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.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
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.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Great Halloween Costume Ideas... for 2010!
I had a notion to jump way ahead in my efforts to wish everyone a Happy New Year – eleven months to be exact. In a way, just planning a new year's eve party by itself is the epitome of living for the moment. There's a whole year still sitting there, that could use a little long-term thinking. We didn't do much of that in 2009, and look where it got us. So let's rattle some cages and set an itinerary for the NEXT holiday season, beginning with everyone's fave dress-up day!
Nowadays mostly grown-ups do Halloween, while the kids stay home and Wii. In that light, I'd like to offer – a year in advance – a few costume ideas for young-at-heart Halloween adventurers. Stunningly original outfits that are sure to be real attention-getters around any neighborhood. Enjoy.
10. AN ANNOYING NEIGHBOR WITH A SENSE OF ENTITLEMENT
Old jeans. Tank-top. Flip-flops. Lots of bling. And before wearing it, store your costume in a misty cuspidor for that aroma of chain-smoker goodness.
Insist on giving that four-part tribal handshake that nobody can do right, to whomever answers the doorbell, with a loud "Awwwrriiggghhhhhh!" Don't ask, but DEMAND several helpings of candy. Complain about their yard, and how much better it would look if they took care of it as well as you do your own. Remind them how crappy everything they own is, compared to yours. Then ask if you can come back later for whatever candy is left.
9. A SACK OF MONKEY CRAP
Find a cheap gorilla mask. Create the body of the costume out of an old burlap bag – smudged liberally with spots of brown paint. Carry a concealed baggy with actual poop (horse, dog, any species of feces will do) to provide the olfactory element.
PERSON AT DOOR: "Holeeee shit, what's that smell!"
YOU: "It's me, I'm a sack of monkey crap! Give me some candy or I won't leave!"
8. A FAST-FOOD DRIVE-THRU
Fashion a body-sized cardboard box with two eyeholes, plus make your candy receptical out of an old fast-food bag of your choice.
When the door is opened, do a quick 'static' sound effect and say "ticcchhh-er-tee." When they ask you to repeat, say again "tigggcchhh-errr-teeee."
7. AN EMO ON THE REBOUND
Color your hair and nails black. Wear black lipstick and go way over the top with mascara, blush and eye-liner. Wear lots of purple, green and BLACK. Conceal a few chops of onion about your person, to help you stay teary and sniffly, and also to give yourself the air of someone who sleeps in their car frequently. Bring along some pre-crumpled sheets of binder paper, that your 14-year old niece has covered with bad teen poetry. When the door is opened, start reciting.
Then ask the person at the door if your poetry is worth all the candy in the bowl. As they slam the door in your face, scream "WHY WON'T YOU ACCEPT MY LOVE??"
6. AN iPHONE
Scan your iPhone's front on a copier, then blow it up until you have a costume-sized picture of an iPhone that you can wear! When knocking on doors, instead of holding out a bag, present a 70-page itemized bill for all the candy.
5. AN OPEN MIC NIGHT GEEK
Go for big laughs with jokes that would get a poker-face from even a sugared-up 3rd grader. When the people at the door don't laugh, flip them off. Tell them how long it took you to come up with your material. Hold your bag out for a chance at "sympathy candy."
4. A URINE SAMPLE
Cut leg holes in a huge industrial-strength plastic bag. Tape the leg holes water-tight to your thighs. Tie off the top after filling it with lemonade. Make a cap out of Saran-wrap and a rubber band. Paste a label to your chest, hand lettered: "Herpes Simplex III" or simply "Bladder Infection."
3. KANYE WEST
The minimum you need are expensive sunglasses and a hand-held microphone. When another trick-or-treater rings the doorbell, jump in front of them, and burst into a loud, improvised rap about how bad their costume is. Swat away any candy tossed at their bag. Then show up later at the same door, ring the bell, and apologize for your earlier behavior – call the trick-or-treater you had abused a true artist, an unheralded genius.
2. MIDDLE MANAGEMENT
Dress like a JCPenny closeout sale exploded on you. Hold an empty coffee cup as if there is still one more lukewarm sip left. Nod your head at everything said to you with a vacant 10-mile stare. Call out obvious single-word proclamations as if they were life-affirming mantras. Example: "Candy... ... ... awesome." High-five the person at the door. Tell them what great work they're doing. Take a fist full of Mini-Snickers bars and powerwalk to the next house.
1. YOUR PARENT OF THE OPPOSITE GENDER
If you're a guy, go in drag as your own Mom. A girl, go as your own Dad – even paint in facial hair if necessary. Explain to those at each and every house you visit, that you are dressed as your parent of the opposite gender. You will get all the candy immediately. The door will slam. The porchlight will go out. Nobody civil wants to interact with your level of sandblasted nutjob.
Nowadays mostly grown-ups do Halloween, while the kids stay home and Wii. In that light, I'd like to offer – a year in advance – a few costume ideas for young-at-heart Halloween adventurers. Stunningly original outfits that are sure to be real attention-getters around any neighborhood. Enjoy.
10. AN ANNOYING NEIGHBOR WITH A SENSE OF ENTITLEMENT
Old jeans. Tank-top. Flip-flops. Lots of bling. And before wearing it, store your costume in a misty cuspidor for that aroma of chain-smoker goodness.
Insist on giving that four-part tribal handshake that nobody can do right, to whomever answers the doorbell, with a loud "Awwwrriiggghhhhhh!" Don't ask, but DEMAND several helpings of candy. Complain about their yard, and how much better it would look if they took care of it as well as you do your own. Remind them how crappy everything they own is, compared to yours. Then ask if you can come back later for whatever candy is left.
9. A SACK OF MONKEY CRAP
Find a cheap gorilla mask. Create the body of the costume out of an old burlap bag – smudged liberally with spots of brown paint. Carry a concealed baggy with actual poop (horse, dog, any species of feces will do) to provide the olfactory element.
PERSON AT DOOR: "Holeeee shit, what's that smell!"
YOU: "It's me, I'm a sack of monkey crap! Give me some candy or I won't leave!"
8. A FAST-FOOD DRIVE-THRU
Fashion a body-sized cardboard box with two eyeholes, plus make your candy receptical out of an old fast-food bag of your choice.
When the door is opened, do a quick 'static' sound effect and say "ticcchhh-er-tee." When they ask you to repeat, say again "tigggcchhh-errr-teeee."
7. AN EMO ON THE REBOUND
Color your hair and nails black. Wear black lipstick and go way over the top with mascara, blush and eye-liner. Wear lots of purple, green and BLACK. Conceal a few chops of onion about your person, to help you stay teary and sniffly, and also to give yourself the air of someone who sleeps in their car frequently. Bring along some pre-crumpled sheets of binder paper, that your 14-year old niece has covered with bad teen poetry. When the door is opened, start reciting.
Then ask the person at the door if your poetry is worth all the candy in the bowl. As they slam the door in your face, scream "WHY WON'T YOU ACCEPT MY LOVE??"
6. AN iPHONE
Scan your iPhone's front on a copier, then blow it up until you have a costume-sized picture of an iPhone that you can wear! When knocking on doors, instead of holding out a bag, present a 70-page itemized bill for all the candy.
5. AN OPEN MIC NIGHT GEEK
Go for big laughs with jokes that would get a poker-face from even a sugared-up 3rd grader. When the people at the door don't laugh, flip them off. Tell them how long it took you to come up with your material. Hold your bag out for a chance at "sympathy candy."
4. A URINE SAMPLE
Cut leg holes in a huge industrial-strength plastic bag. Tape the leg holes water-tight to your thighs. Tie off the top after filling it with lemonade. Make a cap out of Saran-wrap and a rubber band. Paste a label to your chest, hand lettered: "Herpes Simplex III" or simply "Bladder Infection."
3. KANYE WEST
The minimum you need are expensive sunglasses and a hand-held microphone. When another trick-or-treater rings the doorbell, jump in front of them, and burst into a loud, improvised rap about how bad their costume is. Swat away any candy tossed at their bag. Then show up later at the same door, ring the bell, and apologize for your earlier behavior – call the trick-or-treater you had abused a true artist, an unheralded genius.
2. MIDDLE MANAGEMENT
Dress like a JCPenny closeout sale exploded on you. Hold an empty coffee cup as if there is still one more lukewarm sip left. Nod your head at everything said to you with a vacant 10-mile stare. Call out obvious single-word proclamations as if they were life-affirming mantras. Example: "Candy... ... ... awesome." High-five the person at the door. Tell them what great work they're doing. Take a fist full of Mini-Snickers bars and powerwalk to the next house.
1. YOUR PARENT OF THE OPPOSITE GENDER
If you're a guy, go in drag as your own Mom. A girl, go as your own Dad – even paint in facial hair if necessary. Explain to those at each and every house you visit, that you are dressed as your parent of the opposite gender. You will get all the candy immediately. The door will slam. The porchlight will go out. Nobody civil wants to interact with your level of sandblasted nutjob.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
A letter from Kris
Dear Giftee... Dear person who has been "good" all year... tch.
I thought I would break tradition and send a letter to YOU for a change.
It's about time you knew a few things, foremost among them how Santa, yours truly, is getting a little green around the gills at being taken for granted lately.
Oh, I've always had that little complaint, but in the past few years it has really started to bug me, and now I need to get something off my chest. And I need you to sit there for a few minutes and just listen. Can you do that? Listen? It means to put down your damn "networking" gadget, take your mouth out of fifth gear and pay attention, in case you've forgotten. Don't worry, I'll be finished before your ADD kicks in and you're back sending photos of that Fiesta Taco Salad you had for lunch to your 11,000 Facebook friends.
Pause for just a second, and mentally list all the wonderful things you look forward to every year, at the Holiday Season. No, I don't give an elf's ass what religion you officially hate and feel an urge to remind everyone of it. I just mean whatever it is you like doing around this time of year; partying, shopping, hanging out with your family, the break from work, what-the-hell-ever.
You know what I have to look forward to? Can you imagine what a high-velocity cork of reindeer shit coming right at you is like? Think of a baseball pitching machine, set on "high-fast," shooting reindeer turds. Now imagine riding behind EIGHT of them.
I kid you not. You know what kind of metabolism a flying reindeer has? You realize how much a flying reindeer needs to eat? And how efficiently its body processes a pastey mixture of grain, grass and molasses??
Let me just say that by the time I'm just over the Pacific Northwest I'm ready to hurl. And the last thing I want to see when I get inside a house, is a big glass of room-tempurature milk, and a plate of stale snickerdoodles. I'm gagging right now just thinking about it.
It's a wonder I can sneak in and out the way I do, the smell alone must give me away for half a damn block.
And your gift lists... oh-gawd-take-me-now.
Why do you even bother. The Black Friday sales KO'd me a long, loooong time ago. Don't get me wrong, I so so sooo don't mind you taking some work off my back – ever wondered how hard it is to get a 67" flatscreen down a chimney? Oh, I can if I have to, sure. Yes, I'm magic and all that shit, but back when I got my magic, most people were whittling D-I-Y flutes and fiddles, and making mammy-jammy with their third cousins for entertainment.
The magic bag wasn't so heavy, then.
Yoohoo. Over here. No, let it ring. They'll call back if it's important. Or if it's irrelevant.
Just a moment more, then I'll let you get back to what ever it is you "do."
It occurs to me that you, and pretty much everyone else now, has come to take the Holidays as a time to "emo" out. To talk yourselves blue about "peace and joy," then turn the volume knob of your "belief system issues" up to ten.
Yes, I understand, traditions get old. And your parents came from a repressed generation of outdated notions and crappy music. And you're into something way better. On all fronts. Yay.
Let me tell you something. I came from the era when people died at 25 from things like a rotten peach or an infected pimple. In other words, Santa don't sweat the Spaghetti Monster, OK? You live in the age of electric blankets, automatic climate control, designer coffee and pre-bagged salad – that's why you have all this free time to be "Sky Wolf, the Enlightened One" and burn scented candles while you Wii.
Is that pink clamshell on your belt really a phone? Yeah, go ahead, grab it. Connect with your posse.
I'll just sit here and wonder why.
Wrong number? Oh, sorry. I know how much you love having that thing grafted to your ear, especially when you're doing something that requires your complete attention, like driving.
And you call ME a fairy-tale. To be honest, you're becoming pretty hard to believe in, too.
In closing... yes, it won't be long now. First I apologize for being allll-like yoo-know, harsh wid yo ass, know-whut-I'm-sayin? I was simply trying to air out a few things, not dump on your Merry. The Season really is what you make of it. I just get a little ticked when I see people who can only feel like they win by making other people lose.
Disagreeing with you doesn't make someone your target. And some people still derive inner peace, hope, strength – all that "old age" stuff, from embracing tradition. Complain to your spirit guide; maybe he/she/it/both/all-three will s'plain it to you.
Being as I'm usually a harmless passé symbol of Holiday gift-giving, and mainly just an overused presence in advertising and on greeting cards now, I assumed I could rattle off a few grievances without dousing your mood too much. Thanks for holding your breath.
Santa Claus
P.S. That's "Claus," not "Clause." I'm not an addendum to a legal contract.
A quick plug for my other blog!
You can read my movie articles, like the one below, without wading through my other random silliness, at "Laughter Wax," my classic comedy blog. Just click the title above.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Chaplin's "Limelight" – A Critical Appreciation (including the Keaton scenes)
With his Little Tramp long gone, Sir Charles Chaplin – one of the forefathers of modern screen comedy and perhaps the most important single screen presence in the history of early cinema – makes his final film, and some might say, life statement.
The scripted plot of "Limelight" (1952) may be summed up as a May-December love story set in the by-gone world where Chaplin began his career as a child performer, the British Music Hall. The story between the lines, however, is a revealing glimpse into the mind of the artist as an old man – and his final attempt to re-invent himself.
Chaplin creates a complex, if somewhat trite persona in Calvero, an aging stage clown who saves a young ballerina – Claire Bloom – from suicide, and nurses her back from a near career-ending paralysis. Their relationship as mentor-and-mentored becomes strained as he falls in love with her – and she of course never realizes it, until it's past too-late.
If it all sounds familiar, it is. Like the Tramp had done numerous times, and even the lowly barber masquerading as demagogue in "The Great Dictator" (1940), Chaplin's Calvero willingly lays everything on the altar of righteous sacrifice for the sake of an ideal.
It is a window with only an inward view. Chaplin seems to relish his own sage presence. In his sound films he never fails to gift himself with a younger – or at least naive – protégé upon whom to inflict long-winded monologues about the real Chaplin's off-camera worldview. In the silent days, interestingly, it was usually the Tramp who "discovered" these political revelations on his heroically innocent journeys.
In this rightly named finalé to his screen career, Chaplin's performance is visibly calculated. He has nothing left to prove, given his already well ensconced status in film history, and knows it. "Of course I'm brilliant," he exudes in each episodic scene, though this is not to deny the scope or formidable quality of what he offers throughout the picture. That white-haired elder statesman is still "Charlie" somewhere inside, and it shows, despite his obvious struggle to step out of the immense shadow of the Little Tramp.
For those familiar only with the Tramp, his performance here may strike a surreal chord. "Limelight" is arguably his most "talkative" talkie, and Chaplin's character is awash, nay, glowing in self-importance, even when down on his luck. The Tramp would've found this utterly incomprehensible, possibly immoral.
Chaplin was the last great silent era filmmaker to cross over to sound; a maverick holdout against the talkies. They were a blasphemy to him. And only Chaplin could have held out for as long, before finally relenting to the age of the microphone. His "Modern Times" (1936) is in fact, considered the very movie that officially closed the American cinema's silent era. Like his earlier silent masterpiece "City Lights" (1931), it was completed and exhibited well after theaters equipped for sound had become dominant.
The "Limelight" soundtrack boasts surprises on many levels. Chaplin doesn't just speak for novelty's sake, but displays a casual expertise with dialogue, and in a scene or two, a handsomely robust singing voice. The music hall boy still lurked inside him.
The mind reels so slightly for an instant: Chaplin's voice...!
As if he'd never spoken on film before, in each of Chaplin's "soundies," his voice seems to mesmerize. The ear hangs on his every word, seeking to capture it, like a rare bird. Charlie Chaplin's presence on any soundtrack is a somewhat mystical experience. Like witnessing the fleeting passage of a wraith across a dark hallway.
But with some of Chaplin's speaking roles, he'd misjudged its value. In "The Great Dictator," Chaplin's bromide-heavy speech for universal solidarity, in the final reel, is a single flaw in an otherwise peerless black satire of Hitler. On the other hand, in "Monsieur Verdoux" (1947) he definitely released his vocal powers to memorable and even haunting effect. Verdoux, a serial murderer 30 years before that term entered the lexicon, was certainly his greatest, and perhaps most successful, attempt to exorcise the Tramp; the "little fellow's" mirror opposite in every way.
Yes, Charlie Chaplin, playing a serial killer. Intrigued? Rent it!
Instead of waddling off into the sunset, Verdoux marches defiantly to the waiting gallows at dawn, after swallowing a glass of brine, with a hint of dark ecstasy – the Tramp's delicious death rattle: "I always wanted to taste it."
In "Limelight" he portrays a man very much dependent upon his voice. Calvero is a song & dance comedian. Up until his sound films, Chaplin spent four decades perfecting the caricature of the Little Tramp, living in a visual universe where voice was not only unnecessary but in some cases irrelevant – where those who spoke could only mime a stammering jaw-wag that visually stood in for the outpouring of words. The want hardly even occurs to imagine the Tramp's voice. Everything the Tramp ever needed was visual. Though Chaplin may have loosely made the Tramp a template when he manufactured Calvero, he drew an outline only, and replaced the center with a stunning departure from his realm of masterful visual storytelling – a character for whom sound and voice are not just crucial elements, but defining ones.
The Tramp's voice had been heard only once before "The Great Dictator." In "Modern Times" he takes a turn as a singing waiter, and when his crib-noted lyrics fly away during his opening dance, he sings a song of faux-French gibberish. The meaningless yet saucy non-word lyrics served to only further illustrate Chaplin's philosophy that visual presentation was the true focal point. The verbal was garnish, nothing more.
In Kevin Brownlow's incomparable book on the silent era, "The Parade's Gone By" (1976, University Of California Press), he declares that the silent and sound cinemas were more than just opposing sets of expository rules, but were in actuality two entirely different art forms. Charlie Chaplin proved Brownlow's hypothesis, although in ways that were sometimes disappointing – he would never dominate the talkies as he had the silents.
"Limelight" has a contrivance-on-rye flavor. The plot lurches and shuffles around the most obvious corners and twists. The dialogue is stiff and intemperately punctuated, though delivered undeservedly well. Chaplin unwinds his yarn like a teacher reading a storybook to a room of kindergartners; overstuffed even by 1950s standards. And as it is later revealed, all a set-up for one of his self-indulgent manifestos.
Calvero's flea circus act is over-simple, and overlong. It is enigmatic only for being a sanded-down reprise of a rare performance filmed nearly thirty-five years earlier.
During his stay at either the silent Mutual Studios, or First National, Chaplin attempted his first departure from the Little Tramp, with a character almost exactly the Tramp's opposite. "The Flea Circus" (1919), also known as "The Professor," is a freakish little presense in Chaplin's canon – a gift from an alternate universe, never officially released, but restored and viewable within some modern Chaplin documentaries. Chaplin plays a cynical, wrangley sideshow gypsy, dour and grimy, down to a moth eaten longcoat and ragged top-hat. Performing his act in a flophouse, chaos erupts when his flea performers mutiny and quickly infest everything, and everyone, in sight. Chaplin had even created a comic, misanthropic walk for this dour persona – a polar opposite of the Tramp's optimistic waddle. The only commonality was in the film's final shot, where Charlie exits into the sunset (or in this case, moonset) offering one last leg-shake to dislodge one of his insect tormentors.
Technically, "Limelight" is at times a groaner. Sound effects scream out their tinny artificiality. The most glaring sins occur in the theater scenes where the audience is clearly present on the soundtrack only, as evidenced by obvious volume manipulations to raise and lower the applause.
The one moment that earns this movie a permanent place on every cinema buff's shelf occurs in the last reel. And what a moment it is. For Calvero's farewell performance, he enlists an old friend to assist him – an old friend portrayed by none other than real-life old friend, Buster Keaton.
Though they are both slowed by age, the scene is nonetheless historic – their only appearance in a feature together, ever – and cosmic for silent comedy aficionados. Rembrandt and Di Vinci share a tea break.
Keaton's first line is so pregnant, it's hard to imagine the two men were unaware of its significance: "Well who'd have thought we'd come to THIS."
Buster's line delivery looks and sounds earnest to a fault – the still-present stage method from Vaudeville, and a main gripe among critics of Keaton's sound film work. Chaplin, meanwhile, remains aloof and catlike; an almost subconscious betrayal of his defenses being triggered by Keaton's close proximity, perhaps? Or was he simply Calvero, as his own script dictated?
Word spread that Chaplin was curt with Buster during filming, but this seems to be mere rumor. Other historical sources have revealed a few basic facts that outweigh the claptrap. Chaplin adamantly barred people he didn't like from his sets, therefore, he and Keaton were obviously on good terms. Some sources claim he personally requested Keaton – which seems most likely; rather than a cartoonish scenario of Buster Keaton answering a blind casting call for a Charlie Chaplin film.
Neither can we overlook the photographic evidence: still shots exist of Charlie and Buster working out the choreography of the scene, between takes! These details seem to dismiss any gossip of on-set tension between the two.
It's difficult to imagine Buster being hostile toward anyone on-set – if anything, he may have tried too hard to be helpful, to a point that perhaps annoyed Chaplin.
In the production of his last film, "The Railrodder" (1965), a travelogue shot in Canada, the only thing that apparently got under Buster's skin was his perception of his young director's inability to stage shots properly, in order to be matched up in editing. Keaton could only watch – and occasionally diagram for the youngster how certain on-screen business should fit together – then wander off to shed tears of anguish when his suggestions were overruled.
There exists footage of this, in the behind-the-scenes documentary "Buster Keaton Rides Again" (1965/66). The visage of the Great Stone Face openly weeping is heart-wrenching indeed. Then he sniffs it up... and proceeds to take his mark before the lens and be BUSTER KEATON. A remarkable man, under-appreciated, and used up.
But on the set of "Limelight," there were no such moments of private torment. All was as it should be; Chaplin and Keaton, each the other's only legitimate rival, yet with their private competition settled long ago to a mutual satisfaction. It was a draw. Both were content. Case closed.
They do a comic duet on stage in which Keaton plays the piano while Chaplin takes the violin. Hardly a note is played, as the comedic business involves the attempts of the two "virtuosos" to prepare to play. Chaplin emerges as the dominant performer in the scene, perhaps because he gives himself the majority of the business in the script. Despite the non-balance, this is one – and for some, the only – scene in the whole movie that causes audible laughter.
It is also the scene that displays Chaplin's showman genius in top form – not just in his performance, but his strategic involvement of Keaton, for the "skit" contains a subliminal geography of historical respect and appreciation for his chum.
Chaplin's comedic action is a study in "low" pantomime – consisting of body gags and facial expressions. Keaton's business relies on slapstick and the abuse of props – garnished by Keaton's stone deadpan. Chaplin's half of the scene perspires of the British Music Hall... Keaton's of Vaudeville. It is a testament to Chaplin's cognizance and keen measuring of his fellow silent clown's roots, against his own – and his ability to mesh them together so pleasingly. It might indeed be observed, that from all of Keaton's film roles that he did not self-direct, his best director was possibly Charlie Chaplin!
One bit involves Keaton accidentally stomping on Chaplin's violin, causing the two to briefly share a double-take at the destroyed instrument. No, it isn't the funniest thing ever captured on film, but on the galactic scale of cinematic comedy, Chaplin and Keaton double-taking at the same object has got to rank somewhere just below the Big Bang. Hardcore comedy fans may come away with the moment still looping in their minds, to the point of distraction, perhaps even missing the film's ending because of it.
Did the two men wonder if reality itself would shudder? Probably not. Did they just view it as another job? One wonders.
"Limelight" is an anomaly in Chaplin's cinema catalog for yet another reason. While important for being his last screen appearance, and rare cinematic evidence that he and Keaton shared the same planet, it is also a strange prism of distortion regarding his own theatrical moorings.
At its core "Limelight" is little more than B-movie fodder; an unremarkable work, considering the magnitude of its star. The screen personality whom at his peak was arguably the most famous human being on the globe, takes his final bow with nothing more than a death scene hardly worthy of low-budget melodrama. Calvero suffers a heart attack on stage, and passes away in the wings, watching his young ballerina enjoy the "limelight" of a renewed career.
The film's "fin" is utter cliché. Chaplin ends an incredible forty-year solo with a cough.
A white cloth is draped over his brow. Everyone looks on, including Keaton, probably wondering "oh brother," but playing his role exactly as his old pal requires him to.
Charlie does not amble off toward a horizon of tomorrow's promise, with his lady love, as he had done in "Modern Times." In fact, the final shot of that film may have served as a far more satisfying farewell regarding Chaplin's career.
When the Tramp made his final exit, so too did Charles Chaplin, only he apparently failed to realize it.
Many believed Chaplin lost his edge when he abandoned his derby hatted alter ego, including fellow silent era icon, and longtime Chaplin friend and associate, Mary Pickford. "When Chaplin got rid of the little tramp with the cane, the tramp turned around and killed him," she once said. Over a half-century later, her observation still appears spot-on.
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This article is also located at my blog "Laughter Wax." (Click article title.)
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