My Mind And Welcome To It

Shmock! Shmock!

2010-02-20T20:56:00.000-08:00

I was reading my friend Mark Evanier’s blog the other day (great fun blog, by the way: http://www.newsfromme.com) and came across an article he wrote a while back about how he sat next to Steve Allen for an entire stage show and never summoned the courage to engage Steverino in a friendly chat. Would that I had had that same reserve. I, unfortunately, did not shy away from a conversation when I had the opportunity and the result was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. But before I tell that tale, a little background.

Back in the late 60s I came across one of the many books that Steve Allen had published. I don’t even remember the name of it (and any reader who can remind me of the title will have my undying appreciation.) Well, the book had me in stitches.

One part of it was a transcript of a radio show in New York that Steve hosted as a replacement for the regular host early in his career. Totally adlibbed, it was just unbelievably funny. Steve’s one-liners, interjections and general sharpness were just comedy at the highest level. I can’t remember a single line, though. Wish I could. You’ll just have to take my word for it.

In another section of the book, Steve reminisces about the very beginnings of his career at a radio station in Texas. He was the disc jockey on the graveyard shift, from 12 midnight to 6AM every day. The job was mostly boring so Steve would amuse himself by changing the commercial copy that the morning announcer would have to read. He knew from experience that the guy who came in, bleary-eyed at 6AM, never checked the copy. So Steve would change it to something like this:

“Men! Come into Peterson’s Suit Factory on Route 22 in Nagadoches and get a free fitting. Peterson’s Suits are made of the best material money can buy, Wearing a Peterson suit is like sticking your hand into a wet pumpkin and getting the juice up your sleeve. It’s like putting the puppies back in the suitcase…”

And it would go on, getting more and more nonsensical. Funny practical joke, right? Well, however comical it was for some reason it always stuck with me.

When The Museum of Broadcasting opened in New York, I was a frequent visitor. I would sit in a cubicle for hours every day and watch tapes from the classic TV shows, looking for the funniest things I could find. I saw everything and I have to state that unequivocally, the funniest shows I saw were the old Tonight shows with Steve as host. He was always razor sharp, the set pieces were hilarious and from beginning to end they were just uproarious. Nothing that has followed him since even comes close to the level of comedy on those shows. I became an even bigger fan of Steve’s.

Years later, I went to see Steve’s nightclub show in New York, Seymour Glick is Alive But Sick at The St. Regis Hotel. It was funny in parts and Steve himself was still sharp and on point. After the show, Steve retired to a large ringside table with some friends and admirers. I dragged my date over to his table to congratulate Mr. Allen and to tell him what a big fan I was of his. He thanked me and shook my hand. I told him that it was great honor to shake his hand and that it was like sticking my hand into a pumpkin and getting the juice up my sleeve.

The table got very quiet. Everyone looked quite uncomfortable. My date turned white and backed away. I turned red and began to sweat profusely. Steve Allen looked up at me then up at the ceiling and said “When did I write that?”

Immediately, everyone relaxed. I was saved. The rest of the very brief conversation is a blur. I managed to walk away without making any more a fool of myself than I had almost done.

Many many years later, I had written an episode of Pinky & The Brain, The Pinky & The Brain Reunion Special. We were able to get Steve Allen to play himself. I even had him hitting a bell and exclaiming “Shmock! Shmock!”, an old catch-phrase of his.

At one point during the recording session, Steve’s baseball cap’s brim kept hitting the mike so he reversed it. For a fleeting moment I saw his very bald head, something no audience ever got to see.

Later,I reminded Steve of the earlier nearly embarrassing moment we shared and he pretended to remember. He did promise to send me a signed copy of that book, though. He never got around to it.

Though my feelings for Steve Allen began to change when he got to be an elder statesman of comedy, one who was hyper-critical of the tone of modern comedy and became rather old fogey-ish in his last years, I never forgot how much his humor had entertained and influenced me.

I saw Steve a couple of times in his last year of life. He moderated a panel of old comedy writers vs young comedy writers at The Friars Club and was entertaining, though slightly scolding of the younger set. I took the opportunity to remind him of the book. He said it had slipped his mind, but took down my address again.

Then I saw Steve and his wife, Jane Meadows, as they were leaving a deli in Hollywood. I didn’t get up to greet him again and I didn’t want to be a pest about the book. I‘m sorry I didn’t at least shake his hand because that night Steve was in the accident that cost him his life.

There’s a lot more I can say about Steve Allen. How he was the man who introduced Lenny Bruce and Dick Gregory to America, how he was an early experimenter of LSD, how he wrote a billion songs and novels, some of which are worth hearing or reading. How he perpetrated one of the great recording hoaxes of all time by pretending to be a long forgotten jazz pianist. The recordings made quite a stir until somebody finally realized that every number in the scratchy old recordings was being played by three hands.

So, in conclusion let me just say that if you haven’t discovered yet the comedy genius of Steve Allen, do yourself a favor and find some examples. Hearing Steve at his best is like sticking your hand into a wet pumpkin and getting the juice up your sleeve.

Shmock! Shmock!

Why I Hate Everything

2010-02-07T20:15:00.000-08:00

I hate everything.

I hate the people who hire me and the people who don’t hire me, or more particularly, won’t hire me. But I don't hate Sidney, the guy who has currently hired me. Until he fires me.

I hate my landlady because, well, she’s a landlady.

I hate all my ex-es (and no, all my ex-es don’t live in Texas).

I hate Texas.

I hate crowds and small gatherings and being alone.

I hate weekends because nothing happens and I hate weekdays because too much has to happen in too short a time.

I hate waking up almost as much as I hate falling asleep, or more particularly not falling asleep.

I hate people who talk in the movie theater only slightly more than the ones who text, but I reserve a special degree of hate for those who talk on their cell phones during a movie, or even worse, during a play. Yes, those cretins exist!

I hate Fox News for labeling themselves as “Fair” and “Balanced” when they are so blatantly unfair and unbalanced. I’m just going to label myself “thin” and “blond” from now on.

I hate all local TV weathermen and women, particularly those with weather-inspired names like Storm Field or Dallas Rains. Aren’t these burlesque stripper names?

I hate dentists and veterinarians and lawyers and accountants. The only people who like them, of course, are their spouses. I don’t even think their children hold them in particularly high regard.

I hate how I keep using the word “particular” in this article. It just seems particularly apt.

I hate the word “apt.” I dunno why. I just do.

I hate all the appliances in my house because they so obviously hate me.

I hate having to shave, floss and get my hair cut, but if I didn’t I’d look like that guy on the bus.

And I hate the bus. I really hate the bus. I lost the use of my car for a few days and was forced to travel the streets of L.A. by bus for the first time in 27 years. Now I know why some people prefer to have scooters. And I hate scooters.

I hate the DMV. I hate going there and I hate waiting there and I hate the morbidly obese women who sit behind the counter and so obviously hate their jobs and hate the people on the other side of the counter. Why can't they smile and be pleasant? They must hate more than I ever could.

I hate when you call Disney and the switchboard operator signs off with "Have a magical day!" I want to just say "Fuck magical! How about a day when I'm not being jerked around by some Disney half-wit executive?" That would, in fact, be pretty fucking magical.

I hate hating. It's too wearing on the soul. Sometimes you just have to let it go. Oh, fuck that! I hate self reflection.

I do love something, though: getting to the end of a writing session.

Like now.

A Boomer Laments

2010-02-03T19:30:00.001-08:00

Remember nostalgia? Those good old days when we used to remember the gooder older days?

I remember sitting around in the 90s recalling those wonderful Reagan years when Yuppies were everywhere and everyone had big hair and the sleeves on their leather jackets pulled up. And we would do coke and reminisce about the 70s:

Acid washed jeans, mutton chops and macramé, peasant blouses and women’s libbers and gay guys that all looked like the mustachioed dude on the Brawny Paper Towel package. And we would smoke a joint and listen to a cassette of The Grateful Dead and talk about how cool the 60s were:

Woodstock. Balling chicks. Long hair and bellbottoms. The Beatles and trying to smoke a banana after hearing Donovan sing about “Electrical bananas”. And we would drop acid and laugh about our childhood in the 50s:

Elvis on Ed Sullivan. Rootie Kazootie, Winky Dink and Howdy Doodie. And The Lone Ranger and Hoppy. And wearing guns and holsters and learning how to ride a two wheeler and being able to play all the time. And we would drink chocolate milk and take naps.

Now the 2000s have become the past and I, for the life of me, can’t remember a thing about them. I know I could if I tried, but please don’t remind me. I’m just going to drink some chocolate milk and take a nap.

Cinematic Errata et al

2010-01-31T19:25:00.000-08:00

I see a lot of movies, some old some new. The new ones you can find reviews and comments on just about anywhere. So I’m not going to write about Avatar or Up in The Air or any of the other masterpieces currently selling popcorn at your local multiplex. Today I just want to ruminate on two old favorites of mine, if that’s okay. Okay? Good. Let’s go…

For example, I just watched National Velvet for the first time in many many years. Besides being in beautiful Technicolor and being an enjoyable movie with comedy, action (if horse jumping can be considered action), pathos and endearing performances from some big stars, it is also remarkable for one other reason. Though released in 1944, the stars are all still alive. Elizabeth Taylor, Mickey Rooney and Angela Landsbury are, as of this writing, still breathing. Landsbury is, in fact, appearing currently on Broadway in a revival of A Little Night Music. I don’t know of any film from that period with multiple stars who are still above ground. I invite any readers to enlighten me.

Of course, one of the annoying things about Hollywood movies from back in the day is the inconsistency of the accents employed by the actors. In National Velvet, Mickey does the best he can with some sort of accent that is more Irish than English, Taylor sounds fine and most of the supporting cast is either English or convincing as such. Then there’s Butch Jenkins – as American as a kid can be. It makes me wonder how he came to be cast (other than the fact that he was under contract to MGM). Cute kid, but English? Nope.

Another surprising thing about the film is that there are some almost off color elements that one would not expect to find in a Hollywood film of that era. To wit: (SPOILER COMING!) When Velvet is hurt after winning the big race and examined by a doctor, the doctor starts to unbutton the unconscious girl’s blouse, believing her to be a male jockey. The camera pushes in and we see the doctor’s reaction, which can only be interpreted as “My word! Titties!”

In another scene, young Butch Jenkins is having his picture taken by a photographer who notices he’s missing a front tooth. “Yeah,” says Jenkins, “I swallowed it.” He then shows the tooth dangling from a chain around his neck. “I thought you said you swallowed it,” says the photographer and then reacts, realizing the only way the boy could have retrieved the tooth. One is not used to seeing bodily functions referred to in films of the 40s, no matter how obliquely.

The inconsistencies and odd casting choices that may occur in old films don’t really detract from the pleasure of watching them. In fact, the discovery of them can often make seeing these films even more enjoyable. Even gaping plot holes, when surrounded by talented actors, atmospheric settings and gorgeous music, can be overlooked. Perhaps the most famous of these plot insufficiencies occurs in the film now considered by many to be the best film ever made, Casablanca. Can anyone tell me what the oft-mentioned “Letters of Transit” are? In the film they amount to a veritable hall pass from the Nazis. “Cannot even be questioned! Signed by General DeGaulle himself” is the exact quote. Excuse me? Why would the Germans accept a letter signed by their enemy? Time and again in my career as a writer, when a network executive would point out some minor quasi-inconsistency in a script, one that was so minor as to be totally inconsequential, I would bring up the “Letters of Transit” to help make my point. Sometimes it worked. Nowadays, of course, very few executives have seen or even heard of Casablanca.

This is fun and I promise to do this again. In the meantime, I will, as always, be on the lookout for quibbles, nits to pick and other cinematic errata.

Transpotting

2010-01-04T21:34:00.000-08:00

Now that a new decade is upon us I feel I should begin to once again take this blog seriously and dutifully record the ramblings of my mind for any interested parties. I have taken a two month hiatus because I had nothing to say. I realize that doesn’t stop most bloggers, but I hold myself to a higher standard of idiocy.

In the past two months I’ve written and rewritten a new play and hope to get it produced soon. I’m a little more realistic about doing theater in Los Angeles this time. I’ve discovered that it is very very difficult to get audiences out to see live theater in a town that is almost exclusively preoccupied with movies, television and celebrity. What theater there is is either very serious or intellectually vapid. What I write is neither. How then can I hope to get an audience? How about a little controversy?

My play is entitled Missing Dick and is about four guys who have grown up together and what happens when one of them has a sex change. It’s light comedy, a sex farce. The controversial element is that, rather than writing about one transgendered person’s odyssey of self-discovery, I write about the reactions of those around him, some of which are rather crude. Now this wouldn’t seem to be controversial… unless you are a transsexual yourself!

In an effort to accurately portray the realities of such a person, I reached out to the transgender community and sent an early draft of my play to two transgendered women. I wanted them to help me. Well, the reaction I got was unexpectedly harsh. They hated the play, hated me for writing it. One compared the play to presenting a version of The Human Stain with 70 pages of nigger jokes. They saw nothing funny or clever in the writing, thought it was an adolescent heterosexual fantasy focusing on only the most obvious and lugubrious aspects of the transgender experience.

At first, I was taken aback. Couldn’t they tell that it was just a comedy, that the trannie character in the play was the most empowered? Couldn’t they see that the coarsest language and most obnoxious reaction in the play came from a character that was clearly identified as coarse and obnoxious, that his opinions don’t reflect my opinions or any of the other characters’? Isn’t the comic reaction of the others the point of such a comedy?

Well, my explanations fell on deaf ears. I was just a horrible bigot. Me, the lifelong liberal who has no problems with homosexuals, transsexuals or any other group living whatever lifestyles they do? Was I really a bigot?

My answer is: I don’t think so. Naturally, I can’t help people being offended. They have a right to feel however they feel, but are they really being fair in their accusations? As a comedy writer, don’t I have the right to find the comic element in any situation and exaggerate it for comic effect? And doesn’t dramatic conflict (even in a comedy) mean that some character must express a negative thought?

I was reminded of the situation several years ago regarding a political cartoon that appeared in The Sacramento Bee. Louis Farrakhan had made a public statement to the effect that “words cannot be racist, only actions.” The cartoon showed two Ku Klux Klan members in their hoods. One of them is holding a newspaper with the Farrakhan quote as the headline. He turns to the other clan member and says “ You know, that nigger is right.” Well, the reaction from African American groups and civil rights organizations was immediate. They called on the paper to fire the cartoonist and apologize for the overt racism of the cartoon. No one noticed that the cartoon was making the point that of course, words can be racist. Simply seeing the N word in type was enough to enrage them.

I believe that the reaction I got from those transgendered ladies was of the same cloth. They were reacting to the expression of some ugly statements without regard to context or the purpose of such statements.

My play will most likely be produced this spring and I know that, no matter what I say here or in any other venue, there are those who will be offended. I’m sorry for that, but I would hope that the good-heartedness of the play and its unashamed adolescent heterosexual attitude toward this relatively new social dynamic will offset any negative reactions. But who’s to say.

Look for Missing Dick soon at a theater in Los Angeles or possibly New York or London. It’ll be easy to find. There’ll be a picket line of very tall and well-dressed women out front.

And Having Writ...

2009-11-09T00:49:00.000-08:00

I write. Sometimes people pay me for what I write. It doesn’t really matter because I write whether or not I am remunerated for my efforts. Sometime I get to write really creative original stuff, really cutting edge, risky material. Then there are the times I get paid to write. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been paid to write something I thought was worth something and still have enough fingers left over to hold my dick. And half the time I’m at the keyboard that’s what I’m doing. Anyway, the point is that I have been fortunate in that I haven’t really had to work at a non-show business job for 26 years(with one brief exception). But you never know when you’ve received your last paid writing gig, so I have been thinking about what it is I might do if I did something else for money. Here are a few ideas:

I could wait on tables.

I did this for most of my 20s and it wasn’t too bad. Of course, that was when I was a young actor on the way up. Now I would be an old writer on the way down and I might not be all that chipper about it all. If someone didn’t tip me sufficiently I might tee off on them. Of course, I did that way back then, too, but there was always another restaurant job available. I don’t think that’s the case any more. Maybe I could one day be a crabby old waiter at Canter’s who mumbles under his breath when you send back the soup. But I’ve always seen that character as a guy who lives alone in a single room with a hot plate and watches TV in his bathrobe and slippers and complains about noise. Not me. Yet.

I could drive a cab.

I did that for a while in NYC before moving out to LA. If I were to do that in Los Angeles I would have to learn where everything is. I’ve lived here 26 years and I don’t know where Temecula is. Now, of course, there are GPS devices one can use, but, if Mapquest is any guide, the directions are always stupid and never take traffic flow into account. And, if you want to know the truth, I don’t want to know where Temecula is. Naah, not for me.

I could be a telemarketer.

Okay, I’ve done this. Great training for actors and writers because this job is 99% rejection. But at least movie and television executives aren’t angry when you walk in the door. That is, most of the time. They might not buy what you’re selling, but you don’t feel like a pushy salesperson peddling some useless product. That is, most of the time. I do have a gift for gab and am usually a cheerful and entertaining person, but soul-crunching rejection is painful, so if I’m going to be rejected let it be by a hot female or a rich producer, not the proprietor of a Pool Cleaning service in Tustin who isn’t interested in advertising in a Jewish newspaper or refinancing his loan or buying a time share. Definitely not a job for me.

I could be a bank robber.

This has always appealed to me. The planning, the getaway… Maybe even a series of robberies. I could wear the same mask, maybe get famous as “The Batman Bank Robber”. The only thing that has ever stopped me is the fear of being gang raped in jail. If I were to go to jail. I might never get caught. But if I did… Uh uh, too much of a downside.

So what does that leave me?

I know there are lots of other jobs out there, but am I really suited to any of them? I can’t teach because I don’t have a degree. I can’t become a cop because I’m too old. I can’t become a male prostitute because I can’t even give it away. No, there’s nothing left but writing. Sitting alone in my home office and emptying my mind onto an LCD screen in the hopes that some of it will be good enough to pay the rent. And ideas keep coming.

And so I write.

Stream of Unconsciousness

2009-10-23T19:44:00.000-07:00

I love the type of newspaper column that is just stream of consciousness, ellipses after ellipses, one non-sequiter after another. The type of column Larry King has or Earl Wilson used to have years ago in the New York Post (before it was a right wing rag, albeit with a great Sports Page) What I love about them is that they are completely undisciplined and really anyone can write one. So here it is: my new column.

Soupy Sales died… I loved him when I was a kid and would race home after school to catch his afternoon show… I remember him telling this joke on his show: “I took my girlfriend, Peaches, to the baseball game. I kissed her between the strikes and she kissed me between the balls.”

I like fried chicken…

I’m continually shocked every time I see Kathleen Turner on Californication… Doesn’t she realize that she is the butt of the joke, that her being a sexual predator is frightening?… How does a once beautiful woman allow herself to be seen in this light?…

Garage Pizza is the best (or most NY-like) pizza in L.A… It’s in Silver Lake and is open really late…

Am I the only one who thinks Larry David is being too unlikable in this season’s Curb Your Enthusiasm?… I thought his character was supposed to speak up in situations in which most people do not, not to just be rude… This past week’s episode was a throwback to earlier seasons: Larry having to deal with two handicapped dates was priceless…

I really like writing this kind of column… It’s not like writing at all… I have nothing to say and yet here I am still typing away just pouring out drivel… It’s very refreshing… Where will my mind go next?

We are all going to die one day… It’s true. You try not to think about it but there it is. And when it happens it’ll feel like your whole life lasted a minute and then you will no longer exist.

Sorry for that… Try not to think about it…

I don’t really like pea soup…

How can gorgeous women interact with men when they KNOW every man they meet wants to fuck them?… It’s true… If you are a gorgeous woman and I meet you and we are having a pleasant chat about politics or sports or existentialism or Buckminister Fuller or whatever, you must know that all I’m really thinking is “I’d like to fuck you.” Even if I respect your mind and would never consider you merely as a “sex object”, I want to fuck you. And you are probably thinking “Oh this guy is so cool, talking about existentialism and Bucky Fuller. I hope he doesn’t want to fuck me.” Such is life.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have admitted the above… So, please ignore it… Gorgeous women, I don’t really want to fuck you…

Did that sound sincere?

I can’t write a column like this… I can’t control it… I’m likely to say anything… From now on I will think before I write and never bombard my readers with this mental diarrhea again..

Did I mention that I like fried chicken?

My Religion

2009-10-04T18:28:00.001-07:00

I have a religion. Lots of people hate my religion, curse my religion and actively campaign against it, refer to it as evil and wish for its failure and for its followers to suffer extreme humiliation. Yet, I proudly flaunt my religion and wear its emblems. Stickers on my car pronounce my adherence to my faith. I have always had this faith and will always have these feelings through good times and bad. That’s what faith is all about.

Some say it’s not fair that while followers of other faiths suffer under the yoke of poverty and loss, my faith builds a shiny new temple, the most expensive ever built and charges its acolytes more money to attend than any other. Most resent the fact that followers of my faith invade the temples of other faiths and loudly proclaim their religion and provocatively wear shirts and other wardrobe bearing the symbols of their faith. I don’t blame non-believers for their enmity. I simply regard it as jealousy. In fact, most fellow believers in my faith actually enjoy the hatred from others. It is a badge of honor. This is the way it has always been.

Unlike many other faiths, the iconology of my faith has invaded the world of non-believers. Those with no particular allegiance wear its symbol. There is no more recognizable symbol in the country. It requires no explanation. There is no one who does not know what it means.

Recently, my faith has fallen on hard times. No followers of other religions would describe them as hard times but true believers of my faith are satisfied only by ultimate success not only in life, but in the afterlife. Anything less is failure. We are always striving for that goal.

I have worshipped at this altar and prayed. Unlike in most religions, my prayers have often been answered, but not lately. As a matter of fact, not in this century. But I have not lost faith. And that is why, with every fiber of my being I will stand with my fellow believers, though I have not lived among them for decades, and proudly shout, once again, “LET’S GO, YANKEES!”

The Monster With 1000 Eyes

2009-09-17T13:16:00.000-07:00

Laurence Olivier used to stand backstage, peep through the curtain and curse silently to the audience, working himself into a state of unadulterated hatred before he dared step onto the stage. This was his way of dealing with the fact that hundreds of people were out there in their seats waiting to judge him. I can relate to that.

Now after having performed my play, Fuggedaboudit!, for 33 times (the final three performances are this coming weekend) I have experienced 33 different audiences and I can tell you that no two are alike. Here are some of my thoughts:

First of all, bigger is always better. The more people in the audience, the more excitement there is in the air. Loud talking, laughter and the general hubbub of a large crowd enthuses the audience AND the performers and the chances are that that night’s performances will be enjoyable for both parties. Larger audiences facilitate laughter and a general air of hilarity spreads through the crowd (provided, of course, that the play is a comedy.) When there are too many empty seats in the theater there is an air of uncertainty, a feeling that maybe this show isn’t very good otherwise there would be more people here. The smaller crowds can be won over, but it is much harder.

Younger is always better. For some reason my play has been attracting an older crowd. And when I say older, I mean older - 75 and up. These people, unlike their younger counterparts, actually go to the theater often, but I suspect that the effort tires them out so completely that they are a very placid, quiet audience. I can see them smiling, enjoying themselves, but keeping it to themselves. If they outnumber the younger audience members it can become an almost solemn evening in the theater. This is not good for comedy. At the end of the play they applaud enthusiastically, but by then the cast is demoralized.

When there have been large and youthful audiences there is much laughter, whooping, applause. It’s just a fun evening. I have come to the conclusion that my play is really only for those people that are up on pop culture, sexually active (or at least have had sexual relations in recent memory) and are capable of titillation. I watched one older woman’s face as the words “cock”, “fetish” and “anal sex” were spoken on stage. As I looked at her, I imagined a nun’s habit on her and a ruler in her hand. Her scowl was positively Catholic.

Veering away from the present, I remember having performed all over Europe with a theater troupe. There I discovered that audience habits and customs differ in different cultures. For example, when we performed in Holland there were hardly ever any laughs, but we would hear how much the audience enjoyed the show and were well reviewed. It became apparent to us that Dutch audiences think it is rude to interrupt the play with laughter. They save their response to the end. And for the final curtain call applause can be enthusiastic and long, but the highest compliment of all is rhythmic clapping, the Dutch equivalent to a standing ovation. Other countries have similar quirks. It takes some getting used to.

Finally, I want to make the point that an audience is an integral part of every performance. There is an energy that flows between the actors and the audience that, if positive, can create a wonderful time for all. Of course, it is incumbent on the performers, writer and director to have created an entertaining offering, but it can all come crashing down if the audience is not with you. I know this because every night it’s the same script, the same performers and the response can be non-stop laughter from beginning to end (which, luckily, it has been for many performances) or dead silence.

The audience has been called “The Monster With a Thousand Eyes”. Every night we try to kill that monster. Sometimes the monster wins, but on the nights we triumph, the victory is sweet. If you are in Los Angeles this weekend (Sept 18-20) come to The Hudson Backstage Theatre and get slain. It’s a pleasant and hilarious way to go.

Curtain Up!

2009-08-06T17:14:00.000-07:00

Hi to all my readers who might be wondering what happened to me, why I haven't been blogging. Is it because I had nothing to say? Well, obviously that hasn't stopped me in the past. No, it's because the play I scribbled together this past winter, "Fuggedaboudit", which first workshopped at The Hollywood Fight Club this past spring is about to be reborn at the prestigious Hudson Theatre on Theater Row in Hollywood. Yes, I actually convinced some folks to put up some money and now we're moving forward. The play will open on August 14 and run for six weeks. You can get more information at the following link: http://www.plays411.com/fugg (Just copy and paste.)

Now you might wonder why I even wrote a play in the first place. After all, this is Hollywood where TV and film are the major industries (that and waiting on tables). The answer to that question is that, having worked in "the biz" for so long, I was frustrated with the incessant meddling that always corrupts a writer's work in this town. "Does it have to be a light bulb" is the well-known answer to the question "How many producers does it take to screw in a lightbulb?" The lesser known answer to the question "How many development executives does it take to screw up an idea?" is "One!"

The theater is the one place where there really is no one between you and your audience. With the right actors and the right director your vision can be realized in an uncompromising way; you don't have to placate some middle-management fool who took McKee's Story Structure class or used to be an assistant at Endeavor. That's why I am acting in and directing the play.

In the theater, you rise or fall based on what YOU do; you don't have to make excuses or explain to your friends that the original line was funny but it had to be changed because Broadcast Standards didn't understand that detectives are sometimes called "dicks" or that Lake Titicaca is a real place. You don't have to follow the dictum of "Tell them you're gonna tell them, then tell them, then tell them you've told them" as so many predictable television shows and films so obviously do.

Of course, I have written and directed this play in an attempt to get a little attention also. I need and want an audience. The desire for approval is a strong one, but, though it most probably won't help me build a bank account, it is the laughter and applause that is my ultimate goal. I finally feel pure again. It's like regaining my virginity.

Naturally, I know what happens to all virgins. But that comes once this play lands me a three picture deal.

Death Does Not Take Holidays

2009-06-30T21:26:00.000-07:00

Comedians used to avoid traveling on the same airplane as Bob Hope because they knew if the plane crashed the headline would be “Bob Hope and 228 Others Dead In Crash.” No one wants to be upstaged, even in death. That’s why the recent deaths of Ed MacMahon and Farrah Fawcett are doubly sad in light of the death of that other guy. His name escapes me right now… oh, yeah, Michael Jackson. If someone more famous than you dies the same day, even the same week, your death will be virtually unnoticed.

On August 16,1977 Elvis Presley died. This created an even bigger media event than we are experiencing now. Had there been such a thing as CNN or the other cable news outlets we would have been barraged endlessly with tabloid journalism, speculation and lurid details. But the saddest part of that week for me was that it completely overshadowed the death of my personal idol, Groucho Marx. Marx’s death was mostly ignored when he passed on August 19 of that year. He had been upstaged. I don’t blame anybody. Elvis’ untimely death was certainly a bigger story to most people. But I still felt Groucho deserved his moment. Amid the torrent of Elvis mourners, I felt it was my duty to wear a Groucho "Beeky Nose" all that week.

Now that Billy Mays, Fred Travelina and Gale Storm have died, fulfilling the second group of three that nature has decreed must always happen, I’d like to say something about each of them, not only because they had the misfortune to die in the wake of MJ’s death, but because they deserve mention.

Billy Mays was possibly the most obnoxious man on television that wasn’t pitching Shamwow. His ubiquity was quite amazing as was his beard, darker than can ever occur naturally. But his story is inspiring. Anyone who has ever attended a state or county fair or ambled down the boardwalks of the Jersey Shore has seen pitchmen slicing and dicing their way to oblivion. But Billy May was different. For whatever reason, he rose above those others and turned his barking into a fortune. For that he should be recognized, if not mourned. It’s also worth mentioning that uber pitchman Ed MacMahon got his start on those same boardwalks. Hmmm… I may be considering a career change.

Fred Travelina was always a mystery to me. He had talent for sure, but I always felt that he had the misfortune to be born between generations. His focus was on entertainers that my generation looked on as dinosaurs rather than on current performers. I always enjoyed his performances and some of his impressions were spot on, but it always seemed that in his dress, his attitude, he was more Borscht Belt than Broadway. And though more people saw him perform than the recently deceased Danny Gans, who appeared almost exclusively in Vegas, I feel bad that he won’t be remembered for being the talent he was by anyone my age or younger.

Finally, Gale Storm, who actually won her name in a contest, was one of my earliest childhood crushes. I loved her and Shari Lewis equally. My Little Margie was one of my favorite shows. If you get a chance, listen to the theme music on You Tube. It’s the quintessential 50s TV sitcom theme. And her trademark throaty gurgle was perfect, as was her madcap persona. Not quite Lucy. Younger, single and, seemingly, up for anything. I missed her when she disappeared from TV and never understood why. Now it’s come out that she was a raging alcoholic. Too bad. She didn’t let it kill her, though, living to the ripe old age of 87. I wonder if her death rattle was reminiscent of her old trademark. Creepy thought, but, as always, I am honest with my readers.

So, what have we learned today? Try not to die the same week as an iconic rock star? Death comes in groups of six rather than three? The Shamwow guy is virtually doomed? Or have we learned that death, whenever it comes and to whomever it comes, is always surprising. May you not surprise anyone for a long long time.

Cartoon Physics 101

2009-06-24T20:20:00.000-07:00

There’s a new show on one of the million or so cable channels that I came across recently that I want to discuss, but before I get to that I’d like to rant for a moment about the unfairness of life.

Like most people in Hollywood, I have been peddling original ideas for television programs and films for years with little success (okay, I’ve sold a few scripts and concepts in my day, but I’m probably batting beneath the Mendoza line). Then I notice, amid the plethora of reality shows currently available on cable, that one of the success stories is a series devoted entirely to crabbers, those hearty folk who capture crabs in great big nets. Crabbers! I will say no more on that subject.

Back to the one program I’d like to discuss. It’s called Man vs Cartoon and what it proposes to do is test out the “logic’ and “technology” of cartoons. The first episode covered the plausibility of Wile E. Coyote’s many Acme products employed to capture the Road Runner. You know: rocket skates, giant sledgehammers, etc. But they really only scratched the surface. Here’s what I want to know in subsequent episodes:

1) Is it possible to run off a cliff, realize you are in mid-air, then scramble back to safety?

2) Is it possible to run off a cliff, stop in mid-air, then have your feet, then your body and finally your head drop to the ground far below… and can you survive that fall?

3) Can one paint a tunnel on the side of a mountain and have a train rush out of it?

4) Can you shoot yourself in the face with a blunderbuss and only get soot on your face?

5) Can a rabbit ever talk? Or, for that matter, a duck or pig?

6) Why is it that mouse holes in your house are arched?

7) Can you completely disguise your true identity from the world simply by wearing glasses?

8) If a steam roller flattens a person or animal can they be simply peeled off the pavement and shaken out to regain their full dimension?

9) If you have no genitalia, can you forgo pants?

10) Can you actually pull a sign or another large prop from your ass?

There are plenty more things I’d like explained. I look forward to the many new episodes of Man vs Cartoon to come to educate me.

In the meantime, I am developing a new show, Shrimpers, all about the lusty men who fight the savage seas and overcome impossible odds to bring home shrimp. I’m thinking of casting Paris Hilton to be on board one of the shrimp boats. I think I’m catching on to the new wave of television programming. Wish me luck.

A Friend Indeed

2009-06-16T12:44:00.000-07:00

I have 389 friends. At least that's what Facebook calls them. Almost every single day someone requests friendship status from me. Often I have no connection to these people. I don't know them from Adam. I don't even know Adam - he's just a Facebook "friend." I don't know about you, but before Facebook I didn't throw the term "friend" around indiscriminately. My friends in real life are people I can depend on, people to whom I have extended myself or have done the same for me. None of my ersatz Facebook friends have done that.

Recently I sent out invitations to come see my play, Fuggedaboudit, which premiered in Los Angeles for eighteen performances in June. Of my 389 friends on Facebook, only 24 attended the show. I therefore have concluded that the appellation "friend" is inappropriate in most cases on Facebook. I want to demote most of my "friends" to "acquaintances" and some even to "enemy".

I wish Facebook was more sensitive to the issue, but lately they seem to be more concerned with giving their members the opportunity to come up with silly user names rather than keeping their own names. With these "handles" Facebook becomes the 21st Century equivalent of CB Radio and makes your "friends" even more anonymous. So, in light of Facebook's indifference to the bogus "friend" issue, I have determined to apply my own criteria for those who wish "friendship" with me.

If you want to be my friend and not just my "friend" there are certain requirements:

1. You must occasionally drive me to the airport or pick me up at the airport.

2. You must help me move.

3. You must let me keep my cats at your house when I go away or at least be willing to come to my place and feed them.

4. You must call me occasionally just to shoot the shit or gossip about people we both know.

5. You must laugh at my jokes and not just out of politeness.

6. You have to be honest with me, not flatter me, but truly think I'm talented, funny and an all-around great guy.

7. You must lend me money if I need it and then not bug me about paying you back.

8. If you are an attractive woman you must have sex with me. Okay I'm kidding about that one, but you must at least make me feel like I'm sexually attractive.

9. You have to be there for me in a crisis. Even if you think the crisis is all my fault.

10. You must not cock block me, even if you don't have a cock.

11. You must come to see my plays!

There are probably more items I could list but you get the general idea.

Wanna be my friend? I'm taking applications.

Fuggedaboudit

2009-06-04T22:45:00.000-07:00

I am taking a short leave of absence from my usual witty banter to ask all of you, my readers, to drop whatever you are doing and go immediately to The Hollywood Fight Club Theater in Hollywood, CA and demand tickets for my play, Fuggedaboudit, which runs until June 14. It is absolutely hilarious, riveting comedy the likes of which have been unseen on the stage in America since George S. Kaufman.

Hysterical audience members have been heard gasping for breath. One lady went into labor from laughing so hard and she wasn't even pregnant. A man who had sworn a vow of silence rose and shouted "Bravo", interrupting the actors. He then shouted several other things in Pig Latin and had to be forcibly removed. A blind man saw, a lame man walked and a Scientologist went immediately into psycho-therapy. It's just that good.

Some reviews:

"I laughed until I crapped myself"

- Crappy Pantslaugher Gazzette

"I think it was in English"

- Esperanto Times

"Where is my goat?"

- Farm Animal Daily

"I laughed. I cried"

- Bi-Polar Bugle

I could go on, but you have to see it for yourself.

And if the brilliant and witty dialogue, the gripping story and the unforgettable hi-jinks aren't enough to lure you to the theater, then this little fact might: I am actually IN the play. Well, not really. I'm in the curtain raiser before the play entitled appropriately enough, Curtain Raiser. In this play, I actually drop my pants. Right the fuck down. Really. And the moment is stunning. There was Olivier's Hamlet, Gielgud's Lear and now Bressack's Ass. A theatrical milestone.

So don't miss what will surely be the high point of the Los Angeles theater season. Or you can just stay home and watch I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here. It's your choice. Just ask yourself: What would Jesus do?

Torture Shmorture

2009-05-17T03:51:00.000-07:00

What is torture? Newspapers, cable news channels and the congress itself have been incessantly debating this question publicly and privately of late. Is water boarding torture? The answer is different to different people, but there are things that are unquestioningly torture, that no sane person can deny fulfill the dictionary definition:

1 a: anguish of body or mind : agony b: something that causes agony or pain
2: the infliction of intense pain (as from burning, crushing, or wounding) to punish, coerce, or afford sadistic pleasure
3: distortion or overrefinement of a meaning or an argument : straining

Here is my list of things that we can all agree are indeed torture:

1. Any attempt at comedy by Carson Daly
2. Every commercial for Extenz.
3. The Target sketch on Saturday Night Live
4. Glenn Beck
5. Talking on a cell phone in Laurel Canyon
6. One-ply toilet paper
7. Clothes shopping with a woman
8. Seeing other parent’s children in a school play
9. Filling out any application
10. Being put on hold by Time Warner Cable
11. Writing and directing a play in Los Angeles
12. Waiting for your luggage at the airport
13. Still waiting for your luggage at the airport
14. Trying to use a public urinal without standing in a puddle of urine
15. Wearing flip flops at a public urinal (see #14)
16. Non-waxed dental floss
17. Any attempt at serious commentary by Carson Daly
18. Prostate exams
19. Any attempt of a prostate exam by Carson Daly
20. Trying to come up with 20 examples of torture

Well, there you are. I could go on, but I don’t want to be guilty of fulfilling definition #3 above.

Please feel free to add items to The Torture List. Once the list is completed I will send it on to the CIA and, hopefully, there will then be a purpose in life for Carson Daly and an open slot on NBC at 1:30AM.

Pipe Dream

2009-05-07T23:08:00.000-07:00

I promised myself when I started this blog that I wouldn’t get too political, that readers who wanted that kind of stuff had plenty of places to go to read the blatherings on both the left and the right, but I finally determined that I could no longer remain silent in light of recent developments. Sometimes the situation demands that one take a side and that’s just what I’m going to do.

The subject at hand is the proposed legalization of marijuana and I am absolutely, positively against it. Marijuana is an abomination and should be stamped out, not legalized. And I have the evidence to support my position.

In the highly accurate educational film Reefer Madness one can witness the awful and horrible results of addiction to the evil weed: a giddy woman jumps out a window while under its spell and a man forces another man to play the piano faster and faster until it is painful to watch.

In Cheech and Chong movies these two criminals commit every kind of immoral and amoral act including having sex with prostitutes and driving a car filled with pot smoke, which is not only unhealthy but highly dangerous to other drivers and pedestrians. In Up in Smoke a policeman is turned into a lizard from smoking marijuana. Do you want your children turned into reptiles? I think not.

Dazed and Confused shows stoned teens wasting their lives away in an orgy of degradation, while Animal House graphically shows the effects of pot indulgence in college students. Do you want these people growing up to be your doctors, lawyers, presidents even? Well, maybe presidents.

The fact that the last three presidents have admitted to smoking pot should not influence us. After all, Clinton never inhaled, Bush only used it when he wasn’t drunk or high on cocaine and Obama is black.

Finally, there is the music: twisted insane lyrics combined with screeching guitars, booming drum tracks and electronic rhythms designed to disorient young impressionable listeners. Clearly, the devil’s music created for and by pot addicts. Nowhere near as good as the music of John Coltrane, Miles Davis and other great musical heroin addicts.

The argument has been made that the legalization of pot, kush, chronic or whatever you want to call it will stop the gangsters and drug cartels from exploiting the American hunger to get high. And this is probably true. But do you want Mexican criminals looking for other ways to make money, like white slavery or, even worse, taking jobs that American criminals should be doing?

Marijuana will most likely be legalized because it will be a boon to the ravaged economies of such states as California (whose governor also admits to taking a toke or two in his past) but, I ask you, at what price? Do you realize that the absence of criminals imprisoned for marijuana-related crimes will lower the prison population and seriously effect the Prison Lobby, whose guards pay enormous taxes. Do we want to put these people out of work? What are they going to do? Become greeters at Walmart?

Marijuana. The cowboys called it “loco weed.” They wouldn’t let their horses eat it. Maybe they knew something that today’s pot crazy liberals don’t. Maybe their horses knew something that the cowboys didn’t. But who are you going to listen to – horses??

And let’s not leave out hashish. Did you know that the word “assassin” is derived from the word “hashish?” So what, you might ask, to which I answer “so what indeed!” Do you want hashish-eating horses roaming the prairies assassinating cowboys? Do ya? I didn’t think so.

So that’s my argument. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Then pass it to me.

Alternative Hilarity

2009-05-02T21:54:00.000-07:00

My apologies to readers of this blog for my slacking off, but rehearsals for my play Fuggedaboudit (opening for a three week run at The Hollywood Fight Club Theater in Los Angeles on May 28) have begun and are literally taking up all my time. That’s no excuse, you’re thinking, I need my fix of humor and wisdom that I can only get from My Mind and Welcome To It. I feel for you, I really do, but there are several other sources available to you for your daily dose of feel good.

The Jerry Springer Show continues to amuse and inform. Whenever you wonder about the wisdom of sleeping with a fat toothless transvestite, Jerry is there to straighten you out, offering sage advice about “loving one another” worthy of the Sermon on the Mount.

Right wing talk radio keeps you constantly laughing with its comedy programming like Communist Moslem Plot starring Barack Hussein Obama while Fox News offers side-splitting commentary from such wacky comedians as Dick Morris and Karl Rove. Talk about wisdom and humor!

For positive reinforcement in these perilous times, you can always go to a baseball game. America’s Pastime. As a life-long New York Yankee fan I am touched by my home team’s sensitivity to the sad economic situation we find ourselves in, how they voluntarily cut some ticket prices by 50% so that you poor unfortunate fans who can not pay the $2650 per game price for an infield seat can now get them for $1325. And they say the Steinbrenners have no heart.

And thank God there is no news on weekends so that you can learn over and over again on MSNBC’s hilarious Lockup that jail is not a nice place. That show just keeps getting funnier!

For those looking for less seemly diversions, though New York’s 42nd Street might have been cleaned up, all the hookers and pimps and petty thieves that used to inhabit it have someplace to go – Craigslist. You can find them all there plying their trade as before, comfortably anonymous.

3D movies are back and bigger than ever as are the ticket prices. But isn’t it worth the $15 plus the $2 3D glasses rental fee to experience the remarkable sensation of almost being poked in the eye? Did I even have to ask?

Finally, there is the always exhilarating experience of a quick trip south of the border to our friendly neighbor, Mexico, where you may see women having carnal relations with farm animals, buy illegal drugs and bring back lovely souvenirs like blankets, puppets and deadly porcine viruses.

So don’t come begging to me for entertainment. As you can see, there is plenty elsewhere and if you’re really desperate you can come see Fuggedaboudit at The Hollywood Fight Club Theater beginning May 28. Bring someone you tolerate!

Dating Myself

2009-04-24T19:30:00.000-07:00

She was waiting for me in Starbuck’s. I knew it was her because she looked twenty years older than her photo on Match.com. and forty pounds heavier. I sat down opposite her and introduced myself, not wanting to be either an “age-ist” or a “look-ist”, but already not interested in her in any romantic way.

“You look just like your picture,” she lied.

“So do you,” I lied right back.

We started to chat about this and that and my eyes began to wander away from her, not looking at anything in particular, just not at her.

“Your emails are so funny,” she said, slurping down her Frappacino. “And I love your blog.”

I thanked her sincerely and wished myself far away.

“So what do you do?” I asked, not at all interested in the answer.

“Oh, I’m an executive at (big movie studio),” she answered. “In the development department.” She suddenly got younger and thinner.

“Really?” I said, brightening, and looking her directly in the eyes. I then proceeded to describe my most recent unsold screenplay until I noticed that her eyes were wandering, not looking at anything in particular, just not at me.

Strangely, as her disinterest grew so did her jowls and age until I was once again sharing the table with a woman who was far too old and fat for my taste. Being the gentleman I am, I surreptitiously glanced at my watch and looked up to notice her doing the same.

We rose as one and politely smiled at each other. I told her it was a pleasure meeting her. She returned the compliment.

“I’ll call you,” I lied.

“I’d like that very much,” she lied right back to me.

When I got back home I logged onto Match.com and changed my headline from “DESPERATE LOSER SEEKS OLDER FAT WOMAN” to “HAPPENIN’ DUDE SEEKS YOUNG GORGEOUS WOMAN WITH LOW STANDARDS.”

I then deducted five years from my age, twenty pounds from my weight and posted an even older photo.

Maybe that’ll help.

Lucky Me

2009-04-16T23:41:00.000-07:00

I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. The day started as most days usually do – uneventfully. I shoo-ed the cat off my office chair and checked my email. Much to my surprise I saw that I had a message from some “friend” I didn’t know who offered me the opportunity to see “hrony fram grils fkuing hroses”. And if that wasn’t enough it appeared that I had won a sweepstakes I hadn’t even entered! I couldn’t imagine how that was possible but further research revealed that my email address had been picked at random and all I had to do was wire the tax of $1995 and I would be sent $125,000. What a deal! What incredible luck.

Eager to uncover more good email news, I discovered that I had countless offers of work. Obviously my reputation was attracting the numerous would-be employers offering me tremendous earning potential without the requirement of my even leaving my home! Flattered, I was about to respond eagerly when my phone rang. My good luck was continuing, for a man with a friendly voice told me that I had earned a free vacation on Caribbean Cruise Lines without any obligation from me! Unreal, right?

But this was just the beginning. Later that morning when the mail arrived I received the greatest news of all. I had been “pre-approved” for a credit card with a limit “up to” $10,000! I was beside myself. Pre-approved!! How many poor slobs can boast that?

I called a friend of mine and told him of my good fortune. There was a silence on the other end of the phone.

“What does pre-approval mean?” he asked with a smirk. (No, I couldn’t see him smirking, but I did hear the smirk. Yes, you can hear a smirk.)

“It means I’m only one step away from approval,” I answered, smirking right back at him.

“What are you smirking about, you idiot?” he snapped, “A monkey is only one step away from being human.”

I hadn’t thought of that, but I had a ready answer: “Monkeys don’t get credit cards!”

“Neither do people with lousy FICA scores like you!” he responded, and I realized that he was winning this argument. Still, as is my wont, I persevered.
“I have great credit now that I won that sweepstakes I never entered!” I gloated. He told me to stop gloating and that the sweepstakes was a scam to get me to wire money to Nigeria and that I really hadn’t won anything.

After further discussion he tried to convince me that the work-at-home deal was also a scam and the free Caribbean cruise was a come-on. Trembling, I got off the phone, my spirit momentarily crushed. Then, I brightened, decided to drop my dour friend, sent the $1995 off to Nigeria, applied for a job stuffing envelopes, booked a cruise and spent a happy evening watching hrony fram grils fkuing hroses and thanking my lucky stars that unlike the “friend” who had sent me this message, I was not dyslexic.

If I Only Had A Gun

2009-04-14T22:10:00.000-07:00

TO MY READERS: I have taken the day off from blogging. Here is a little something from my sometime writing partner, Charlie Howell, in his capacity as my substitute blogger. I thought it was extremely funny, but then I have no taste.

20/20 did a special about gun violence called “If I Only Had a Gun…” For such a serious subject it seems like an odd title, since it makes you think of the song from The Wizard of Oz. So if they need a theme song for the rerun, here it is, sung to the tune of "If I Only Had a Brain."

IF I ONLY HAD A GUN

I’d get even with my brother,
And blow away my mother,
I’d have a lot of fun!
I would just be in heaven
With my A. K. forty-seven
If I only had a gun!

Why be gloomy? Why be somber?
I'll be a Unabomber;
I’ll really make ’em run!
I could go more berserker
Even be a postal worker
If I only had a gun!

I’d prefer
A massacre,
To brighten up my day;
Make the goddamn bastards pay.
I'll climb a tower
And fire away!

All my victims would be wishin’
I had no ammunition,
Or just a tazer’s stun;
It would be like a western
I’d be just like Charlton Heston
If I only had a gun!

And now the Student Version:

I’d sneak into all my classes
Annihilate their asses,
I bet they’d bleed a ton! (Cool!)
They could log onto Twitter
And discover why I’m bitter,
If I only had a gun!

Oh the girl that I am datin’
Is so exasperatin’
She calls me honey bun;
Check my page by computer
And you’ll find out when I’d shoot her
If I only had a gun!

How I pine
for Columbine,
I’d dress up all in black
After lunch time I’d attack;
I’d shoot the dean
Right in the back!

I’m a loner and I’m idle
And yes, I’m suicidal,
So kill me when I’m done;
But I know, though I’m rotten,
I would never be forgotten
If I only had a gun!

Big Finish:

I could be Dirty Harry
Al Capone in February
I’d unleash all my malice
Just like’63 in Dallas,
And I’ll make them all acknowledge Number One,
’Cause I’m sure to get a rod, a gat, some heat, a gun!

Thank you, Charlie, you sick fuck.

I, Gordius

2009-04-10T21:11:00.000-07:00

If I ruled the world…

How many times have you used or heard that expression? Plenty here, but this is the first time I’ve thought deeply about it. If there already is someone ruling the world, well, let’s face it – they’re not doing a very good job. So I reached into my deepest soul of souls, painstakingly researched and explored the options and, sadly, this is the best I could come up with:

1. If I ruled the world anyone who amassed a fortune of one billion dollars would have to give it back. They would receive a special card that would entitle them to anything they wanted: cars, houses, yachts, jewelry, etc. and their money would go back into the system for all to share. This would still be cheaper than letting the rich get richer. There are many objections to this plan that can be made, but I’m ruling the world and I say the hell with them!

2. You will be able to bite any piece of fruit you want to before buying it. There is no excuse for making you gamble every time you invest in a nectarine. The Fair Fruit Act will alleviate this problem and bring justice to the fruitless.

3. The entire middle east will be fenced off and transformed into an immense religion-themed amusement park: “Holyland.” Any terrorists who resist will have to wear giant heads of religious figures from Judeo-Christian and Moslem history and forced to pose with tourists. For the younger children there will be fun characters like Kaddafi Duck and Itzsak Rabbit and thrill rides such as the “Death To America” flume. We might even expand the theme a bit and have the “Pirates of The Sumali Coast” ride. Or maybe that’s for one of the other amusement parks I will create around the now trouble-free world.

4. Comedians will no longer be allowed to notice things. Have you ever noticed that all comedians really do is notice things and hate things? Have you ever noticed that? I hate that.

5. A purpose for sinuses will have to be discovered. Billions of dollars (from monies gleaned from satisfied billionaires the world over) will be poured into sinus research in an effort to discover what possible reason there is for something that you only notice when something goes wrong with it.

6. Male briefs with flies will no longer be produced. Nobody uses the flies because you would need to have three hands in order to pee. One hand to hold open the flap, another to hold open the inside flap and a third to hold and aim your dick. Tighty Whitey Fly Holes are hereby banned! They are as useless as… well, sinuses.

7. All politicians that wish to address the public in any way will be forced to wear lie detectors, videoed through heat-sensitive cameras and scanned with one of those high tech thingies that shows which part of your brain has all the blood flowing to it. While any politician or elected official speaks, their score will be shown on a screen no longer containing the logo of the station in the lower right corner or frequently interrupted by tiny versions of your least favorite actors scurrying across the bottom of the picture to promote a show you’ve never seen (another thing I plan to take care of during my reign.)

8. Some people think that taxes are stupid. Under my reign, things will be different – the stupid will be taxed! An individual’s level of taxation will be determined by a test. Taxpayers will have to show proficiency in reading, writing and every other thing that I am good at. The more stupid you are, the higher your tax. Now you might say that this favors the rich, because they can buy better educations. And you’d be right. Except we now have those billions from our billionaire harvesting plan and the profits from theme parks. College will be free for everyone and no school will be allowed to pay their professors any more than any other, evening the playing field. See how clever I am?

9. Speaking of taxes, how do you like this law: Businesses will be taxed based on the quality of their products and services. Any business producing unhealthy things like cigarettes, high-fructose corn syrup or Hagen Daz will pay higher taxes. I’m not so sure about this one. Let me have a smoke and think about it.

10. Finally I will impose a law that will change humanity more than any other. A law that will end greed, poverty, war, violence, disease, natural disasters and telemarketing. I just have to think of what it might be.

Post Boredom

2009-04-07T00:13:00.000-07:00

After I died things began to get complicated. I had assumed, in life, that there was no such thing as an afterlife, that it was just a fearful hope of all living humans that there would be some sort of continuation and that, if there was, it would be better than life itself. But in my wildest imagination I never figured that there would be this much paperwork.

After the application to Heaven (which included references, previous experience and, for what reason I can’t tell, a rectal exam) I was escorted to an arena-sized room where I sat at a desk with a test paper and a number 2 pencil. A harp was struck and the test began.

The first essay question was entitled “How I Spent My Life” and it took a really long time to finish. There weren’t any bathroom breaks or meal breaks because, well, you don’t need either once you’re dead (though I would have enjoyed a bagel or something). I was caught looking at my neighbor’s paper. He was an Arab and I couldn’t make heads or tails out of it, but the proctor separated our desks anyway and warned me that if he caught me again I would get an F. I didn’t dare ask what that would mean.

After several years and a lot of rewrites, I was finally finished and moved on to the next part of the “test”. This involved answering hundreds of questions that were way over my head. For example, one of the questions was:

“If a demon leaves hell at 6AM and travels north at the speed of light times the number of commandments you’ve broken and a thousand angels leave heaven at the same time, dance on the end of a pin for the amount of time you thought about people beside yourself, and head south traveling at the speed of thought, how long will it take for them to meet up and when they do should you be worried about your immortal soul?”

Naturally, I had no idea what the answer might be. And that was one of the easier questions. After time was up (and we only had a decade to complete the written part of the test; I won’t even tell you about the talent part, though there was a female contortionist that was very very talented)I complained to the angel in charge. Why was this test necessary, I demanded. Surely my life provided enough information for them to decide where I’d end up.

The angel shrugged. “It’s the new ‘No Soul Left Behind’ policy,” he answered. “Now it’s all about testing.”

I wanted to complain, which apparently did not bother the angel one bit. He led me to a bank of phones and told me to just pick one up and ask for Complaints. I did just that and was put on hold and forced to listen to religious music that wasn’t all that unpleasant except for the Jan and Paul Crouch duets, while a pleasant female recorded voice told me that the average waiting time was one hundred and thirty five years. Finally, after at least double that time, I reached the Complaint Department.

“Who’s this?” I asked.

“This is Bob,” came the answer, in a distinct Indian accent.

I told him he didn’t sound like a Bob. “Where are you?’ I asked.

He answered that he was in Montana.

“Where are you REALLY?” I asked.

There was a pause. “I am in Mumbai,” he admitted.

He told me that God had been outsourcing his calls to India for several thousands of years and that if I wanted to speak directly to God there was a very long waiting list. I asked if I could speak to his supervisor at least. He put me on hold and I waited, this time with no music at all. I found myself missing Paul and Jan. I waited for several centuries. Suddenly, someone tapped my shoulder. I turned and there was God, looking very put out.

I told God that I was sorry to bother him and I would have been quite satisfied just speaking to the supervisor. God admitted to me that there really wasn’t a supervisor and that the phone operator’s job was to make me give up and forget about my complaint.

“You mean like Microsoft?” I asked.

“Exactly,” said God.

But God was impressed by my patience, reminding me that it was a virtue, and decided to hear me out. I told him that I didn’t think the testing was fair, that it was culturally biased, particularly against agnostics or atheists. That made him chuckle and in a voice reminiscent of Dick Cheney he said “So?”

I was frankly shocked at his attitude. I suggested to him that this method of determining policy seemed a bit autocratic, even undemocratic. That really cracked up the old guy.

“Democratic?” he laughed, “What makes you think Heaven is a democracy? I am an all-powerful being with total authority. Everyone knows that!”

I was shocked. “You mean this is a dictatorship?”

He stopped laughing and looked at me solemnly. “No,” he said, “It’s a benevolent monarchy.”

I wasn’t going to debate the point with God. After all, he was in charge, but I thought maybe I could at least convince him that I deserved to avoid eternity in everlasting torment. He looked up my record and informed me that at worst I was average, except for the masturbation, which he was willing to overlook.

“I ended up ignoring that sin because it’s just too commonplace. And dead people like to watch.”

He determined that the best he could do for me was to have me relive my life and told me that this time I should study for the ultimate test more. I promised that I would indeed.

As I prepared to be reborn, he turned back to me and said “By the way, Hell isn’t that bad. The music is better, for one thing. So if you want to go to hell, I’m okay with that.”

“Is there still the eternity of pain and suffering?” I asked.

“Well, yeah, there is that, but at least you won’t have to go through your marriage again.”

I thought about it for a moment.

“Okay, it’s a deal,” I said and went off, gratefully, to Hell.

THE ANIMATION WRITERS' CLICHE TEST

2009-04-02T18:56:00.000-07:00

I pulled this out of an old file. I wrote this twenty years ago. Here it is with a few modern tweeks but basically the same. I wonder if it still holds true.

THE ANIMATION WRITER'S CLICHE TEST

To make the test as pleasant and as realistic as possible, we suggest the following guidelines:

1. Don't think too much.
2. Don't think at all.
3. Forget what thinking IS.

And now on with the test. Answer all questions honestly and feel free to copy down your neighbor's answers.

Question #1: Your HEROES have crash-landed their sleek modern AIRCRAFT in a dense jungle. Suddenly, they are surrounded by PRIMITIVE NATIVES who steal the aircraft. For what use?

a) They want the little bags of peanuts.
b) They want to see the in-flight movie
c) They want the air-sickness bags for hats
d) They want to worship it as a god

Question #2: Which of the following characters should you NEVER create for a cartoon show:

a) an optimistic character
b) a character who eats too much
c) a character who invents weird gadgets
d) an interesting character

Question #3: It's your MAIN CHARACTER'S birthday, but all of his/her friends are avoiding him/her. Why?

Question #4: You're doing a mystery show in which our main characters are holed up in a haunted house that is very much desired by a GREEDY LAND DEVELOPER. At the end of the episode when the "ghost" is unmasked, it is actually....

a) The character you planted for no other reason
b) The Greedy Land Developer
c) A total surprise
d) Dick Cheney

Question #5: Match the blanks in Column A with the correct phrase in Column B:
A ------------------------------------------ B
A_________ is discovered.------------- frozen Viking
A ________ is discovered.-------------- sad robot
A ________ is discovered.-------------- treasure
A ________ is discovered.------------- dinosaur Egg
An _______ is discovered.-------------- magic amulet
A ________ is discovered.------------ lost continent
A ________ is discovered.------------ Egyptian mummy
A ________ is discovered.------------ homesick alien
An _______ is discovered.---------- dimensional warp
A ________ is discovered.---------- talking animal
A ________ is discovered.--------- Abominable Snowman
An _______ is discovered.--------- magic lamp/genii

Question #6: A smash hit movie known for its irreverent comedy, satire and vivid action scenes has been adapted for animation. What won't the writers be asked to do:

a) irreverent comedy
b) satire
c) vivid action scenes
d) a second season
e) all of the above

Question #7: Your heroes have entered an Egyptian tomb lined with mummies. Statistically, which has the greater chance of happening:

a) The mummies come to life and chase them
b) You will die someday

Question #8: True or False: It is possible to write the climactic action sequence of a script using only the lines "Yikes!", "ARGGGHHHH!!!" and "Let's get out of here!"

Question #9: You've been told the new show you've been assigned to is "unlike any other show. We want only new, fresh original ideas." Which of the following can you be sure of:

a) the show will be fresh
b) the show will be original
c) by the fifth episode there will be a body switching story

Question #10: What should NEVER happen at the end of an episode?

a) everyone turns TO CAMERA and laughs at something not even remotely funny
b) everyone turns to FIZZBIT, THE ROBOT and laughs at something not even remotely funny
c) the viewing audience turns toward the TV and laughs at something REALLY funny

Stupid Human Tricks

2009-03-29T18:35:00.000-07:00

"Stupid is as stupid does."

- Forrest Gump

The secret to success came to me in a revelatory vision. Much like Ezekiel (who saw wheels within wheels)I have seen the inner workings of the universe and discovered the unifying principle behind success. The secret is manifested in one word: stupidity. Yes, that’s right – stupidity. (If you’re confused you’re already half way there!)

Think about it. Is your boss an idiot? Is your boss’s boss an even bigger idiot? You know it’s true. How then did this dullness of intellect help them achieve success? Listen and learn:

Tennessee Williams was once asked to define happiness. He thought for a moment, then answered “Insensitivity, I guess.” He was dead right. How can one be happy in a world in which there is so much suffering? Not caring, of course.

So, you might ask, how is this related to stupidity? First of all, not caring leads to not learning which leads to not knowing which leads inevitably to stupidity. So the first step in achieving ultimate stupidity is to become indifferent to the ills of the world and, by extension, the pain of those around you.

Once you have reached this level it becomes easy to stab a co-worker in the back or betray a friend and concentrate on rising in your chosen field.

In order to rise thusly it is imperative that you always agree with the opinions of those above you. Only the sublimely stupid are capable of such an attitude. The thinking person might offer alternative ideas or even reject ideas outright and thus retard or even obliterate any chance they might have at promotion.

Don’t worry about becoming unpopular if you follow this system. Only smart people will care or even notice and they generally have no power. And if you want to be surrounded by similarly stupid people you can go to monster truck races or join the Republican Party.

An added advantage to stupidity is that it increases greatly your entertainment options. Beside the above-mentioned monster truck rallies there is daytime television, reality television and Fox News, all designed with you in mind. Movies for the incredibly stupid abound. Let the poor intellectual shlubs trickle into tiny art houses and read those subtitles. The stupid have giant screens and arena seating in which to watch incredibly stupid films filled with car crashes, explosions and, to the non-stupid, glaringly obvious plot holes. As for live theater, you won’t even realize it exists, therefore saving you money and time, which you can spend not going to museums, opera, ballet and other snobby smart people things.

Success in personal relationships can also be yours if you are sufficiently dim-witted since your requirements are therefore limited. Your paramour need not be witty, knowledgeable, educated or even conscious since you yourself have none of those qualities and wouldn’t appreciate them anyway.

Stupidity also invests its possessor with spiritual strength. The stupid can willingly suspend disbelief and buy into any religious dogma without question or doubt in the full knowledge that any sin you commit against your fellow man will be expunged and you will be able to enter paradise or that the mother ship will return you to Zeton or that you will be reincarnated as a duck (depending on which religious stupidity you subscribe to).

Consider these other benefits of stupidity:

You will sleep better (no pesky thoughts and worries to keep you awake), enjoy meals more (no guilt about where red meat comes from, no knowledge of nutrition or toxicity in your food) enjoy a better sex life (no fear of or knowledge of STDs or the facts of conception)and, finally, have more room in your home without the presence of books and the bulky shelves that book owners require.

So, my readers, in conclusion, I urge you to become smart enough to be stupid. It’s not too late. Stupidity is within your grasp. I’m going to take the plunge myself. The first stupid thing I’m going to do is post this article. I pray to the Goat Goddess Bonokocalinikigama that you will be stupid enough to take it to heart. STUPIDITY RULES!!

Things What I Know Are True

2009-03-26T15:27:00.000-07:00

In this uncertain universe filled with mystery, where life itself is a mystery, it’s good to hold on to the few certainties that exist. I’ve been taking inventory of these certainties and thought that I would share some of them with you to help you navigate the rocky shoals of life, to be a light in the void, to fill your mind with hope that if these things are true then maybe there is some sense to it all.

There is no possible purpose for the chicken to have crossed the road. It was simply a random act and might have even happened if the chicken had been decapitated.

The answer to “Does this make me look fat?” is NEVER “Yes.”

Good things happen fast, bad things take a long time. If you’re waiting a while for an answer, the answer is “No.”

You may love your cat or dog, but they will eat you if you die at home and they have no other food.

Your woman will eventually hate you or even leave you because you possess the same qualities you possessed when she was first attracted to you. In other words, being a nonconformist artist/rebel is attractive at 25, not so much at 55.

In Hollywood you know you are going to get fucked. The only thing you are ever negotiating is the amount of lubricant.

In any group of people there will be at least one asshole. Sometimes it’s you.

You may love your children, but they will eat you if you die at home and they have no other food.

You should have bought the other model.

The French think they’re better than you.

The French ARE better than you.

Curb Your Enthusiasm is funny.

Anyone who acts like anyone in Curb Your Enthusiasm in real life is NOT funny.

Dane Cook is not funny.

William Shatner does not wear a toupee. That’s a Tribble.

Unpaid bills will not just go away or be paid by the bill fairy.

Dishes do not get into the dishwasher unless you put them there.

When no one is looking, you drink out of the bottle or carton while standing in front of the fridge with the door open. If you’re not female.

Clothes dryers eat socks.

You hardly ever use your food processor.

If you don’t leave a comedy club at midnight when almost everyone else leaves, you will never be able to.

No matter how religious you are you don’t really believe the Adam and Eve story. If you do, tell me where the cavemen came from.

You may have politically conservative friends, but they will eat you if you die and they have no other food. “Soylent Green is Liberals!”

The difference between love and sex is that after sex you need a towel.

You aren’t as attractive as you used to be.

And finally: Gordon Bressack is under-appreciated and underpaid.

More truisms to come in the near future. Feel free to suggest your own.

TO MY NEW READERS:

Please go back and read the older posts before they whither on the vine. Thanks to all my readers.

The Gay White Way

2009-03-24T19:49:00.000-07:00

I am a member of a silent majority: straight men who like Broadway musicals. There are a lot of us, but to anyone viewing the yearly gay rally known as The Tony Awards, it certainly wouldn’t seem so. I can’t imagine a bunch of beer-guzzling fat guys gathering in someone’s converted basement to watch Tommy Tune introduce Liza Minelli singing a duet with Harvey Fierstein, but I would be there. I am unashamedly a fan of Broadway.

I can blame my mother for that. Every year for my birthday I would get to see a Broadway play, get the cast album, and have an ice cream sundae afterward at the restaurant at the Astor Hotel on Times Square. The yearly ritual allowed me to see the original casts of such plays as Hello Dolly, West Side Story, My Fair Lady, By Bye Birdie and so many others. I still have the cast albums to those, as well as Lucille Ball in Wildcat singing “Hey Look Me Over.”

I saw many a flop as well. One night wonders such as Café Crown and others too painful to remember. (I don’t have to remember them; all that’s required is a visit to Joe Allen’s, a famous actor’s bar and restaurant on West 46th street that features a roomful of posters of ONLY Broadway flops.)

A few years ago I happened to meet a married couple. She was a writer and her much older husband had also been a writer… of musicals. He did have a show that opened and closed on Broadway after not many performances. Very obscure. He was sure I had never heard of it. I asked the name and he told me Baker Street, a musical based on Sherlock Holmes. I immediately started singing “A Married Man,” one of the more memorable songs from the show. He was shocked and flattered. I’m sure he thought I was gay.

The recent remounting of the classic Broadway musical West Side Story made me think once again about a theory I have about what makes a good musical. Besides story, performance, great songs, eye-filling spectacle and brilliant staging it is the seamlessness of the songs, where they come in the show and how they move the story and portray emotions that would seem awkward in spoken dialogue that can turn a good musical into a great musical. The right song at the right time.

For example, in West Side Story, do you remember the scene in the candy store where Tony leaves the old proprietor of the store and goes out into the night, leading to the wonderful and perfectly placed song “Tonight”? Well, what if Sondheim and Bernstein had not been the geniuses they were? We might have been left with a scene wherein Tony rushes out to meet Maria and the proprietor turns to the audience and sings the haunting lament “I’m An Old Man In A Candy Store”. (I challenge any of my readers to write that song. Here, I’ll get you started:

I’m an old man in a candy store
I used to be young
But I’m not anymore…

Or what about the scene in My Fair Lady where Freddy, hopelessly infatuated with Eliza, paces outside Henry Higgins’ home singing “The Street Where You Live”? In lesser hands we might have ended up with a song from the point of view of Higgins: “Why The Devil Is That Chap Outside Singing So Loudly?”

I humbly request readers to offer their suggestions for songs that were never included in the most famous musicals. I will pick the winner and award a prize to be determined later. The more entries, the better the prize.

Finally, one point about Broadway musicals I’d like to make. Once upon a time, in the days of Irving Berlin, George Gershwin and Cole Porter, the music of Broadway was the popular music of its time. No longer. Broadway musicals are largely their own brand of music. Some shows like Rent, Spring Awakening, In The Heights try to bridge the gap between pop music and Broadway-style songs, but one would be hard pressed to point to any crossover hits from Broadway to the pop charts in recent years. Of course we have the recent adaptations of popular music to Broadway such as Mama Mia! and the musicals based on the music of Billy Joel and The Four Seasons, but Broadway-style music is still basically an island unto itself.

I applaud Elton John’s presence in the world of Broadway musicals, but isn’t it odd that this creator of so many pop hits, though he has authored some great musicals (The Lion King, Billy Elliot) has yet to break into the pop charts with songs from his shows? (Okay, okay, some of the music from TLK has had some success but certainly not the success of Elton’s own recordings.)

So there you are. I guess I proved my fanhood of Broadway musicals. But just in case you think I’m gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that) I’d like to point out that I’m also a fan of professional wrestling, a real man’s sport… where large sweaty half-naked men grapple… um… Okay, I hate men’s figure skating! But, hey, wouldn’t women’s figure skating be far better performed in the nude? I’d pay to see the musical Hustler On Ice. Of course, the songs would have to be in just the right place…

Identity Theft

2009-03-23T18:34:00.000-07:00

I was walking down the street the other night minding my own business when this guy jumps out at me from a dark alley. I can see immediately that he has a gun and he looks desperate enough to use it.

“I don’t have any money,” I stammer. “I don’t want your money,” he growls, “I want your identity.” My identity? I was a little confused. I asked him what he wanted with my identity. He brandished the gun, telling me to just shut up and hand it over.

“Look,” I said, “You can have it, but it’s not much of an identity. It’s used, for one thing, and I’m sure you can steal a much better identity.” But he was not convinced. I stood there, literally under the gun, and told him all about my identity: an ex-wife who nags me about money all the time, children who nag me about money all the time, an agent whom I nag for money all the time. Not to mention the growing mountain of debt I had accumulated, the many collection agencies that make every incoming phone call an exercise in suspense and terror and my lack of a sex life. Still, he wanted it. So I gave it to him.

At first I was relieved to be rid of it. I passed someone I owed money to on the street and they walked right by me without a hint of recognition. The date for my scheduled colonoscopy came and went and I remember thinking I hope the thief enjoyed it. I didn’t pay my taxes, my rent, my credit card bill, nothing. I was free!

Of course, I was living on the street. It’s very hard to establish residency without an identity. One time a cop asked me for my ID and I told him it had been stolen. He thought I was being evasive and booked me at the station house for some charge or another. They ran my fingerprints and no identity came up so they eventually let me go. I looked at the paper work and saw that they had named me John Doe. They had given me an identity without even asking for my permission! I passed some other poor unfortunate homeless fellow on the street and asked him if he had an identity. “No,” he answered, “Who needs ‘em?” But when I offered him my new identity, he jumped at the opportunity. The last I saw of him he was dancing in the street singing “I Gotta Be Me.”

Even a guy with no identity needs money, though. I became desperate. I would beg for money, grovel for food, plead for sustenance, but I was a nobody, ignored by the world. I began to miss having an identity, even one as lowly as my original one. Even John Doe’s. I missed the minutiae of life: the junk mail, the telemarketers shouting in my ear about Carnival Cruise Lines, the nod of recognition from the local gas station attendant who sells cheap cigarettes to me and I don't even need to tell him what brand and finally, I missed having no one to bitch to or about. I missed having a life. Even a crummy one. A man with no identity has no life, I ultimately realized. And that means an eternity of nothingness. Something, I thought, is always better than nothing, isn't it? I determined that if I was to survive at all, I needed an identity, any identity. With what little money I could steal from tip jars at Starbucks, I was able eventually to buy a gun. And I was prepared to use it.

I stood in the shadows of the dark alley. A man came by, whistling a happy tune. I jumped out and accosted him, brandishing my weapon.

“I don’t have any money!” He looked scared. “I don’t want your money,” I growled, “I want your identity.” He looked relieved, almost eager to part with his identity. I took it and ran. I looked back and saw him dancing in the street, beside himself with a joy that I knew only too well would soon fade.

And that’s how I became Gordon Bressack. That was a while ago. These days you can find me almost any night walking in the city past dark alleys with my identity hanging out.

A Blogger's Doubts

2009-03-21T23:53:00.000-07:00

I've been blogging for just about a week now. It's the closest thing to a diary I've ever kept and, despite my usual lolly-gagging, I've managed to post almost daily. I've also checked around the blogosphere to see how I stack up and the result is a feeling of almost total inadequacy. All the other bloggers have prettier sites, more pictures, exciting visuals, sounds, videos, bells, whistles, foreign languages, pretty girls. All I have is words... and a counter. I was able to figure out how to do that much. I feel like the proverbial shmuck with an Underwood (or in this case, keyboard).

As far as content goes, I was feeling pretty good about the outpourings of my mind. The Jimmy Failin' thing was so clever, I thought. Then a Google search revealed that there were over a dozen such puns that preceded mine. At least I'm funny, I thought, then I checked out Steve Rudnick and Leo Benvenuti's site, Playhouse 3:31 (see link to the right) and they basically leave me in the dust. Funny funny videos and their individual blogs are clever and well written. I hate them both passionately.

And now I've come to the sobering reality that what I must do... is stop reading everyone else's blogs. And I shouldn't write any reviews because somewhere in this cyberworld of infinite bloggery someone is saying the same thing in almost the same way. I can't write about politics because of the same phenomenon.

Therefore, I'm stuck with myself. I can write about me and hope that no one else is. I recall what a writer acquaintance of mine from years back, Peter Lake, once told me. He was a journalist who had infiltrated the American Nazi Party and was on their hit list, was the person who was the inspiration for the Richard Dreyfuss character in Jaws and had had numerous other exciting adventures in his life. He went to a movie studio to pitch his own life story and was told "Sorry, we're already doing that." I'm sure the story must be an exaggeration. I hope it is. I'm pretty sure I own the rights to my own mind, but I may be wrong.

But, of course, I'm not that interesting. You wouldn't want to know every excruciating detail of my not-very-glamorous life. I don't want to know yours so I'm fairly certain that the feeling is mutual. Therefore, I am forced to write about only the extraordinary aspects of me, of my mind. Not much fodder there. I'm pretty ordinary.

Wait! What am I talking about? I'm not ordinary. I'm the only one of me there is. I have some awards for writing. People have actually given me money for what's in my mind, which proves one of two things - either they're out of their minds or there's some value to what's in mine. So what if I'm not the first one to use a joke? That never stopped Carlos Mencia. (Though I wish something would.) So what if Rudnick and Benvenuti are funny? I like funny! I still hate them passionately... but in a good way.

Finally, I realize that what I possess, what I have that is rare and valuable is my integrity. And it's available for purchase or lease at reasonable recession prices! What I'm talking about is my honesty. I am really opening up here, for what reason I don't know, but I think it's because in the fluctuation between my doubts and my pride, between my sincerity and my cynicism, there is a commonality. I think it's important that folks are exposed to a creative mind's unfiltered outpourings so they can see themselves to some degree and get an occasional laugh. To see what sort of a mind produces the comedy I write, though I never promised this blog would be funny. It's only as funny as I am. And sometimes I don't feel that fucking funny. But what I did promise was my mind and that you, the reader, were welcome. And you are. Just please wipe your shoes on the matt before you come in.

Stop Me If You've Heard This One

2009-03-20T23:07:00.001-07:00

Okay, I’m going to tell you a joke now. There’s a reason I’m telling this particular joke, but I’ll withhold that until after. Now remember, jokes really should be heard, not read, but here goes:

A guy with a giant orange head walks into a bar, sits down at the bar and orders a drink. The bartender says to him “Look, I can’t help but notice that your head is a giant orange.” The guy nods his giant orange head, ruefully, “Yeah, THAT’S a story.”

The bartender presses him for the details and the guy tells him “I was walking along the beach one day and I stub my toe on something. I look down and there’s a bottle in the sand. I pick it up, rub it off and there’s a puff of smoke and this genie appears. He tells me I have three wishes. So I think for half a second and say “I wish I had a million dollars.” Another puff of smoke and the genie’s gone and there’s this box lying there. I open it and there’s a million dollars in cash. I take the money and check into a big fancy hotel.

I’m all alone in the lavish suite and I’m feeling kinda lonely so I pull out the bottle and give it a rub and the genie’s back. I tell him “I wish I can have sex with every Playmate from the last twelve months.” Genie says “Your wish is my command” and disappears in a puff of smoke. A second later there’s a knock on my door. I open it and who do you think is there? Hugh Hefner! And he tells me he’s having a party next door and invites me. I go over there and I end up having sex with every Playmate from –“

“Okay, Okay,” interrupts the bartender, “but how did you end up with a giant orange head?” The guy sighs, “Well here’s where I MAY have made a little mistake. For my third wish I wished I had a giant orange head.”

That’s the joke. Half of you are rereading the joke to see why I even dare to call it a joke. “ Where’s the joke?” you are thinking. “This is just stupid.” “Why would a guy wish his head was a giant orange” and other such arguments. The other half of you are still holding your sides to keep them from splitting. It’s one of the best jokes you’ve ever heard.

Why the dichotomy? What’s the difference between these two groups? Is one half of my readership retarded (or comedically challenged)? Is the other half just stupid? Am I stupid? What’s the meaning of life? Sorry, I just figured as long as I’m asking questions…

I first heard this joke sitting around a table in an Italian restaurant in Studio City with several people all in the comedy business including Maurice La Marche (impressionist, voice of The Brain among many others), Billy West (voice of Stimpy and numerous others), John DiMaggio (most well known as the voice of Bender on Futurama) and Eddie Gorodetsky (well-known and prodigious comedy/sit com writer). Eddie told the joke and we all fell off our chairs laughing. I’m sure all the others felt as I did: I couldn’t wait to tell it to someone else. And I did just that as soon as I could. I told it to a fellow animation writer and he laughed hysterically so I told it to a comedian friend and he was beside himself. Then I told it to my wife. She stared at me, waiting for the rest of the joke. I told her the joke was over. She nodded indulgently. “I didn’t get it.” I see, I answered. (We’re divorced now.)

The next three people had the same dumbfounded reaction. Then I had three successes in a row and a pattern began to develop. I realized that only those who knew about the construction of a joke, were practiced at telling jokes or were actual comedy writers got the joke. Because it’s a joke about telling jokes, you see... I know you're out there... (SFX: CRICKETS CHIRPING)

One comedy writer I spoke to, Bruce Kirschbaum (writer on many shows including Seinfeld), actually went so far as to dissect the joke and determined that the laugh depended on the selling of the penultimate line: “Here’s where I MAY have made a little mistake…” and, of course, he’s right. You have to sell that line to set up the non-joke that is the punchline, or the non-punchline that is the joke.

For those who have been reading this, shaking their heads and thinking to themselves “What joke? What fuckin’ joke??” let me finally explain: The Giant Orange Head Joke is funny because you are expecting some clever word play, some reversal, in other words some JOKE, but instead you get the simplest possible non-clever explanation. The balloon has been blowing up, getting bigger and bigger, about to burst and then... this little tiny prick bursts it. Gold. Comedy Gold. But not for everyone. Maybe just for fans of little tiny pricks.

Anyway, I thought I’d share this with you. You might want to take the chance at telling it yourself, but remember, you won’t get laughs from everyone and sometimes from no one, so I suggest you tell it to as small a group as possible. I’d like to know how you fare, to see if your percent of success equals my own. A tip: There is some discrepancy in the telling: some folks prefer "giant orange head" for the punchline while others go for the head being a "giant orange." I haven't made my mind up about which works better.

Drop me a note and tell me how you do or add a comment here and share your results with the literally dozens of people who might read this blog (I flatter myself. I added the counter yesterday and keep checking back to see if anyone’s reading this so no matter what number the counter is up to half of it is me checking.)

Finally, I can’t leave those of you who did not receive the gift of laughter from this posting in the lurch. I will end with my sure fire, 100 percent laugh-getter:

This guy goes to the doctor. The doctor says to him “You’re going to have to stop masturbating.” The guy asks “WHY???” The Doctor tells him “Because I’m trying to examine you!”

Thank you. Drive carefully. I’m here all week.

Why is Jimmy Failin'?

2009-03-17T11:11:00.000-07:00

I said I wasn't going to do this. I thought I had to give Jimmy Fallon a while to get his act together. After all, Conan was pretty raw when he started. I remember thinking his version of Late Night reminded me of a public access show at first. But eventually, Conan relaxed, or rather didn't relax and his constant comic inventiveness and peculiar take on things, on performance and, most of all, on what brand of comedy he was selling made his show HIS show. Letterman too. At first, Dave was awkward with people, not really comfortable sitting back and letting others talk. But Dave's personality eventually crystallized and we began to look forward to not only the written bits but to Dave's reactions, to his own peculiarities. Can you imagine Joaquin Phoenix on any other show? Dave's take on the whole thing made it great television and you could tell that he knew, despite how unfortunate were the circumstances that might have caused Joaquin to disassociate himself from reality on network television, that this was great television. Letterman's personality, like it or not, is what makes his show HIS show. See what I'm getting at?

Jimmy Fallon doesn't know who he is yet. That's understandable and we should allow him the time to find his own voice, but, dammit. Jimmy, you're supposed to know what funny is. Stop falling back on lame routines that go on and on long after we've gotten the lame joke. Let us know what YOU think about things. What's YOUR take? More on this a bit later. First, let's talk about some other hosts.

Craig Ferguson, who must be way up in the ratings now that he's not opposite Conan, seemed to have been an odd choice to host a late night talk show. Known only for his dim-witted boss on The Drew Carey Show, who knew? But Craig has grown into an entertaining host. The written material on The Late Late Show is a bit lame, but Craig is an engaging and witty host and his personality is the only reason to tune in. Plus he looks like he's having a great time. Because he's not really a standup comic, his "jokes" aren't really jokes, but witty comments. His intelligence is obvious as is his own take on current events and on what a talk show should be.

Jimmy Kimmel was already a successful standup when his show hit the air. Almost totally unsupported by ABC, Kimmel was not getting the A Listers in his first few seasons and was literally forced to be inventive to survive. Sure, he took a few pages out of Letterman's book (but, of course, Dave took many a page from Johnny Carson and Steve Allen) but by making stars of his own family and employees, he created an environment and his show became HIS show.

Jay Leno, who will soon be doing his show in prime time, was an awful host when he took over The Tonight Show. He seemed ill at ease in any situation that wasn't just him telling jokes. His monologue is still the main reason to watch the show. Jay doesn't give a lot away about who he is in very telling ways. We know he like cars, fatty foods. has been married to the same woman for years and has a ready wit. Still his show seems generic, partly because Jay tries to be nice to everyone. Unlike Letterman, Leno is not a curmudgeon, but with that equanimity we lose the possibility of the hard-hitting question, the acerbic comment. Jay is like peanut butter. Everybody likes it, but it's not a meal. Still, for what it's worth, Jay Leno is entertaining and he's made The Tonight Show into his own show, though never in the same league as his predecessor.

Now we come to Carson Faily, I mean Carson Daly. What can I say about Carson? How about this: Jimmy, watch Carson Daly. DON'T BE LIKE THAT!! Because you are in danger of being just as bland, as inconsequential as this guy, whose presence on TV remains baffling. Jimmy, you're better than that. At least I thought you were.

So, Jimmy Fallon, I don't expect you to be John Stewart or Bill Maher, both funny, wicked smart hosts, either of whom should have your job. But I do expect you to be funny. I want to know what YOU think is funny. Lorne Michaels must have confidence in your sense of humor and strength of personality and he was right about Conan, once seen as a ridiculous choice. But if you continue on as you have been, your show will become, if it hasn't already, completely innocuous. Let's see some chances taken. Let's see some edge. Let's at least see a person in that suit they make you wear.

More Trouble (Than I'm Worth)

2009-03-16T00:04:00.000-07:00

I have been overwhelmed with the response my previous post has generated. Over three emails demanding more of the same. More, they say, give us more examples of what an asshole you are. The sad part is that it is an all too easy task.

In my last blog posting I gave numerous examples of how my troublemaking was not really troublemaking at all. But I must admit that sometimes I make trouble just to make trouble. Of course, I have a deeper purpose: to point out the idiocy of life to the actual idiots who are incapable of understanding both their own idiocy and why on earth I would want to point it out to them.

For example, when I was on staff at Hanna Barbera Studios it was decided that all staff writers had to sign a new contract. I received the contract and informed the legal department that I could not sign the document as written. An immediate top level meeting was called and I attended. The company’s lawyer asked me what problem I had with the contract. I answered that the rights clause contained the language that stipulated Hanna Barbera would own everything I wrote while employed in “perpetuity throughout the universe.” And what problem did I have with that, the man in the three-piece suit asked from behind his oversized oak desk. I answered that I wanted the language changed from “universe” to “solar system.” No one in the room even smiled. That’s impossible, I was told. “That clause is boilerplate!” But I was undaunted. My fallback position was “galaxy.” Again, without a hint of humor, I was told that what I was asking for was a deal-breaker. I thought for a moment. “Are you willing to change one word?” I asked, adding that it wasn’t even a noun or verb, it was a demonstrative pronoun. They agreed to hear me out and ultimately, in all seriousness, acceded to my request. And that is why, of all the writers then employed at Hanna Barbera, mine was the only contract that read that Hanna Barbera would own everything I wrote in “perpetuity throughout THIS universe.”

So, you see, you might think that what I did was unnecessary and obnoxious, but when they one day discover the existence of an alternate universe, I will own outright all the “Smurfs,” “Snorks,” “Scoobies,” “Pound Puppies” and “Yogis” I wrote. So there!

I was fired six months later.

Trouble Is My MIddle Name

2009-03-15T11:53:00.000-07:00

I’m a troublemaker. No doubt about it. I never accept the standard answers, have a problem with authority and won’t allow myself to be mistreated by employers, strangers or women. I ask the questions no one would dare to ask for fear of being considered “trouble” and I’m not afraid to voice my opinion even when that opinion is unpopular. All of these traits make me practically unhireable, of course. At least that’s the case in television where we are constantly reminded that it is a collaborative business, but I suspect the word refers to those who collaborated with the Nazis when they marched into town (“Ann Frank is in the attic!”)rather than a cooperative way of working creatively.

There’s a scene in “Broadcast News” when Holly Hunter’s boss at the Washington news bureau says to her ”It must feel good to think you’re the smartest one in the room” to which she answers sadly “No, it feels awful.” I think any writer can relate to that. Often we are called into meetings where all the problems the executives have with a project are trotted out and we are asked to solve them. Why? Because we’re the smartest ones in the room. Only we’re treated like village idiots because we actually care about what we do. And the writer who points out the contradictions and inconsistencies that the execs present is labeled as a troublemaker so we often just keep our mouths shut and try to work it out. Often. But not always. For me, probably less than others. Why? I wish I knew. It’s part of what makes me a good writer, I guess. I can no more accept idiocy as dogma than I can accept handing in a draft I know to be bad. I work hard to make it good. I’m not a troublemaker, I’m a troubletaker!

I’m an animation writer primarily and, therefore, do not get the same pay or the residuals that live action writers get. I don’t know how many people know this, but the writers of such animated blockbusters as “Shrek” or “Toy Story” or “Madagascar” or “Kung Fu Panda” or even this year’s Oscar winner “Wall E” do not receive any residuals for their work. For over twenty years I have been fighting for animation writers to attain the same level of respect and remuneration as our live action counterparts with little or no success. We did manage to get prime time shows such as “The Simpsons” and “Family Guy” covered by the WGA, but those shows are the rare exceptions. Of course, even that tiny little gain would not have been possible without the WGA Animation Writers Caucus making noise, drawing attention, speaking up. Again and again. Troublemakers. And even among the troublemakers I am considered the troublemaker. When I was the recipient of the first ever WGA Animation Writing Award, in my acceptance speech I likened the award to “receiving an award for most teeth in the trailer park.” Okay, it’s fair to say I can be pretty obnoxious, but so too was the kid who pointed out that the emperor had no clothes.

But my irascible nature is not confined to my work. Apparently, I am compelled to point out the glaringly obvious truths that no one else dare mention. For example, I attended a screening of a documentary about a sex change clinic. The doctor who performed these operations was herself a post-operative transsexual. In the course of the documentary it became clear that this doctor was now in a relationship with a woman, was living a lesbian lifestyle. During the Q&A after the screening, I rose and asked the doctor why it was that she was now with a woman and she answered that her lover was all about male energy and that “it’s all about your energy and not about your genitalia.” So I then asked “if that’s true, why did you cut your dick off?” The audience clucked their tongues and shook their heads, but I know, obnoxious as the question was, that every member of the audience was silently asking it. Should I have just kept my mouth shut? Probably. Only I can’t. I couldn’t leave without knowing. By the way, the answer was not forthcoming.

Because of my nature life has often been difficult for me. I’ve lost jobs, friends, lovers. On the job I’ve sometimes had contentious relationships with those above me, but rarely with those below me in rank. I never lie. I never falsely compliment. I never criticize unfairly. I am actually often quite diplomatic, though it would not seem so from what I’ve stated above. And, most importantly, I’m very good at what I do. I say important, but that’s just to me. In the world of television it is the lowest priority of all, getting along being the highest.

In “Harvey” Elwood P. Dowd, played by Jimmy Stewart in the movie, relates the advice his mother once gave him: “Elwood, she would say, she always called me Elwood, in this life you can be oh so clever or oh so pleasant. Well for years I was clever. I recommend pleasant.” Sounds like good advice, but of course, Elwood was dead drunk and was probably on his pleasant little way to cirrhosis, invisible rabbit or not. Maybe if I spend my life in a drunken stupor I can attain that same level of peace, but as long as I am conscious and concerned I keep on fighting the good fight for truth, justice and residuals.

The Glass Teat

2009-03-14T22:10:00.000-07:00

I’m getting sick of television. All it does is show me women I can’t have, cars I can’t have, a lifestyle I don’t want and things that will get me fat. Because of TV, I’m scared the world’s economy is about to collapse and I might soon have to stand in a bread line. It scares me about terrorists who might strike at any moment and storms that hit with the same unpredictability. It lies to me and tells me one brand of bathroom tissue is better than another and that no one calls it “toilet paper”, that some magic elixir can grow hair, a pill will make “that certain part of a man’s body” grow and stiffen. It misleads me, promising that some shows, labeled “comedies” will be funny, that there is a difference between the myriad CSI shows, that “Saturday Night Live” is live (which it isn’t – there’s a seven second delay and where I live in Los Angeles, a three-hour delay) that its news is “fair and balanced” and that what they’re telling me is news at all. And it saddens me, insisting that every depressing and miserable thing that can happen to a person must be shown to me.

It sells me things that are addictive, ways to rid myself of addiction, stories about addicts of various sorts and the irony is, of course, that it is the most addictive sort of all. And it knows it. Like the drug pusher on the corner it lures me with freebies designed to make me salivate over the soon-to-come PayPerView or shows me scenes from next week’s show that will excite and thrill me even more than this week’s show. It even tells me that something in my house could be killing me right now and to tune in at eleven to find out what it is. TV knows how to tease you. It knows what you want because it told you what you want.

Would you want a person with all these “attributes” as a friend? Of course not, but do any of us have a person in their life they spend more time with than they watch television? Sadly, the answer, for most humans in industrialized nations, is no. Our televisions are our teachers, our lovers, our parents and our best friend. It is an evil force meant to confuse us, to pacify us, to make us care about trivialities while manipulating us to satisfy its voracious appetite for our money.

Does this mean I want to play ostrich and just keep my head in the sand? No, but it's not sand at all, is it? It's mud. Can’t I be satisfied with perceiving the world on my own, to walk around our cities, experience people and life in person at a manageable rate, a rate I myself create? Can’t I get my diversion from a book or music I program to my own personal taste or get my news and information from a newspaper or web site that I can peruse at will rather than adhering to a schedule I had nothing to do with establishing? Yes, I can do all these things. And I will. But right now there is a one-legged transsexual about to punch out a shirtless fat guy on “Springer”. Priceless.

Gordon Bressack
March 14, 2009