I'm a little miffed by the Food Network show "Chopped," which in general, I enjoy immensely, but am irked by its panel of judges.
The show's premise is brilliantly attention-commanding. Four non-celebrity chefs are each given a "mystery basket" containing three (or four) oddball ingredients that in an ideal world would never be served on the same bill of fare, much less combined into a single entrée. Havarti, yams and eel. Tongue, rhubarb and marshmallows, etc. The chefs must then "think on their feet," and improv these nauseatingly disparate factions into a tantalizing gourmet treat within a hellishly brief 30 minutes.
The maddening preparation intervals are edited to a more reasonable chunk of time, so that the entire show isn't consumed by a single round. There are three; Appetizer, Main Dish and Dessert. With each round, the chef that conjures up the least palatable dish, is eliminated, or "chopped." By the third round, the Dessert round, the competition has been pared to two competing chefs, slugging it out for the judges' favor. The last chef standing is declared "Chopped Champion."
The judges, whom are each given brief yet epic introductions ("... the Grand Wizard of the Sauté Pan"), get to sample each chef's creation and then enjoy informing him/her what a disgusting, back-alley scavenger plate of wet garbage they've toiled upon.
Here's where I really have a problem.
Most of the time, the judges' critiques boil down to the same pair of complaints: the dish is A. undercooked, and B. weird.
Hello??? You gave them ingredients that Lizzie Borden wouldn't throw in a pot together to serve to her parents, and only 30 minutes to plan, gather additional elements from a spaceship-like "pantry," combine and cook in whichever manner the chef is proficient, and then "plate" – arrange in an esthetically pleasing presentation. Any dish birthed in this environment is bound to be somewhat rushed and a tad strange! Needless to say these chefs have bulging neck veins and soulless staring gazes after the conclusion of each round.
And the judges apparently can't discern anything out of the ordinary about this kitchen equivalent of a bad LSD trip. Maybe in their world, it's normal.
The judges, by the way, also get to watch and comment during the preparations, which I'm sure endears them to the contestants even more. Not to mention the show's host, Ted Allen, who may be a gourmet in his own right, but on this show fills the role of studious shmuck with microphone, standing in the way, asking each chef for a play-by-play. "I'm putting a lid on the sauce to simmer, bitch. What does it look like I'm doing? Get away from me!"
And just as the nightmare seems almost over, the judges ask each chef to describe – in a style not unlike a job interview – what they have cooked.
"I've seared the GORILLA THIGH in extra-virgin olive oil to offset the power of the TANG brûlée, and garnished with GUMMI BEAR wedges on a bed of chopped bacon and field greens. Enjoy."
Each judge takes a demure mouthful, with a far-off stare of contemplation... suggesting in some cases that these Master Chefs could taste-test anti-matter and savor it with professorial aplomb... then unloads on the embattled foodsmith.
"I think you're a very creative person... but in all honesty, you could have dropped trow and grunted out a butt-fudge enchilada on this plate and I'd have respected you more."
The victimized chef must keep retort to a minimum. "Ah. Umhm. Yes, I understand."
"You're a fraud and a whore. This is just a step removed from boiled vomit."
"Email that online culinary school and demand your 20 bucks back."
"Memorize this, because you're going to need it: 'Pull to the next window please.'"
I will never be on this show, because frankly, I'd lose it. I don't mean I'd lose the Championship. I wouldn't even get that far. I'd. Lose. It. With. These. People.
It would go down like:
JUDGE: "Your pasta is underdone."
ME: "And you're make-up is coming undone."
JUDGE: "Your fromage filling is running out onto the plate."
ME: "And your teeth are about to spill out onto the floor."
JUDGE: "I find this dish frankly unacceptable."
ME: "The ingredients you made me use were Whale Semen, Spinach and Mini-Butterfingers. A dung beetle would find that dish unacceptable!"
The Food Network should rename this show "Meet The Asshats."
Chef Dave, sorry, you've MET THE ASSHATS. Goodbye.
An eliminated contestant is always filmed walking down the "hallway of shame" back to the dressing rooms. I'm waiting to see when a "chopped" chef flips the bird to the camera... I'm sure the editor has a collection.
Again, I am kind of addicted to this show.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Some Free Spec Script Ideas
As a busy screenwriter with several projects in various stages of development and/or production, my idea bank (brain) has been backlogging like a constipated hockey player at a Nathan's Hotdog semi-final. Naturally I have a huge list of project ideas that I know will never make it to the top of my to-do list, much less a pole position on the track to development hell. Therefore I now choose to release the safety valve, and free up space in my "Next Big Thing" vault. Here they are, ready to be greenlighted – yours to expand into a future blockbuster. No copyrights lurking in the b.g. here. My fellow aspiring script-smiths, take 'em and run!
SLAMMIN' DOWN TO BRISBANE
(Blame It On Rio meets Bumfights)
Myrtle and Sam "Spammy" Wilkerson click an internet pop-up and win a second-honeymoon trip to that dazzling vacation capital, Brisbane, California. They pack up the Dodge Valiant and are on their way down 101 when they pick up wayward hitch-hiker Bobby Boo, once famous radio crooner and Hollywood royalty of yesteryear. Hilarious adventures ensue when Bobby mistakes an eastside hoorhouse for the 3-star hotel where he was once a fixture in the heyday of the great Tinseltown musicals.
JUNIOR ASSKICKERS 2004!
(Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon meets Our Gang)
(This synopsis was written in 2003, when the title would carry a bit more relevance, but it can easily be changed to something up-to-date.) The plot: Angry at being flunked out of DeVrie Summer College and thus denied his electronic associate's degree, scientist hero Jameson Goldenrod suspects foul play afoot among the institution's adminstratti. He injects ten preschoolers with super-hyperdyne steroids, then teaches them kung fu, aided by his own Yoda-like mentor Hibachi Sokomotamoto-Tannenbaum (I wrote the part for Alan Arkin, but any competent character actor with good dialect presence should work). Can the Junior Asskickers get to the heart of a corrupt Junior College and deliver swift, bonecrunching, action-packed justice? Or will campus security shut them down with a few tazers, and by playing the Macarena over the school's sound system?
STAR BANGERS!
(Star Wars meets The Food Network)
No, not a tale of celebrity groupies, but of a platoon of intergalactic bounty-hunters, on the trail of half-lobster/half-super android, Krorgon! Aided by his army of Space Bears, Krorgon is secretly a hero of the galactic gourmet underground, whose mission is to free the planet X-98-D from the culinary tyranny of the tantalizing ten-breasted Princess Moparra, seductress of heroes, enslaver of billions, and host of her own mid-morning cookery show "Brunchtime Brainwash." Her ultimate recipe for Uranus Sausage holds the entire planet in bondage, addicted to the savory tubular delicacy. But with his mission top-secret, and led by the guidance of the cloned bodiless head of Julia Child, can Krorgon succeed while being hounded by both the Federation AND the interstellar bounty-hunters? Will Krorgan and his troops become Uranus Sausage on Princess Moparra's next show? By the end credits, will it make any more sense?
THE THREE STOOGES MEET SATAN
(Three Stooges meet... well... Satan)
Yes it's those three madcap nutty goofball slap-happy... guys, who get a job as wallpaper hangers, and paste-n'-press their wacky way right down to the Underworld, where they must elude capture by the Big Red Horned One and his pitchfork wielding minions. Adolf Hitler, Josef Stalin and Phil Donohue make hilarious cameos! (Yes, I realize the Stooges have been dead for about 30 years, but they can do wonders now with computer graphics, and I hear production orgs like NBC Features and Turner Instant Classics have now acquired the rights to film on location in Hell. Start developin'!)
CREAMED!
(James Bond meets Mary Kay)
Joe Revlonné is the "Cool Hand Luke" of the feminine hygiene industry. His products sell, and his "nose for the business" has served him well. He can sniff out the difference between a 'fresh-n'-fuzzy' and a 'soggy clambake' from across a retail cosmetics convention floor! At just such an event he meets his match in Asian synthetic beauty queen, Chi-Ki, CEO of Dragonflayer Cosmetics, and creator of their #1 selling fem-hy sensation, "Sprunt." But there's something fishy about Sprunt, that leads Joe to suspect a world-domination scheme in the making. Can he get up his unique talent in time to screw Chi-Ki's plot?
METER SQUAD
(Inglorious Basterds meets the 10-minute zone)
Washington DC Ticket Officer Bill "Chalk-demon" Taggart is sick as hell of cars parked over the time limit! Spurred on by retired politician Arnold Shwartzamutha's HUM-V parked 20 minutes past the red-flag on the meter, he snaps. Before he can "chalk the town red," he is recruited by elite Pentagon parking specialist Perry Lell, who urges Taggart to let out his frustrations upon America's enemies abroad rather than moronic line-straddlers at home... Now an ultra-secret team of meter police have banded together under Taggart's command. They accept a covert government mission to chalk up the tires of overseas terrorists and anti-American war factions... they're Meter Squad.
NOTHING IMPORTANT
(Boring meets Pointless)
David "Jack" Smithers gets some bills paid, washes his car, and does laundry. He rewards himself with a snowcone. This angers Wanda, his shrewish nextdoor neighbor who decides, for reasons known only to herself, to make an example of Jack to the neighborhood. She hires her brother to knock on Jack's door and club him with a waterpolo mallet, as she watches from behind taut drapes. Wanda's brother knocks, and goes inside with Jack. He and Jack watch the game and have a couple of beers. Wanda's brother returns without harming Jack. When confronted by Wanda as to why he refused her orders, the brother says he forgot. Wanda hires the town drunk to lay in wait for her brother, at a nearby bar, and club him with a length of PCV pipe. That doesn't happen either. Wanda will have her revenge!! (Can't you just picture Clooney as Jack?)
FLIGHT OF THE FLYING FLIER
(Horse Ass meets Propeller)
Jockey Bert Jertson sends his ailing horse "Flying Flier" to the glue factory after losing ten races in a row, and decides to take up piloting – naming his plane "Flying Flier" in homage to his dead trotter. Drama erupts when Bert accepts a race from New York to Paris against fellow airman Charles Lindbergh.
THE GALAXY'S GOT TALENT
(American Idol meets Independence Day)
Leeza Chimps, a young pop vocalist wanna-be, and her newbie agent Trix, find themselves beamed to the planet Velcro, to represent Earth in a galaxywide talent contest! The stakes are high; Leeza must win the competition or our world faces total destruction! Leeza surprises the interstellar panel of judges by besting every alien act thrown at her – from Crab Nebulan quick-costume change artists to a Jupiterian insect twelve-million-legged clogdance ensemble. Along the way, Leeza gets the milky way rockin' with soft-pop and faux-blues hit after hit, earning her megastar status back on Earth, as the entire human race watches on intergalactic HD TV. Leeza makes it to the final, but comes in second to a glob-like Andromedan magician who can squat and produce small brown clones of himself. As fiery death-rays ravage the Earth, leaving it a burnt-out lifeless cinder, Leeza counts it as a coming-of-age experience and moves on to a hopeful tomorrow.
BLARNEY STONED
(Up In Smoke meets My Left Foot)
Irish poet Fagin McFlaherty spends his days blissfully indulging in his two favorite passtimes, rhyme and weed, until one day he falls in love with Haarga, a raven-haired beerhall waitress with only one handicap – she is a deaf-mute armless, legless human stump, who navigates between tables upon a small wheeled platform, propelled along by her own flatulence. He devotes his life and art to her, but soon discovers that the market for stoner poetry – particularly about voiceless human logs who can fart at will – is too small to make a living from. He takes a job in the town coal yard to support them, laboring on his fanciful words only by night. Successes are few but Haarga believes in him, earning extra money working at a circus sideshow and raking in a small fortune, which she secrets away, in the hope of surprising Fagin by getting an operation to have new arms and legs – of styrofoam – duct-taped onto herself, for their blessed honeymoon night to come. Fagin finds the money and uses it to travel to Scandinavia, to the annual pothead poetry jam and competition – which he wins handily with his poems of Haarga. But when he returns, he finally learns of her styrofoam dream of love that he has unknowingly thwarted. Haarga forgives him, and they marry. Years later at an award banquet in Fagin's honor, Haarga pays tribute to him by farting out a soulful rendition of Ireland's National Anthem.
SLAMMIN' DOWN TO BRISBANE
(Blame It On Rio meets Bumfights)
Myrtle and Sam "Spammy" Wilkerson click an internet pop-up and win a second-honeymoon trip to that dazzling vacation capital, Brisbane, California. They pack up the Dodge Valiant and are on their way down 101 when they pick up wayward hitch-hiker Bobby Boo, once famous radio crooner and Hollywood royalty of yesteryear. Hilarious adventures ensue when Bobby mistakes an eastside hoorhouse for the 3-star hotel where he was once a fixture in the heyday of the great Tinseltown musicals.
JUNIOR ASSKICKERS 2004!
(Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon meets Our Gang)
(This synopsis was written in 2003, when the title would carry a bit more relevance, but it can easily be changed to something up-to-date.) The plot: Angry at being flunked out of DeVrie Summer College and thus denied his electronic associate's degree, scientist hero Jameson Goldenrod suspects foul play afoot among the institution's adminstratti. He injects ten preschoolers with super-hyperdyne steroids, then teaches them kung fu, aided by his own Yoda-like mentor Hibachi Sokomotamoto-Tannenbaum (I wrote the part for Alan Arkin, but any competent character actor with good dialect presence should work). Can the Junior Asskickers get to the heart of a corrupt Junior College and deliver swift, bonecrunching, action-packed justice? Or will campus security shut them down with a few tazers, and by playing the Macarena over the school's sound system?
STAR BANGERS!
(Star Wars meets The Food Network)
No, not a tale of celebrity groupies, but of a platoon of intergalactic bounty-hunters, on the trail of half-lobster/half-super android, Krorgon! Aided by his army of Space Bears, Krorgon is secretly a hero of the galactic gourmet underground, whose mission is to free the planet X-98-D from the culinary tyranny of the tantalizing ten-breasted Princess Moparra, seductress of heroes, enslaver of billions, and host of her own mid-morning cookery show "Brunchtime Brainwash." Her ultimate recipe for Uranus Sausage holds the entire planet in bondage, addicted to the savory tubular delicacy. But with his mission top-secret, and led by the guidance of the cloned bodiless head of Julia Child, can Krorgon succeed while being hounded by both the Federation AND the interstellar bounty-hunters? Will Krorgan and his troops become Uranus Sausage on Princess Moparra's next show? By the end credits, will it make any more sense?
THE THREE STOOGES MEET SATAN
(Three Stooges meet... well... Satan)
Yes it's those three madcap nutty goofball slap-happy... guys, who get a job as wallpaper hangers, and paste-n'-press their wacky way right down to the Underworld, where they must elude capture by the Big Red Horned One and his pitchfork wielding minions. Adolf Hitler, Josef Stalin and Phil Donohue make hilarious cameos! (Yes, I realize the Stooges have been dead for about 30 years, but they can do wonders now with computer graphics, and I hear production orgs like NBC Features and Turner Instant Classics have now acquired the rights to film on location in Hell. Start developin'!)
CREAMED!
(James Bond meets Mary Kay)
Joe Revlonné is the "Cool Hand Luke" of the feminine hygiene industry. His products sell, and his "nose for the business" has served him well. He can sniff out the difference between a 'fresh-n'-fuzzy' and a 'soggy clambake' from across a retail cosmetics convention floor! At just such an event he meets his match in Asian synthetic beauty queen, Chi-Ki, CEO of Dragonflayer Cosmetics, and creator of their #1 selling fem-hy sensation, "Sprunt." But there's something fishy about Sprunt, that leads Joe to suspect a world-domination scheme in the making. Can he get up his unique talent in time to screw Chi-Ki's plot?
METER SQUAD
(Inglorious Basterds meets the 10-minute zone)
Washington DC Ticket Officer Bill "Chalk-demon" Taggart is sick as hell of cars parked over the time limit! Spurred on by retired politician Arnold Shwartzamutha's HUM-V parked 20 minutes past the red-flag on the meter, he snaps. Before he can "chalk the town red," he is recruited by elite Pentagon parking specialist Perry Lell, who urges Taggart to let out his frustrations upon America's enemies abroad rather than moronic line-straddlers at home... Now an ultra-secret team of meter police have banded together under Taggart's command. They accept a covert government mission to chalk up the tires of overseas terrorists and anti-American war factions... they're Meter Squad.
NOTHING IMPORTANT
(Boring meets Pointless)
David "Jack" Smithers gets some bills paid, washes his car, and does laundry. He rewards himself with a snowcone. This angers Wanda, his shrewish nextdoor neighbor who decides, for reasons known only to herself, to make an example of Jack to the neighborhood. She hires her brother to knock on Jack's door and club him with a waterpolo mallet, as she watches from behind taut drapes. Wanda's brother knocks, and goes inside with Jack. He and Jack watch the game and have a couple of beers. Wanda's brother returns without harming Jack. When confronted by Wanda as to why he refused her orders, the brother says he forgot. Wanda hires the town drunk to lay in wait for her brother, at a nearby bar, and club him with a length of PCV pipe. That doesn't happen either. Wanda will have her revenge!! (Can't you just picture Clooney as Jack?)
FLIGHT OF THE FLYING FLIER
(Horse Ass meets Propeller)
Jockey Bert Jertson sends his ailing horse "Flying Flier" to the glue factory after losing ten races in a row, and decides to take up piloting – naming his plane "Flying Flier" in homage to his dead trotter. Drama erupts when Bert accepts a race from New York to Paris against fellow airman Charles Lindbergh.
THE GALAXY'S GOT TALENT
(American Idol meets Independence Day)
Leeza Chimps, a young pop vocalist wanna-be, and her newbie agent Trix, find themselves beamed to the planet Velcro, to represent Earth in a galaxywide talent contest! The stakes are high; Leeza must win the competition or our world faces total destruction! Leeza surprises the interstellar panel of judges by besting every alien act thrown at her – from Crab Nebulan quick-costume change artists to a Jupiterian insect twelve-million-legged clogdance ensemble. Along the way, Leeza gets the milky way rockin' with soft-pop and faux-blues hit after hit, earning her megastar status back on Earth, as the entire human race watches on intergalactic HD TV. Leeza makes it to the final, but comes in second to a glob-like Andromedan magician who can squat and produce small brown clones of himself. As fiery death-rays ravage the Earth, leaving it a burnt-out lifeless cinder, Leeza counts it as a coming-of-age experience and moves on to a hopeful tomorrow.
BLARNEY STONED
(Up In Smoke meets My Left Foot)
Irish poet Fagin McFlaherty spends his days blissfully indulging in his two favorite passtimes, rhyme and weed, until one day he falls in love with Haarga, a raven-haired beerhall waitress with only one handicap – she is a deaf-mute armless, legless human stump, who navigates between tables upon a small wheeled platform, propelled along by her own flatulence. He devotes his life and art to her, but soon discovers that the market for stoner poetry – particularly about voiceless human logs who can fart at will – is too small to make a living from. He takes a job in the town coal yard to support them, laboring on his fanciful words only by night. Successes are few but Haarga believes in him, earning extra money working at a circus sideshow and raking in a small fortune, which she secrets away, in the hope of surprising Fagin by getting an operation to have new arms and legs – of styrofoam – duct-taped onto herself, for their blessed honeymoon night to come. Fagin finds the money and uses it to travel to Scandinavia, to the annual pothead poetry jam and competition – which he wins handily with his poems of Haarga. But when he returns, he finally learns of her styrofoam dream of love that he has unknowingly thwarted. Haarga forgives him, and they marry. Years later at an award banquet in Fagin's honor, Haarga pays tribute to him by farting out a soulful rendition of Ireland's National Anthem.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Upon A New Year's Randomly...
The really amazing thing regarding Tiger Woods, is that he secretly led the life of a porn star for 15 years while being one of the most WATCHED INDIVIDUALS ON THE PLANET.
A guy in front of me at the checkout line puts down a litre bottle of soda, a small bag of chips, and a jar of ranch dressing dip, large enough for the whole bag of chips to swim in. He then asks the clerk to add a pack of cigs to his order. She obliges, asking "and how are you today?" He grins and answers "lunchtime." I get a sudden urge to projectile vomit, just on principle.
I had to drive downtown on an errand. The level of foolhardiness to sheer insanity on the part of other motorists and pedestrians made me tremble at the wheel. Just three days prior, it had been Christmas – in less than 48 hours how quickly we can shift gears back down to viewing each other as annoying carrion.
I witnessed someone who knows "the secret." A little over five feet tall, unwashed t-shirt with heavy metal rockband logo, lots of bling, a dirty baseball cap, a cigarette and three days growth on his chin... at the wheel of a new, gold HUM-V, making an entire string of other cars wait while he struggled through a U-turn, and then painfully parallel park in reverse, between two much, much smaller vehicles – actually wedging them in. He then got out to dude-strut into the coffee shop. I kept thinking... this guy qualified for a $150,000 loan. What am I doing wrong? Is everybody in the state dealing drugs except me?
This month's post is a bit depressing so far, you think?
It has always struck me strangely, how people who screw over others always claim to believe in karma.
OVERHEARD ON A TRIP TO THE SUPERMARKET...
Not all in one night, but close enough:
Someone across the parking lot – "Chips!! Two dollah-fawty cent!! Mawda-Fawk!!"
Over the in-store speaker – "Dina to the likker 'partment... Dina to the likker 'partment."
A very well groomed young aisle attendant briefly gets his wires crossed – "May I assist your ass this evening?"
Guy with long hair and a waaaay-big mutton-chop mustache sees the beer aisle (for the very first time ever?) – "Ooooooooooh, check THIS out."
Yes, my mind is like a camcorder, and I tend to have too much fun with it.
A guy in front of me at the checkout line puts down a litre bottle of soda, a small bag of chips, and a jar of ranch dressing dip, large enough for the whole bag of chips to swim in. He then asks the clerk to add a pack of cigs to his order. She obliges, asking "and how are you today?" He grins and answers "lunchtime." I get a sudden urge to projectile vomit, just on principle.
I had to drive downtown on an errand. The level of foolhardiness to sheer insanity on the part of other motorists and pedestrians made me tremble at the wheel. Just three days prior, it had been Christmas – in less than 48 hours how quickly we can shift gears back down to viewing each other as annoying carrion.
I witnessed someone who knows "the secret." A little over five feet tall, unwashed t-shirt with heavy metal rockband logo, lots of bling, a dirty baseball cap, a cigarette and three days growth on his chin... at the wheel of a new, gold HUM-V, making an entire string of other cars wait while he struggled through a U-turn, and then painfully parallel park in reverse, between two much, much smaller vehicles – actually wedging them in. He then got out to dude-strut into the coffee shop. I kept thinking... this guy qualified for a $150,000 loan. What am I doing wrong? Is everybody in the state dealing drugs except me?
This month's post is a bit depressing so far, you think?
It has always struck me strangely, how people who screw over others always claim to believe in karma.
OVERHEARD ON A TRIP TO THE SUPERMARKET...
Not all in one night, but close enough:
Someone across the parking lot – "Chips!! Two dollah-fawty cent!! Mawda-Fawk!!"
Over the in-store speaker – "Dina to the likker 'partment... Dina to the likker 'partment."
A very well groomed young aisle attendant briefly gets his wires crossed – "May I assist your ass this evening?"
Guy with long hair and a waaaay-big mutton-chop mustache sees the beer aisle (for the very first time ever?) – "Ooooooooooh, check THIS out."
Yes, my mind is like a camcorder, and I tend to have too much fun with it.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
1970's FRESNO: The Golden Age of Local Television!
I'll take you back to a time before everything was so... slick. I will sift a wild dozen years of being raised by the one-eyed electric babysitter, and glean some priceless moments that, thankfully, were probably erased long, long ago by some cost-cutting studio flunky.
"Indoctrination" was hardly a word one could associate with the public school system of the 70s. We were too busy having our slushy little minds diluted by the conspiracies of a more innocent age. Toys that drained out parents' bank accounts and lasted mere hours out of the box. Candy that turned our young bodies into walking chemical waste dumps. Quick neo-synthetic food that would help us grow up to be wheezy, half-blind, heart patients.
But some moments were golden indeed. Most of them are preserved only in the memories of those who witnessed them, within that pale grey electronic haze.
Our house, in the hills of California's central San Joaquin Valley, was doubly-blessed when it came to the respective broadcast footprints of the local TV stations. We were ideally situated to receive the NBC, CBS and ABC signals of both the Fresno and Bakersfield markets. On rainy evenings when the thunderheads rolled just so, we could get Sacramento – indy station KXTL 40 had the best (early anime) cartoons – Speed Racer, Gigantor... and – yikes, get the popcorn – Ultraman back-to-back with Superman (George Reeves)!
We had our own local indy, KMPH 26 – at the time hardly the media behemoth it would become in the 90s and 00s – back then, merely a catch-all of classic b&w films and 60s/70s syndicated sitcom reruns. Station-breaks were heralded by cheesy hand-drawn graphics on colored paste-board. A fun watch.
Fresno's KMJ 24 (now KSEE) had a splendid library of Laurel & Hardy two-reelers, while KBAK 29 (Bakersfield) was where one went for an afternoon Three Stooges fix. Years later, KGET 17 would inherit them, and run them at midnight, cognizant that the kids who'd loved them long ago on KBAK, were now adults working the swing shift.
KAIL 53 burst on the scene in the mid-80s, and pro-wrestling returned, but that's another blog. Remember, these were all terrestrial broadcast stations – cable was still just what people in motels had to make do with.
Each station's "personality" was indirectly dictated by which ever local celebrities – if one must call them that – populated their programming schedules, appearing in everything from commercials to newscasts to sometimes even their own shows. But each was loyal to his or her own station. If you saw KMJ's stalwart local news anchor Bob Long suddenly appear on say, KJEO 47's six-o'clock report, he wasn't doing it freelance – it meant he'd flipped off a station manager earlier in the day.
Bob Long was also a college instructor at Cal State University Fresno, whom I knew as a student there. For the record, he was not the kind of man to flip off anyone, and for as long as I can remember, was a beloved fixture at KMJ/KSEE. The above is a fiction, used only to illustrate a point. Rest in peace, Bob.
If any man owned the title "Mr. Television" in Fresno at that time, it was a ruddy faced, balding Irishman with an infectious smile and banjo eyes, named Al Radka. On a local level, "Uncle Al" was every bit the early television pioneer as Dave Garroway and Milton Berle were, up the corporate ladder.
He did it all! Pitching everything from used cars to olives (Oberti Olives from Madera! O-B-E-R-T-I, they're the ones you gotta try!), and hosting everything from afternoon chat shows and matinees to weekend-ruining telethons. And making it look like he could do it in his sleep. His flushed cheeks, and pulsating red nose offered no clues then to the average preschooler or kindergartner, that he wasn't that far from sleeping through most of it.
Before Sesame Street hit the airwaves (I witnessed the very first west-coast broadcast in the late 60s), mornings were greatest on KFSN 30 – Uncle Al and yes... Channel 30 Funtime! Strike up the organ!
(A studio full of kids singing as one:)
It's Funtime!
It's Funtime!
It's Channel 30 Funtime!
We're happy
to see you!
We hope you're feeling fine!
We brushed our teeth
and washed our face
and now we're smiling in our place!
It's Funtime!
Channel 30 Funtime!
We're smiiiiiling,
whyyyy doooon't yooouuuuu...
Yayyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!
(Cue Uncle Al into frame, wearing an off-the-rack plaid JCPenny suit with sleeves a half-inch too short, holding a foot long silver mic, and visibly licking the remains of a quick swig from his upper lip. A smile... a mug at the camera lens... and it's on with the show, kids!)
But one could easily tell how Uncle Al adored the youngsters who shared the stage with him every morning. Only occasionally did a little smartass chafe his hide, like the soda-bottle bespectacled girl scout, who demonstrated how to bake and decorate patriotic Fourth of July Cupcakes in a 25-second ADD plagued stream of consciousness. "...thenwhenthetimergoesoffyoutakethemoutoftheovenandthenyoutakethetwobowlsoffrostingovertothe..."
"No honey, you go too fast. Now explain it all again, slow enough for the little shi... our little friends at home to understand."
A typical Uncle Al "save;" woozy, pissed, yet avoiding an on-air S-bomb at literally the final buzzer. Then at the commercial, almost beyond mic range: "Gawd, someone get me a rope."
Uncle Al's hijinks were more than just filler between cartoons. When Channel 30 got the rights to the syndicated reruns of "Lost In Space" for its after-school time slot, Radka shrewdly had them also hire the services of Bob May and his "Robby the Robot" suit gathering dust in some Hollywood warehouse, to come north to Fresno and make a few personal appearances on his morning show. Everyone stayed glued to Channel 30 throughout the day, because Uncle Al and "Robby" would also make surprise walk-ons on other in-studio programs. When "Lost In Space" finally premiered, every kid in the county was tuned in.
Al had a remarkable background that his on-air persona hardly disclosed. He played lineguard for Fresno State in the late 1930s, and was an Air Corpsman during WWII. Radka served as a Fresno community leader for many years, under many hats, from Chamber of Commerce duty to newspaper journalist and advertising executive. But us kids knew him as that wacky Uncle Al... Mr. Television.
The last time I saw Al on screen, was in a commercial for what was probably one of his many favored Fresno watering holes, The Old Fresno Hofbrau. His fine chestnut scalp-ring now turning snowy, and his purply Irish nose now to W.C. Fields proportions, Al was finally getting to literally phone a performance in from a bar. His local trademark Christmas-red fedora in great evidence, he hoisted a round clear goblet of golden suds and read the cue-cards perfectly. A perfect cue-card read is something Bob Hope never mastered: Read it word-for-word like it isn't written down, and look right into the camera like you aren't reading it. Al was in his element, and he was always a pro. Rest in peace, Mr. Radka.
You can see a rare clip online of Uncle Al in action – type his name into YouTube.
While we're still tuned to Channel 30, we should meet another local legend, a hulking blond grizzly of a man named Gus Zernial.
Gus had played professional baseball in the 1950s, rubbing elbows with the celebrated sluggers of that era, and basically being one himself – an American League homerun champ in '51 and '52. Though his claim to fame was baseball, Gus was a true "old school" sports star – an all-around athlete, who could hurl a football, a javelin, and shoot three-pointers pretty handily as well.
After his sports career, like a number of pros, Gus kept alive his connection to the game he loved by becoming a sportscaster. Only instead of taking a network job, he returned to his hometown, Fresno, to lend his imposing presence before the local TV cameras. He made quite an impression behind the sports desk, being twice as tall and at least half again as broad as the typical studious newscast "twink." A dimple-cheeked Paul Bunyon. In fact, Gus Zernial looked like he could BBQ and eat the rest of the on-air news team.
I remember one incident, vaguely – and I hope I'm recalling correctly – Gus intentionally put his imposing countenance into play, on-air, after a "witty" remark from the newsman sitting next to him.
It came after a pre-taped feature segment; this witty anchorman interviewed female softball pitcher Rosie Beaird, leader of "The Queen and Her Court," who were touring through Fresno. They were a four-woman exhibition team who traveled the country, playing various local – full-size – teams, and handing their guts to them with a razzle-dazzle style of softball, much like the Harlem Globetrotters still do on the basketball court. Rosie was famous as the world's fast-pitch princess, who could roundhouse-fling the "fat apple" with the power of a major league fastball – from second base!
I recall Beaird guesting on the Mike Douglas Show, and Cincinnati Reds hall-of-famer Johnny Bench managed only a single hit off of her, on what would have been strike three if he'd missed.
Anyway, this anchorman had concluded the segment by trying to bat against Rosie. She shut him down with three bazooka-like heaters. He swung like a Pop Warner beginner on a Pixie-Stix buzz – the bat never even grazing the ball.
It's a little hazy, but back in the studio, I recall an exchange that went something like:
ANCHOR: "I'll bet you never came to bat against anything like THAT in your time, eh, Gus?"
GUS: "That was remarkable, I must say – and that remark would be, 'too bad you can't even hit a softball like a man.'"
That was it for the night, folks! Roll credits!
My other favorite Gus Zernial memory came years later, after Gus had retired his seat at the Channel 30 sports desk, and only appeared occasionally in commercials for the huge car dealership he either owned or at least managed, along Highway 99. It involved another 70s Fresno broadcast icon, the RV King, Mack Lazarus.
To briefly backtrack: Mack was a demurely suited, gentle-souled man – of the sportcoat, bling and white leather shoe tribe – big glasses, big wristwatch – who ran the central valley's most widely known RV dealership, in Kerman, California. He was legendary for his cornball TV commercials, which he always concluded with "Come to Kerman!! I'm Mack Lazarus, and I'll STAND ON MY HEAD to make you a deal!!" The schtick was that a cartoon caricature of Mack, in a kind of "jumping jack" pose, cut out of cardboard, spun upside-down as he uttered this trademark slogan!
Comedy gold, trust me.
Well, it seems Mack struck a deal with Gus, and they were sharing a TV commercial, promoting some über-spectacular sales event for which their two respective dealerships would temporarily join forces. It had to be Zernial – I can't recall any other former pro that was as visible on Fresno TV at the time. The commercial had a football theme, possibly because it was around Superbowl time – anyone's guess.
There they stood side-by-side – rows of sparkling new automobiles gleaming behind them – a Mutt-&-Jeff duo of sales and showmanship! The closing note of the ad involved Zernial holding a football aloft and thundering to the effect of "we're passing the savings on to you!" – then delivering Mack a full-on gutcheck with the ball!
Poor Mack. Poor, poor Mack. He and athletic prowess were obvious strangers. Whether or not they'd rehearsed the action – Mack did NOT see it coming. Big Gus – I can only hope unintentionally – fed a sucker-punch right to Mack's lower abdomen, drilling him out of the frame!
The studio's editor had either gone to lunch and left the commercial unfinished, or most likely had only one "take" to work with... for at the fade-out, Mack visibly crumbled, barfing out "rrr-uh-right, Gus... OH GEEZUS!"
No, I wished neither Gus nor Mack any ill – I loved them both – but I just could not stop laughing.
I eagerly watched for days afterward, hoping to see the spot replayed, but apparently someone at the studio saw it too, and pulled it.
So ended another broadcast day at good ol' "Channy Thirtle" as my grandmother referred to it.
Finally, we must journey back to Bakersfield, and the merry wonderland of yet another afternoon kids' favorite, Uncle Woody!
Many people fondly recall him; it was on his show that we got our daily dose of Popeye (the old Fleischer Studio black-n-whites that were superior in every way to the Sailorman's modern day cartoons) and of course the eternally favored Three Stooges. A lot of young fresh eye-pokers got their first addictive dose of Moe, Larry & Curly (and Shemp) thanks to Uncle Woody (Briant)'s show.
Like Uncle Al in Fresno, Woody had a studio full of kids raising blood-curdling havoc behind his back. Running herd for Uncle Woody, so's he could keep both eyes aimed at the camera, was a ragtag, flop-top hatted clown named Chester, who didn't speak, but communicated with a bicycle horn – can anybody say Harpo Marx?
Uncle Woody himself was actually a somewhat handsome feller with boundless energy and a winning smile. He wore a red-n-white striped jacket, that gave the sublime impression that somewhere around the studio, the other three members of a barbershop quartet were on coffeebreak.
Uncle Woody's show was sponsored by Bakersfield's premier kids' emporium, Toy Circus, which Uncle Woody also happened to own, and may still. Over the years, The Uncle Woody Show broadcast on several stations around California – at the time of my loyal viewership, it enjoyed the afternoon slot at KBAK 29.
Like most kidshows of that kind, Uncle Woody and the gang would play games, hold contests, laugh, sing, and in general keep our little worlds spinning – between cartoons. But one seemingly typical afternoon, proceedings suddenly became not-so-typical, and Woody's universe nearly came to an ugly, grinding halt.
It began innocently enough. It became apocalypse in a heartbeat.
Knock-knock jokes. Everyone loves 'em! "Okay," Uncle Woody beamed to his rambunctious troop of adorable scamps, "I'm going to come around to each and every one of you, and you tell me your favorite knock-knock joke!" It was just to mark time while the crew spooled up the Stooges.
All went just fine for five or six knock-knocks... then Uncle Dubb came to a freckly cross-eyed wonder who's grin was just a tad too broad somehow, who smiled even bigger as the mic neared, to reveal a disturbingly cavernous absence where rotten little teeth had once wiggled.
You just knew this wasn't going to end well.
UNCLE WOODY: Okay, little fella, your turn!
KID: Knock knock!!
UNCLE WOODY: Who's there??
KID: (F-BOMB!!)
If KBAK even had someone at the bleep-button, he wasn't fast enough. An entire studio of restless brats – and Chester's horn – all became eerily silent. Uncle Woody's glazed eyes peered searchingly off-camera.
At least he'd had the presence of mind to not respond "(F-bomb) who?"
The little bald-mouthed lizard smiled hugely into the lens – Mission Accomplished! An hour seemed to pass – it was actually about 15 seconds.
Someone behind the camera cued the Stooges. Just. In. Time.
When the film concluded, apparently so had the show. About an hour later, KBAK's manager, the unflappable Gene DeNari, broke in on regular programming, with Uncle Woody seated next to him. Woody did not look happy. DeNari never looked happy.
(DeNari himself hosted a weekly half-hour called "Let Me Talk to the Manager," in which he sat at a desk and responded to viewer mail. Though apparently quite effective behind-the-scenes, his on-camera persona was the cure for insomnia. An expression-free funerial monotone that brought to mind a vision of Frankenstein reading the whitepages.)
I don't remember if Uncle Woody spoke, or just sat solemnly while DeNari groaned out a carefully cue-carded apology. Nevertheless Uncle Woody endured a lifetime with every flat, drawn-out word.
After that night, I don't recall ever seeing Uncle Woody on KBAK. Ever again. Ever. If he was, it has been wiped clean from my mind, like a chalkboard after a summer break's soap-down. Which is a shame, for the tragedy was not his fault.
I think the kid grew up to run for the Senate.
That's how I remember it, Uncle Woody. Please know that I loved you. And still do. I hope where ever you are, you're warm, dry, with a full belly, and surrounded by loved ones.
How does a person grow up even marginally normal, with a mind colored by such things? Somehow, we all did. And even marginally counts. When I channel surf today's line-up of entire networks devoted to single topics, like all-food networks, all-sports, all-renovation, all-kids, all-you-name-it, I can see how far we've come from the golden days of under-planned and over-rushed local TV chaos.
Now and then, one of these classic trainwrecks on video is rediscovered, and preserved on some blooper show, or on YouTube. Thank somebody for that – for these moments say more about the legacy of television than any pristine documentary on the History Channel.
"Indoctrination" was hardly a word one could associate with the public school system of the 70s. We were too busy having our slushy little minds diluted by the conspiracies of a more innocent age. Toys that drained out parents' bank accounts and lasted mere hours out of the box. Candy that turned our young bodies into walking chemical waste dumps. Quick neo-synthetic food that would help us grow up to be wheezy, half-blind, heart patients.
But some moments were golden indeed. Most of them are preserved only in the memories of those who witnessed them, within that pale grey electronic haze.
Our house, in the hills of California's central San Joaquin Valley, was doubly-blessed when it came to the respective broadcast footprints of the local TV stations. We were ideally situated to receive the NBC, CBS and ABC signals of both the Fresno and Bakersfield markets. On rainy evenings when the thunderheads rolled just so, we could get Sacramento – indy station KXTL 40 had the best (early anime) cartoons – Speed Racer, Gigantor... and – yikes, get the popcorn – Ultraman back-to-back with Superman (George Reeves)!
We had our own local indy, KMPH 26 – at the time hardly the media behemoth it would become in the 90s and 00s – back then, merely a catch-all of classic b&w films and 60s/70s syndicated sitcom reruns. Station-breaks were heralded by cheesy hand-drawn graphics on colored paste-board. A fun watch.
Fresno's KMJ 24 (now KSEE) had a splendid library of Laurel & Hardy two-reelers, while KBAK 29 (Bakersfield) was where one went for an afternoon Three Stooges fix. Years later, KGET 17 would inherit them, and run them at midnight, cognizant that the kids who'd loved them long ago on KBAK, were now adults working the swing shift.
KAIL 53 burst on the scene in the mid-80s, and pro-wrestling returned, but that's another blog. Remember, these were all terrestrial broadcast stations – cable was still just what people in motels had to make do with.
Each station's "personality" was indirectly dictated by which ever local celebrities – if one must call them that – populated their programming schedules, appearing in everything from commercials to newscasts to sometimes even their own shows. But each was loyal to his or her own station. If you saw KMJ's stalwart local news anchor Bob Long suddenly appear on say, KJEO 47's six-o'clock report, he wasn't doing it freelance – it meant he'd flipped off a station manager earlier in the day.
Bob Long was also a college instructor at Cal State University Fresno, whom I knew as a student there. For the record, he was not the kind of man to flip off anyone, and for as long as I can remember, was a beloved fixture at KMJ/KSEE. The above is a fiction, used only to illustrate a point. Rest in peace, Bob.
If any man owned the title "Mr. Television" in Fresno at that time, it was a ruddy faced, balding Irishman with an infectious smile and banjo eyes, named Al Radka. On a local level, "Uncle Al" was every bit the early television pioneer as Dave Garroway and Milton Berle were, up the corporate ladder.
He did it all! Pitching everything from used cars to olives (Oberti Olives from Madera! O-B-E-R-T-I, they're the ones you gotta try!), and hosting everything from afternoon chat shows and matinees to weekend-ruining telethons. And making it look like he could do it in his sleep. His flushed cheeks, and pulsating red nose offered no clues then to the average preschooler or kindergartner, that he wasn't that far from sleeping through most of it.
Before Sesame Street hit the airwaves (I witnessed the very first west-coast broadcast in the late 60s), mornings were greatest on KFSN 30 – Uncle Al and yes... Channel 30 Funtime! Strike up the organ!
(A studio full of kids singing as one:)
It's Funtime!
It's Funtime!
It's Channel 30 Funtime!
We're happy
to see you!
We hope you're feeling fine!
We brushed our teeth
and washed our face
and now we're smiling in our place!
It's Funtime!
Channel 30 Funtime!
We're smiiiiiling,
whyyyy doooon't yooouuuuu...
Yayyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!!
(Cue Uncle Al into frame, wearing an off-the-rack plaid JCPenny suit with sleeves a half-inch too short, holding a foot long silver mic, and visibly licking the remains of a quick swig from his upper lip. A smile... a mug at the camera lens... and it's on with the show, kids!)
But one could easily tell how Uncle Al adored the youngsters who shared the stage with him every morning. Only occasionally did a little smartass chafe his hide, like the soda-bottle bespectacled girl scout, who demonstrated how to bake and decorate patriotic Fourth of July Cupcakes in a 25-second ADD plagued stream of consciousness. "...thenwhenthetimergoesoffyoutakethemoutoftheovenandthenyoutakethetwobowlsoffrostingovertothe..."
"No honey, you go too fast. Now explain it all again, slow enough for the little shi... our little friends at home to understand."
A typical Uncle Al "save;" woozy, pissed, yet avoiding an on-air S-bomb at literally the final buzzer. Then at the commercial, almost beyond mic range: "Gawd, someone get me a rope."
Uncle Al's hijinks were more than just filler between cartoons. When Channel 30 got the rights to the syndicated reruns of "Lost In Space" for its after-school time slot, Radka shrewdly had them also hire the services of Bob May and his "Robby the Robot" suit gathering dust in some Hollywood warehouse, to come north to Fresno and make a few personal appearances on his morning show. Everyone stayed glued to Channel 30 throughout the day, because Uncle Al and "Robby" would also make surprise walk-ons on other in-studio programs. When "Lost In Space" finally premiered, every kid in the county was tuned in.
Al had a remarkable background that his on-air persona hardly disclosed. He played lineguard for Fresno State in the late 1930s, and was an Air Corpsman during WWII. Radka served as a Fresno community leader for many years, under many hats, from Chamber of Commerce duty to newspaper journalist and advertising executive. But us kids knew him as that wacky Uncle Al... Mr. Television.
The last time I saw Al on screen, was in a commercial for what was probably one of his many favored Fresno watering holes, The Old Fresno Hofbrau. His fine chestnut scalp-ring now turning snowy, and his purply Irish nose now to W.C. Fields proportions, Al was finally getting to literally phone a performance in from a bar. His local trademark Christmas-red fedora in great evidence, he hoisted a round clear goblet of golden suds and read the cue-cards perfectly. A perfect cue-card read is something Bob Hope never mastered: Read it word-for-word like it isn't written down, and look right into the camera like you aren't reading it. Al was in his element, and he was always a pro. Rest in peace, Mr. Radka.
You can see a rare clip online of Uncle Al in action – type his name into YouTube.
While we're still tuned to Channel 30, we should meet another local legend, a hulking blond grizzly of a man named Gus Zernial.
Gus had played professional baseball in the 1950s, rubbing elbows with the celebrated sluggers of that era, and basically being one himself – an American League homerun champ in '51 and '52. Though his claim to fame was baseball, Gus was a true "old school" sports star – an all-around athlete, who could hurl a football, a javelin, and shoot three-pointers pretty handily as well.
After his sports career, like a number of pros, Gus kept alive his connection to the game he loved by becoming a sportscaster. Only instead of taking a network job, he returned to his hometown, Fresno, to lend his imposing presence before the local TV cameras. He made quite an impression behind the sports desk, being twice as tall and at least half again as broad as the typical studious newscast "twink." A dimple-cheeked Paul Bunyon. In fact, Gus Zernial looked like he could BBQ and eat the rest of the on-air news team.
I remember one incident, vaguely – and I hope I'm recalling correctly – Gus intentionally put his imposing countenance into play, on-air, after a "witty" remark from the newsman sitting next to him.
It came after a pre-taped feature segment; this witty anchorman interviewed female softball pitcher Rosie Beaird, leader of "The Queen and Her Court," who were touring through Fresno. They were a four-woman exhibition team who traveled the country, playing various local – full-size – teams, and handing their guts to them with a razzle-dazzle style of softball, much like the Harlem Globetrotters still do on the basketball court. Rosie was famous as the world's fast-pitch princess, who could roundhouse-fling the "fat apple" with the power of a major league fastball – from second base!
I recall Beaird guesting on the Mike Douglas Show, and Cincinnati Reds hall-of-famer Johnny Bench managed only a single hit off of her, on what would have been strike three if he'd missed.
Anyway, this anchorman had concluded the segment by trying to bat against Rosie. She shut him down with three bazooka-like heaters. He swung like a Pop Warner beginner on a Pixie-Stix buzz – the bat never even grazing the ball.
It's a little hazy, but back in the studio, I recall an exchange that went something like:
ANCHOR: "I'll bet you never came to bat against anything like THAT in your time, eh, Gus?"
GUS: "That was remarkable, I must say – and that remark would be, 'too bad you can't even hit a softball like a man.'"
That was it for the night, folks! Roll credits!
My other favorite Gus Zernial memory came years later, after Gus had retired his seat at the Channel 30 sports desk, and only appeared occasionally in commercials for the huge car dealership he either owned or at least managed, along Highway 99. It involved another 70s Fresno broadcast icon, the RV King, Mack Lazarus.
To briefly backtrack: Mack was a demurely suited, gentle-souled man – of the sportcoat, bling and white leather shoe tribe – big glasses, big wristwatch – who ran the central valley's most widely known RV dealership, in Kerman, California. He was legendary for his cornball TV commercials, which he always concluded with "Come to Kerman!! I'm Mack Lazarus, and I'll STAND ON MY HEAD to make you a deal!!" The schtick was that a cartoon caricature of Mack, in a kind of "jumping jack" pose, cut out of cardboard, spun upside-down as he uttered this trademark slogan!
Comedy gold, trust me.
Well, it seems Mack struck a deal with Gus, and they were sharing a TV commercial, promoting some über-spectacular sales event for which their two respective dealerships would temporarily join forces. It had to be Zernial – I can't recall any other former pro that was as visible on Fresno TV at the time. The commercial had a football theme, possibly because it was around Superbowl time – anyone's guess.
There they stood side-by-side – rows of sparkling new automobiles gleaming behind them – a Mutt-&-Jeff duo of sales and showmanship! The closing note of the ad involved Zernial holding a football aloft and thundering to the effect of "we're passing the savings on to you!" – then delivering Mack a full-on gutcheck with the ball!
Poor Mack. Poor, poor Mack. He and athletic prowess were obvious strangers. Whether or not they'd rehearsed the action – Mack did NOT see it coming. Big Gus – I can only hope unintentionally – fed a sucker-punch right to Mack's lower abdomen, drilling him out of the frame!
The studio's editor had either gone to lunch and left the commercial unfinished, or most likely had only one "take" to work with... for at the fade-out, Mack visibly crumbled, barfing out "rrr-uh-right, Gus... OH GEEZUS!"
No, I wished neither Gus nor Mack any ill – I loved them both – but I just could not stop laughing.
I eagerly watched for days afterward, hoping to see the spot replayed, but apparently someone at the studio saw it too, and pulled it.
So ended another broadcast day at good ol' "Channy Thirtle" as my grandmother referred to it.
Finally, we must journey back to Bakersfield, and the merry wonderland of yet another afternoon kids' favorite, Uncle Woody!
Many people fondly recall him; it was on his show that we got our daily dose of Popeye (the old Fleischer Studio black-n-whites that were superior in every way to the Sailorman's modern day cartoons) and of course the eternally favored Three Stooges. A lot of young fresh eye-pokers got their first addictive dose of Moe, Larry & Curly (and Shemp) thanks to Uncle Woody (Briant)'s show.
Like Uncle Al in Fresno, Woody had a studio full of kids raising blood-curdling havoc behind his back. Running herd for Uncle Woody, so's he could keep both eyes aimed at the camera, was a ragtag, flop-top hatted clown named Chester, who didn't speak, but communicated with a bicycle horn – can anybody say Harpo Marx?
Uncle Woody himself was actually a somewhat handsome feller with boundless energy and a winning smile. He wore a red-n-white striped jacket, that gave the sublime impression that somewhere around the studio, the other three members of a barbershop quartet were on coffeebreak.
Uncle Woody's show was sponsored by Bakersfield's premier kids' emporium, Toy Circus, which Uncle Woody also happened to own, and may still. Over the years, The Uncle Woody Show broadcast on several stations around California – at the time of my loyal viewership, it enjoyed the afternoon slot at KBAK 29.
Like most kidshows of that kind, Uncle Woody and the gang would play games, hold contests, laugh, sing, and in general keep our little worlds spinning – between cartoons. But one seemingly typical afternoon, proceedings suddenly became not-so-typical, and Woody's universe nearly came to an ugly, grinding halt.
It began innocently enough. It became apocalypse in a heartbeat.
Knock-knock jokes. Everyone loves 'em! "Okay," Uncle Woody beamed to his rambunctious troop of adorable scamps, "I'm going to come around to each and every one of you, and you tell me your favorite knock-knock joke!" It was just to mark time while the crew spooled up the Stooges.
All went just fine for five or six knock-knocks... then Uncle Dubb came to a freckly cross-eyed wonder who's grin was just a tad too broad somehow, who smiled even bigger as the mic neared, to reveal a disturbingly cavernous absence where rotten little teeth had once wiggled.
You just knew this wasn't going to end well.
UNCLE WOODY: Okay, little fella, your turn!
KID: Knock knock!!
UNCLE WOODY: Who's there??
KID: (F-BOMB!!)
If KBAK even had someone at the bleep-button, he wasn't fast enough. An entire studio of restless brats – and Chester's horn – all became eerily silent. Uncle Woody's glazed eyes peered searchingly off-camera.
At least he'd had the presence of mind to not respond "(F-bomb) who?"
The little bald-mouthed lizard smiled hugely into the lens – Mission Accomplished! An hour seemed to pass – it was actually about 15 seconds.
Someone behind the camera cued the Stooges. Just. In. Time.
When the film concluded, apparently so had the show. About an hour later, KBAK's manager, the unflappable Gene DeNari, broke in on regular programming, with Uncle Woody seated next to him. Woody did not look happy. DeNari never looked happy.
(DeNari himself hosted a weekly half-hour called "Let Me Talk to the Manager," in which he sat at a desk and responded to viewer mail. Though apparently quite effective behind-the-scenes, his on-camera persona was the cure for insomnia. An expression-free funerial monotone that brought to mind a vision of Frankenstein reading the whitepages.)
I don't remember if Uncle Woody spoke, or just sat solemnly while DeNari groaned out a carefully cue-carded apology. Nevertheless Uncle Woody endured a lifetime with every flat, drawn-out word.
After that night, I don't recall ever seeing Uncle Woody on KBAK. Ever again. Ever. If he was, it has been wiped clean from my mind, like a chalkboard after a summer break's soap-down. Which is a shame, for the tragedy was not his fault.
I think the kid grew up to run for the Senate.
That's how I remember it, Uncle Woody. Please know that I loved you. And still do. I hope where ever you are, you're warm, dry, with a full belly, and surrounded by loved ones.
How does a person grow up even marginally normal, with a mind colored by such things? Somehow, we all did. And even marginally counts. When I channel surf today's line-up of entire networks devoted to single topics, like all-food networks, all-sports, all-renovation, all-kids, all-you-name-it, I can see how far we've come from the golden days of under-planned and over-rushed local TV chaos.
Now and then, one of these classic trainwrecks on video is rediscovered, and preserved on some blooper show, or on YouTube. Thank somebody for that – for these moments say more about the legacy of television than any pristine documentary on the History Channel.
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