryptic on the bastards. Screw with their heads. Have fun with it!). You really shouldn't write anything too dirty though. It would really suck if it got back to you and you had to go to court for writing "KISS MY FUCKING ASS, YOU NAZI DICK LICKERS!!!" on some stupid little postcard. Then again, you might end up on 20/20 and get a sit-com out of it. Who knows? All I'm saying here is that I don't recommend that you swear. There's no reason to be snotty if you can just be annoying. I think my dad said that once and, if he didn't he should have.

Anyway, you are now on your own.

I have planted seeds and if they sprout or not is your business.

It's your world.

Have fun with it.

Or don't...

Something To Do When You Get Rich

1) Buy a bunch of cheap vases that all look the same. Like, 50 of them or so and stick a single fake flower in each one.
2) Put them all in a cupboard, stacked very nice.
3) Get a small table. About a foot by a foot across with a flat top and four legs, about four feet high.
4) Saw one of the legs off and put it near a light switch.
5) Put a vase on it.
6) When you're showing your house to someone new reach for the light switch and knock the table over, making the vase break on the floor.
7) Stand the table back up, open the cupboard, put a fresh vase on it.
8) Say, "Fuck! I hate when that happens!".
9) Continue showing the rest of the house and never mention it again.

Milk Is Truth

do you remember milk cartons?
how you should open one end and not the other?
well
when i was a kid
sometimes
the milk carton would be mangled
the other end would be all fucked up and torn up
and it looked like a fucking bomb had gone off in the kitchen
they would say
'stupid milk carton! something should be done about that!'
i would say
'you should have tried to open the other end. milk cartons work that way.'
i'd get grounded for being a smart ass
sometimes i'd get smacked
but
i couldn't let it go
i wanted the truth to be known
that's all i'm really saying here

i'm not a normal person...

Mustard

dude!

what's the deal with mustard?

salami and mustard
pastrami and mustard
your mommy and mustard

that shit fucking rocks, man!

Ripping Off Eddie Grant

We're sitting 'round on a Sunday
And we ain't got nothing to do
Somebody pulls out a board game
And decide that they'll be the shoe

"Oh, yeah!"

CHORUS:
We gonna roll and move past Baltic Avenue
And then pick up a Chance card
We gonna roll and move past Baltic Avenue
And then pick up a Chance card

I take the top hat and place it
On the square that we all call Home
I toss the dice and get doubles
So again my turn gets to go

"Oh, boy!"

CHORUS

Your roll...
Let's go...
Your roll...
Let's go...

CHORUS

I got a nine and I'm landing
On the space where parking is free
Race car just bought Marvin Gardens
And screwed up my Monopoly

"Oh, no!"

CHORUS

Monopoly...
Monopoly ...
Going to jail...
Can't afford the bail...

CHORUS

Play it in the daytime
Play it in the night ...

Might Have Been A Model (a true story)

she was pushing eighteen. not much of a problem there. i was in my mid twenties (going on about twelve) and she had a boyfriend anyway. besides, i take things kind of slow. i wouldn't want to hurt anybody, once bitten, better safe, apples falling from trees, pick one you like, okay? she was blonde, hips like a dessert cart, painfully pretty. wanted to be a model and might have done very well at that kind of gig. face like a really hot angel.

so... we're at this party and her boyfriend (a real nice guy, btw) leaves for a while. i'm feeling good, drinking a bit, nothing serious, just hanging out. we've known each other for three or four days and i'm playing at flirting with her and she's playing at being pissed off about it. we're both laughing and bothering other people with our fun-vibe. i go to the bathroom and, on the way out the host drags me back in.

he says:
you like her?

i say:
yeah. lots.

she told me not to tell you but she's leaving her boyfriend.

so?

she's thinking about you.

why would she tell you that?

so i'd tell you.

but she told you not to tell me.

what are you, man? a fucking moron?

(long pause)

oh...

at one point she's really acting shocked at my attitude, goes into the kitchen, comes back with a glass of warm water, and dumps it over my head. it wasn't beer. it wasn't cold. it was art. i would have married her right then and there.

her boyfriend comes back and they get a ride home. she and i act like we don't really give a shit that the other's leaving but the eye contact was promising.

a few hours later we get a call from the emergency ward. the car that they were in was in a crash.

i figured that everything was okay, or at least not all that bad or they would have told us over the phone so it's off to st. john's hospital.

we sit there for about an hour and they call her sister into another room.

there was a scream. just like in the movies. just like nancy allen in 'blow out'. anybody that tells you that chicks don't really scream like they do in the movies is full of shit. you can trust me on this one.

so there's this scream like in the movies and then she yells, 'that's not my sister! she doesn't have a face!'

she was dead before the cops had shown up.

we all kind of floated home in a fog.

a couple of days later i got the story: the car had rolled over quite a few times. she was in the back seat on the passenger's side and her face was torn off when her head was smashed through her window. her boyfriend was crushed in the wreck. the driver lived. he was saved because he was pinned in the seat by the steering wheel.

she never became a model.

the strange thing is that i rarely think of her and when i do i can't remember her face.

then again

maybe that's not so strange after all...

Ducks And Rabbits

Look…

There’s really only two types of people
Ducks and Rabbits
Trust me on this

DUCKS:
The ducks want things
Anything and everything
For no fuckin’ reason at all
Just like Daffy, the duck on TV

RABBITS:
Rabbits just wanna have fun
Anytime and everytime
For no fuckin’ reason at all
Just like Bugs, the rabbit on TV

DUCKS:
The ducks like to push the rabbits around
It proves to the ducks that they are right
Ducks are like that
They need to be right all the time
Why is this?
(because deep down the ducks know that they are wrong)
It’s Freud or something like that…

RABBITS:
Rabbits like to fuck around with the ducks
Why?
Because it’s fun to watch the ducks shit bricks!
That’s why!

So there you go
Ducks and Rabbits
And that’s all there really…

Oh, shit!

I forgot about the ELMERS!

ELMERS:
Elmers like to kill the ducks and rabbits
With guns and bombs
And all of that stupid shit
Just like Elmer, the guy on TV
Why?
Why do the Elmers want to kill the ducks and rabbits?

Easy…

The Elmers never watch TV
Oh, they look at it
But they don’t really watch
They don’t learn from it
They don’t know how to dream
And that’s why the Elmers like to kill the ducks and rabbits
Because the ducks and rabbits are dreamers
They’re full of dreams
And the Elmers hate dreamers
For the Elmers know not the truth
And here it is
Here’s the truth

It’s a gift from me to you…

THOSE WHO FAIL TO DREAM
ARE DOOMED TO ONLY SLEEP

And just how do I know that it’s the truth?
How can I be sure?

That’s easy too…

I’m a rabbit
And I dreamt it.

Elephants

the elephants are moving
(slowly, slowly)
one foot at the time

not going uphill
(lowly, lowly)
in an ordered line

don't think for themselves
(empty, empty)
it's not something they do

wait for instructions
(tempting, tempting)
the trainers make the rules

don't bother with the elephants
they'll freeze still with remorse
their brains are small
and filled up all
with peanuts just
of course

Lame Ass Backstory

About a bazillion years ago the Earth cooled. This was a good thing. If it hadn't we'd all be jumping up and down a lot and screaming about our feet more often than we do now. The air would also hurt our lungs and there wouldn't be any water. Can you imagine living in a world like that? I just barely can and I have a rather colorful history of drug usage.

There were these pools of water laying around back then and, through some electrochemical process that I don't have a lot of knowledge about these tiny fishy things came to life. Chemistry tends to vex me on a daily basis. If you take some motor oil and lemonade and toss in some cotton balls you get Twinkies? How does that work? I mean, there can only be a finite number of chemicals, right? How the hell do those research guys come up with new ones? I had a chemistry set once and if I mixed up a bunch of stuff all I ever ended up with was a tube of blackish slop. I just don't understand it in the slightest. This may tend to explain why I write. I may be trying to understand things. Ah, well...whatever.

Some weeks later dinosaurs stalked both the surface of the Earth and each other. These were dangerous times for the more fragile life forms who were mainly walking snacks and sandwiches for these dinosaurs. The whole world was a giant Burger King and you didn't have to deal with money.

One day a chunk of what was basically iridium zipped through space, got caught in the Earth's orbit, and smacked into the ground with a resounding boom. The impact of this smack and boom caused a huge cloud of dust to blanket the sky, blocking out the rays of the sun and making things rather chilly for the dinosaurs and snacks that lived here. The plants died, the plant eaters died, and the meat eaters followed suit rather quickly. Things were looking bad.

However, some of those snacks had fur coats and they hid out in little caves and hollows and rode this badness out. They kept warm, ate when they could, and had a lot of little furry snack sex. Somehow there is always hope.

These little furry things evolved and after spending a couple of years in the trees they lost their tails and walked tall on the ground. Cave people had arrived.

Now...

I don't know about you but I would have made a lousy caveman. Most of my leisure time would have been spent crawling around nearsighted looking for something to read. I doubt my tribe would have been into my sense of humor either. Some burly cavedude would have crushed my head with a rock just to shut my ass up. "Yeah. He was an asshole and now we don't have to hear his fucking whiny voice! What's for lunch?"

I'm not real hot with history but, if I remember right those guys and gals didn't even have Dr. Pepper! Barbaric? Don't get me started! Have you ever seen a TV Guide from back then? They weigh in at about seven thousand pounds. You had to do the crossword puzzle with a hammer a chisel. And if you made a mistake you were just fucked and that was all there was to it, man.

But enough about me.

Somehow the more aggressive caveman tribes grew up in Europe. These were serious hunter/gatherers who just had to have more. And more. And still more after that. They built ships and crossed oceans and got to work setting up what is now known as The East Coast. Not content with that they pulled this thing called "Manifest Destiny" out of a hat and moved west, hacking their way through viscous plant life and a few million Indians. Once they got to The Pacific Ocean they chugged Margaritas, beat the living shit out of a bunch of Mexicans, and said, "Wow! If we had some well built blonde women here we could make television and movies! Let's do it!"

So they did.

This sort of wanderlust still pretty much exists even to this day. Tons of people who really have no business being here move to Los Angeles every day. They seek fame and fortune in what is sometimes called "Show Business" (other times it's referred to by it's more rightful name: "A Motherfucking Pain In The Ass"). These people don't kill each other or anything (not too much anyway) but they do play their stupid little schoolyard games with each other and make life a big old bummer for those of us who were born here and really just want to tell stories and get paid for it. Oops! My bitterness is showing! Sorry about that!

So...

Some people moved here from other places to try to carve a life for themselves and set about finding meaning in the face of their assorted neurosis. We all want love and good things right? And there's nothing wrong with that at all. Hi! I'm my compassion! How are you doing today?

Criswell Predicted Me

I first saw a little movie called "Plan 9 From Outer Space" in high school. This was around 1971 or so and in those days high school meant exactly that, at least it did at my school. One night I smoked a nice sized joint and saw the movie at about three in the morning. I had no idea what it was (or who Edward D. Wood, the guy who wrote and directed it was, for that matter) but, as a young and hungry science fiction and horror fiend I thought I'd check it out based on the title alone. I couldn't believe it. It was the sloppiest and downright lamest thing I had ever seen. I almost literally laughed my ass off.

Nobody really had a VCR back then so if you wanted to see a movie a bunch of times you'd have to wait for a rerun. It would replay every six months or so and I'd see it every chance I got, often making friends and people at parties sit through it as well. There were no two ways about it, you either loved it or hated it. Most hated it. That was their loss as far as I was concerned. I was hooked and the most amazing thing was that it got better with each viewing. It didn't take very long for it to become one of my favorite movies.

These days it seems that almost everybody with a quirky taste in cinema loves it and it has reached the height of cultdom. Books, magazine articles, and a comic book all sing the praises of what has been called "The Worst Movie of All Time".

But is it really the worst? I don't think so. Have you ever seen "Tomcats"? "Mrs. Doubtfire"? How about "Gone With The Wind"? Those are some bad movies, pal. I mean, look, at least "Plan 9" has a message: "Stop playing around with weapons or we'll come back and whack your whole damn planet!" Pretty heavy stuff. Sure. I know. Robert Wise said the same thing in the film "The Day the Earth Stood Still" and he said it better too.

But here's the thing:

The reason the aliens come to earth in "Plan 9" is to stop us from discovering Solaronite, particles of sunlight so small they can't be measured. If we create a Solaronite bomb it will blow up the sun and then follow the sunlight, blowing up everything it touches thereby blowing up the whole universe. Now, here's no such thing as Solaronite but there are neutrinos, teeny tiny particles of sunlight. If a neutrino bomb were created and set off would the sunlight explode setting off a chain reaction that would destroy the universe?

I'm no scientist but it sure seems that way to me.

And what about Ed Wood? Did he "discover" neutrinos long before whoever is credited with the discovery only to pick a really stupid name for them and use them in what has been called "The Worst Movie of All Time"? As Criswell, the guy who narrates it says, "Can you prove it didn't happen?"

***

And speaking of Criswell...

Criswell made his living as a psychic at the time. He would do the talk shows and had one of his own here in Los Angeles where he'd make predictions about what he would call "Your Incredible Future!". My mother had a friend who knew him and, in the late fifties she went to a studio to see one of these shows being made. Before the show she was introduced to him and he asked if she had any questions. She was pregnant at the time and wondered what kind of child she was going to have. At least this is what I have been told and, seeing as to how my mother was the one who told it to me I see no reason to doubt it.

Criswell put his hand on my mom's belly and said, "I predict that you are going to have a baby."

"Yeah..." she laughed," I know that but, what kind of a baby?".

He said, "A boy."

"Really?" she asked.

"Sure." he replied, "Why not?" Then he went off to do his show.

On March 12, 1956 I was born. I was a baby and a boy, which goes to show something but I have a monstro sized hangover at the moment and I'm not really sure of what the hell it is...

Road

Life…

It's like a road
Long
Never ending
Twists
And turns
Forks and underpasses
Other people's cars
Burnt and hollowed out
Over turned and blocking the way
You swerve to miss them
But have to look
Fascinated by the flames and burnt bodies

And as you strain to listen to their radios

And as you smell gasoline and burnt rubber
You sometimes miss your exit
And then you think
"What the fuck did I do to deserve this?"

But

Keep driving none the less
For someday
Someday soon
You'll be home
Safe and sound
Without a care in the world
Without a single problem
Without a single teardrop

And it will all come together
Again...