​Well, not exactly cholera, but still shoulders deep in a pandemic, saddled beside the worst presidency of anyone’s lifetime, so, much like anytime served in a soviet gulag, finding a good belly laugh can be difficult. Rest assured, they are out there and hella easy to find.

I get most of my truly great laughs nowadays from the exploits of those currently in power. Let’s face it, the current administration is the Dead End Kids of politics. Whether it’s storming off an interview with Lesley Stahl from 60 Minutes, or hawking magic potions that can cure us all of COVID, they are always up to something. Shakespearean in scope, tragic in results and comical in everything they do, this is the administration of Donald J Trump. These are the times we live in so as ready to paint lamb blood on our doors November 3rd while praying for a redeemer, let’s all take a collective breath and celebrate some of the good times we all shared.
Rev. Falwell in a corner of the room, masked in shadow, peering around a corner while his sacredly betrothed wife gets it in on with a Florida pool boy. And, while we’re at it, how about his picture which he was stupid enough to post to social media with his pants undone and his arm around a female half his age. Honestly, I’d say these jokes write themselves but they’re not so much jotted down but unfold before our disbelieving eyes like a full blooming flower.
 
And it is worth noting, this is the Family Values Administration.
 
How about the cajones of one Steve Bannon, Seinfeld producer, Breitbart founder, Presidential Advisor and a man who never tires going on about that the rights of the forgotten American male? He was busted for mail fraud aboard a yacht, selling shares for portions of the government funded wall. I guess it was much like buying a brick with your name on it at a sport’s arena, accept you get the bragging rights to an entire portion of wall. 
​
​There’s Roger, tattoo of Nixon on his back, Stone sharing his wife and MILF on a sex-sharing site.
 
And don’t forget Trump joking to share his Press Secretary with the President of North Korea.
 
And the list goes on, and on and on…
 
But my favorite, the cherry on the top of this vile mess of corruption:

Rudy “The Red Skull” Giuliani. The personal lawyer of the President and confidant, laying on a bed with his hands halfway down his pants while a girl who he believes is 15 stands close by. 
Tucking in his shirt, is the excuse. A blatant disregard to norms, laws and morals is the reason. His blatant act sort of sums up the last four years for me.  

Drain the swamp. Lock him/her up. Hunter Biden. These are all deflections of what has been going on the last four years as fat, corrupt, billionaires raped and pillaged you and this country. 

Remember all that and vote!
 

​So, in this never-ending onslaught of rogue viruses, vile politicians and ongoing threat of death by raging wildfire, I find myself returning to the only place where I can find any lasting inner peace, the film adaptation of Hello Dolly starring Barbara Streisand. In the last few weeks I find myself returning more and more, like some crazed heroin addict jonesing for yet another hit of Babs.I don’t even really how I ended up in such dire straits. One minute I’m minding my own business attempting to find out when the 2nd season of Mandalorian starts, the next I’m putting on my Sunday clothes because I feel down and out. 
 
I really do need help. While normal people have tunes such as Ran$om by Lil Tecca echoing around in their head, I have Before the Parade Passes By and It Only Takes a Moment slowly eating away at my brain stem. While record numbers fearing the Apocalypse stand patiently in line at Bass Pro Shops to get a handgun, I am perusing Amazon for a decent priced Dolly Blu-Ray.
 
It certainly doesn’t make any sense and I can’t even try to explain it. For God’s Sake, Walter Matthau sings for Christ’s sake! I’m at my wits end. I have even attempted imputing different musicians in hopes of purging Jerry Herman from my brain cavity. But, it’s no use. Babs isn’t going anywhere. And it’s getting worse. Tomorrow I’ll be driving around my neighborhood, Hello Dolly flags fluttering from the bed of my pickup with Just Leave Everything to Me blaring from the stereo speakers. 
 
Please consider my cry of, “Look, I’m dancing!” as a cry for help.

Editors Note: It was bound to happen. But let's face facts. It's either vote this orange piece of shit out now or, God forbid and he does not leave peacefully, go all French Revolution on his ass. 

As my burning,  all consuming hatred for our current President, Donald J Trump grows like a raging Northern CA wildfire, I feel it is only fitting that I post some of my favorite images of said bastard as a way of celebrating my loathing for this most despicable human being ever to infest our planet. I have utilized all of the following images faithfully, attaching them to tweets directed to the president and are usually accompanied by my sincerest wish that he “fuck off” very soon.  I am proud to say that since posting said verses,  I’ve not been banned from the Twitterverse and can only assume that a good number of you feel the same way. Posting such wishes with unbridled enthusiasm does, however, carry some degree of risk. But, what the heck. He stays, like the rest of you like minded haters, it’s full on sprint to the nearest border.
​

Pictured: A rather tame sample of my daily tweets to a tyrant

In closing, he really is a useless bag of racist, orange shit.
 
Anyway, without further adieu, I present my favorite Presidential Portraits of Donald J. Trump. Who knows they may even end up in his Presidential Library. And, if things go my way, the library will be located in Dannemora Maximum Correctional Facility.
 
​

​Introducing the new seasons of Northern California: 
 
Dry Winter, Early Summer, Hot Summer and my least favorite season of the year, Fire. Most of you know it as good ol’ fashioned fall; a time when the leaves turn to a golden rust and drop from the trees and only to be raked for fear of the soggy droppings clogging up the storm drains. The leaves in Northern CA turn as well; to a crackling, dry consistency of an overcooked potato chip, shattering at the slightest touch. The sky is never the cold, dark of an impending rain shower but mostly from a lack of visible sun. We do have an ever-present ash, gently falling, collecting in the tops of our cars, dusting the streets and sidewalks our neighborhoods and collecting in the deep recesses of our lungs. Doesn’t it just make you just want to go outside and make a snow angel? This is our 3rd fire for us. Like hurricanes, the scientists and fire fighters have names for the hellish infernos now. This one closest to us is called, “Not another fucking fire,” and is two percent contained.  
 
In short, life is pretty much as it was presented in the movie, Interstellar. All that is missing is the corn. I tell you this not for your sympathy but to gently nudge you toward the conclusion that things are changing. The earth has become irate, consistently probed, choked, raped and pillaged. Her jungles have been cleared, her forests “managed,” her water exploited, her crust baked, a growing number of native species made extinct. And still there are people who say that this is all normal, that the earth will remarkably bounce back. Well, maybe the earth will, in a million years or so. Call me cynical, but I don’t think we will. Maybe that is a good thing. Lately, as a species, we seem pretty anxious to prove that we’re not worthy to be stewards of something that was once so wonderful. Civilization is hurtling toward the world of Soylent Green, Interstellar and Running Man and we choose to ignore it in favor of the conspiracy rambling of a group of called Q. Jesus, we deserve what we get. 
 
There are, no doubt, a few of you that believe, well why you don’t you just stop living there. You can always move. And, if we can find someone to buy a house teetering on the precipice overlooking hell itself, we will. If we do move, it will most likely buy us a year or two. I am of the firm belief, and I am sure a few scientists will back me up on this, that soon the seasons all over the world will be changing. It doesn’t take Randy Quaid and the director of Independence Day to convince me of that. I see it every day. It seems Mother Nature is calling out to us, “You can run, but you can’t hide, mother-earth fuckers.” Maybe that is why most of my fellow citizens prefer to bury their heads in the sand. The view is better down there.

Deep breath!  
​
Okay, and now for a tiny bit of good news. Another great review of Son of Ravage from the legendary comic book and pulp fiction writer, Ron Fortier. It will not put out any fires but is certainly appreciated.  Thanks, Ron!

And, BTW, message recieved. It’s hangar, not hanger. 

​First things first, a big fuck you to all of those for whatever reason decided not to vote in the last election. We are reaping big time on your decision to sit at home and binge episodes of Justified. The promise that is America is vanishing before our eyes, replaced by a neo Nazi collection of racists, homophobes and misogynists. We witness chaos in the streets, ignored a pandemic that has claimed 200,000 lives and sat back as innocent persons of color are shot in the back. It is time to take a long look in the mirror. But how are you doing? Good? Fuck you.
 
We cut property taxes – because we did not think it was fair for us to pay for anyone else’s education. We cut services – because we felt it was up to churches and private organizations job to take care of the mentally unstable and homeless. We cut funding to the arts, high school, college and nationally because such programs are only for high brows and “fags.”
 
We drive gas guzzling autos and trucks because we don’t care the planet is dying. We bully those less fortunate because it is stylishly in season. We rally for hate and squash what was once legal, social descent. We hold up a bible without even a lame attempt to live up to its principles.
 
We can’t follow the simplest instructions and wear a goddamn mask because it infringes on our personal freedom to infect ourselves and others. We ignore science in favor of wishful thinking. We ignore experts and lovingly embrace conspiracies. 
 
“Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more.”
 
Perhaps it’s too late, but the least we can do is get off our asses and try. We can donate to the candidates we believe in and, if we can’t donate, we can campaign. We talk to an ass-wipe that sat out the last election and convince him that now is not a good time for apathetic indifference.  Don’t do it for yourself, you’re a lost cause. Do it for the children you insist on continuing to bring into the world.
 
So, get off your fat ass and do something that is not just for yourself. At the very least, vote.
 

​It was a fateful Christmas Evening in 1988, I had stopped by offices of John Davis Productions located on the 22nd and 23rd floor of the state-of-the-art office tower located in middle of the Century City. The sparsely populated offices smelled of construction, fresh paint and yes, dare I say it, terrorism. I was to meet Bettina Viviano and Michael J. Nathanson ((there’s another producer named Michael Nathanson who likes hookers, so it is very important not to forget the initial), in the conference room of the 23rd floor to discuss my option on the screenplay Yardboy. Never did I realize that what had started out as 1st payment and harmless story meeting would turn into an act of heist masquerading as an act of global terrorism.
 
Okay, maybe I have my dates and events a little mixed up. But it was definitely the same building located in Century City. I’m sure of that much. And maybe, by the time I was there, they had renamed it the giant of glass and steel Fox Tower, but the fundamental elements of the story were none the less the same. I needed to use the Xerox machine and, by God, come hell or highwater, shoes or no shoes, weapon or no weapon, I was going to make some copies.
 
Hoping they had the next big project for young Macauley Culkin, the optioning producers met me at promptly 1pm, and before settling down to lunch, we signed all contracts giving them exclusive rights to pedal Yardboy for one year.  
 
Lunch was casual, a choice of catered sandwiches from a nearby deli. We got down to the notes of the story and wrapped up promptly in two hours. Before leaving, I nonchalantly asked if I could use the copy machine for the copy of my contracts and a charming assistance escorted me to the midsized room.
 
For obvious reasons, copy machines at production companies have strict procedures. Back then, a key was required as well as signing off so that scripts, or other important documents, didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Illegal use of a copier is serious business. I know a guy who spent the night in jail for illegally using the copy machines at Warner Brothers. Maybe someday, I will tell you about him.
 
I made my copies without incident, slid them into my briefcase and drove my rental car back to Pasadena where I was staying with friends.
 
I know. I know. You were hoping for something a bit more dramatic. Something where I arrive to find the copier had been tampered with and the following scenario ensues: 
 

Nope. Sorry to disappoint. However, the parking fee to get out of the tower was a bit steep and the winter traffic was heavy on the drive back to Pasadena. But other than that...
 

​When crafting a modern classic, it is imperative that you seek out what has worked before and capitalize. I am no slouch in the “capitalizing” department, so I went to who I considered the masters of this special craft, Abbot and Costello and The Three Stooges. For example, who would have dreamed that a teaming of three famous knuckleheads and the son of a Greek God? Of course, I am referring to the modern masterpiece, Three Stooges meet Hercules. However, you are not always guaranteed success when you attempt such a tried and true formula. One need no go further than the ill-timed Laurel and Hardy meet the Mummy, starring none other than Balki himself, Bronson Pinchot, or the celebrity pairings of the cast of Scooby Doo and practically everybody to learn that such pairings do not always work. No, you are playing with the fire of the gods and it is imperative that you tread carefully.
 
So, where did we leave off last week. I’ve just moved down to Hermosa Beach, I’ve barely had time to unpack my belongings and I have my first assignment, come up with an idea for identical twin/tween superstars. I don’t know about you but when I am faced with such a daunting task, I may first require the aid of a stiff drink or the calming effects of a certain botanical. No such luck, the cupboards were literally bare. At least I had the aid of a pack of Marlboro “apples and that should get through at least two ideas.
 
Then it hit me link a ton of bricks. I must go way back and literally consult the masters. The answer would be there. My answer was in the old The Patty Duke Show. Patty and Kathy, mistaken identity and always fighting over the same boy. Why it was practically an American stable of television teen fiction. But it still needed a twist as modern Hollywood has long since forgotten the virtues of classic television of Patty Duke. But I was determined. All I needed was that special something to make it truly special. What if the cute tween boy was from outer space, cast adrift much like Spielberg’s poor, withered extraterrestrial and the two girls are his only hope of getting home.  
 
I furiously wrote down my pitch, one page, all three acts and faxed it over. I was starving and headed out a place in Redondo where the Duke himself, John Wayne, used to stop for eggs. When I got back, I had a message. The partners at Green Epstein loved the pitch and were passing it along. Now, all I had to do was wait…and maybe do some grocery shopping.
 
What? They passed? Did those little twin crotch droppings even know what they were passing on? Turned out it wasn’t me or my potentially award-winning synopsis. The deal had already been made and the powers that be behind the twins had already decided it was time to move on. But, hey, if you’ve read my blog, you know it’s not like this sort of thing hasn’t happened before. 
 
It’s not like there won’t be other prepubescent twins that will need stories, right?  
 
Here endeth this week’s blog post.
 

And, no, we are not talking about the precedent setting court case of the same name.

I'm referring to those delightful twin imps, stars of the hit sitcom, Full House, and their memorable direct to video series Mary Kate and Ashley at the Beach, Mary Kate and Ashley in the Country, Mary Kate and Ashley in Outer Space and of course, my favorite, Mary Kate and Ashley’s Parents, Agents and Publicists Cash In By Producing a Series of Direct to Video Doorstops. To say these little productions were a hit would be an understatement. They sold over a million units, ranking right up there with such children classics as Disney Sing-a-longs, Thomas the Tank Engine and, Where in the World Did Carmen Sandiego Put My Car Keys. Most of the early videos were produced by my friends at a company called Green/Epstein Productions, so welcome to this week’s blog.
 
I had been in Los Angeles precisely one day when I decided to drop in on the offices of G/E. They had purchased a house in the North Hollywood hills, a small walking distance to the restaurants and shops of Ventura Blvd and made the comfortable abode their office. The principles owned property in Santa Barbara but lived in the house during the week in order to conduct that business we call show. I found the entire office in a complete dizzy. Their principle cash cow, more precisely human twins, were growing up and tired of the pubescent drivel they had been churning out. It was time now to make the move to a motion pictures. In the words of Nora Desmond (from Thomas the Steam Engine attends Catechism): “I was big! It was the pictures that got small.” 
 
Their first demand was a title without the words “at the.” They were quicky becoming tweens and needed more mature material, something along the lines of Mary Kate and Ashley meet Frankenstein. To make matters worse, if G/E could not find a suitable venue for their mature new storytelling, these adorable, post pubescent guttersnipes would go somewhere else.
 
Green Epstein Productions were pioneers in network television. Do you happened to remember the ABC Monday Night Made for TV Movie? Most likely not, but for those of us that do, collectively they were really something. That little piece of programming gave us such jewels as Spielberg’s Duel and The Night Stalker by producer Dan Curtis. There were countless others, but both partners were in on the bottom floor and they were very much respected in the business. Later work included Stephen King’s It and a live production of On Golden Pond with Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer. One of my first big options with the company was on a little script I had wrote called My Pet Dinosaur. Their story sessions were always helpful, and I genuinely liked the people, the office and their work. 
 
When I say I had been in Los Angeles, Hermosa Beach precisely, one day, I meant a literal and not figurative one. I had not even unpacked my clothes, computer or set up my office in my little house. I stayed at the home office in North Hollywood long enough to get what were becoming familiar marching orders. Come up with some story ideas to pitch and fast, the twins are about to jump ship! By this time, it was midafternoon, and I made the four-hour drive (only a slight exaggeration) back to Hermosa Beach. Once I arrived, I unpacked my HP desktop, set up a makeshift office in the corner of the living room/dining room. I was no Shane Black, but I would give my all to my friends in North Hollywood. I would create an exciting new story for the prepubescent Mary Kate and Ashley, a story too good to refuse.  
 

to be continued

​The Fez (A Cautionary Tale of Hollywood with Hats) Pt 2
 
No I'm never gonna do it without the fez on 
Oh no 
No I'm never gonna do it without the fez on
Oh no 
That's what I am 
Please understand 
I want to be your holy man – Steely Dan
 
“Get that fucking thing off your head!!”
 
I could be jumping directly to the punch line, or I could be simply stating what everyone in the office was thinking when they saw me with the Fez perched atop my head. Keep in mind, I did partake of a few practice runs before my performance at Raleigh Studios. I wore the Fez at a couple of movies (much to the chagrin of the person sitting directly behind me) and had even managed to wrangle a date at a party thanks to the exotic chapeaux. But, at an honest to god, actual pitch session, was still anyone’s guess.
 
The day of reckoning had finally arrived. I had my pitch down, the Fez was atop my head and my strategy was to ignore it and pretend it wasn’t there. I was ushering in a new age; gone were the days of writers in the distinct blue Los Angeles Dodger caps. As was my custom, I arrived at the lot at least fifteen minutes early walked through the check point and moved my way toward the Kennedy Marshall offices which were the furthest point away from Melrose. As I recall, there was a little bistro coffee shop about halfway and I stopped off there for a quick latte. 
 
The midsized lot once was the home of everything from Perry Mason, to Gunsmoke and Let’s Make a Deal and is considered one of the oldest in Hollywood. The Kennedy/Marshall partnership, an alliance that assisted Steven Spielberg with some of the biggest motion pictures in history, occupied and entire bungalow and was much larger office than I expected. 
 
The staff was young, attractive and friendly and, so far, had paid no notice to the Fez. There was a sign above the hallway to the inner offices that basically stated that even though the occupants were in showbusiness, it was no reason not to be nice to people. I appreciated the friendly vibe immediately and considered ditching the “topper.” Before I could snatch it off my head, I was asked whether I’d prefer coffee or water and answered with my usual, “neither.”
 
When you search on IMBD for Jonathan A. Zimbert (he always insisted to include the initial A), nothing much comes up. He was at Morgan Creek for a while, moved to Kennedy Marshall for a brief stint as President before racing back to Morgan Creek. I’ve had lunch with Zimbert, smoked cigars with Zimbert, even met his father and I’m quite sure, he’d have absolutely no recollection of who I am. Or, as we refer to that in Hollywood land, situation normal. This particular meeting took place the tail end of our four-year relationship so, while he still remembered who I was, there was a good chance he might not remember if a Fez was a regular accessory to my wardrobe. I was ushered into the office of a man who produced a number of Peter Hyams’ films as well as a personal favorite, Monster Squad, and sat down to talk Puff the Magic Dragon.
 
“Get that fucking thing off your head!!”
 
At least he said it with a grin, but deep down I knew he meant business. He had once admonished me for the use of my Darth Vader conference phone during a meeting. I am sure it was sound related and had nothing to do with the Sith Lord.  In all honesty, he did like my pitch of Dennis Hopper as the crazed Record Store owner and the magic, transporting listening station. But the Fez spent the rest of the short meeting perched on the arm of my chair. Several years later, in the mid-nineties, I happened to be Fe- less at another meeting at Warner Brothers. Jonathan had gone back to Morgan Creek and his office happened to be nearby. I stopped his office to say hello.  It had only been a few years, but I checked in at the receptionist desk and left a message saying I was in town and I was not wearing a Fez. I never heard back. 
 

According to the documentary on John Milius, (aptly titled Milius), the controversial writer and director once went to a Hollywood meeting wearing a Sombrero and a bandoleer filled with bullets crisscrossing his barrel chest. Most likely it resulted in a six-figure deal with an option to direct.
 
In one of our many drinking and smoking encounters, Thomas “Doc” McComb and I were drunkenly pontificating on the lack of the Fez in men’s modern fashion. Oh sure, you see them on the occasional Shriner, incorporated with circuses, parades (in tiny clown cars), and late-night advertisements for children’s hospitals, but never in a modern restaurant setting or cocktail party. Lo and behold, that Christmas, Doc purchased for me a real Fez. Now mind you, this was not one of these fake jobs that you might purchase at Halloween Spirit Store, but an honest to goodness Fez, one that you might see walking down the cobblestone streets of Cairo or Istanbul. I was elated until Tom through down the gauntlet. He took a long drag of his cigarette, took a sip of his outstanding marijuana infused home brew and dared me to wear it to my next Hollywood meeting. The challenge stipulated that the Fez to be on my head from the moment I drove onto the studio lot until the second I drove off. No cheating and no explanations to anyone who asked or questioned my bizarre choice for a chapeau.
 
Tom McComb, challenge accepted!
 
I first met producer Jonathan A. Zimbert when director Peter Hyams expressed interest in one of, by this time thousands, of scripts. The relationship went off after the dissolution of their partnership and Jonathan and I managed to stay in touch. Jonathan was at Kennedy Marshall Productions at the time, a place filled with so many seemingly happy and contented people that I immediately was struck by what a great place it would be to work. The signature studio is located directly across the street from Paramount and has more of a resemblance to a trendy outdoor mall than a working studio.
 
Apparently, someone at Kennedy/Marshall had come up with the idea to do a live action movie based upon Puff the Magic Dragon (yes, you read that correctly) and writers had been invited to come in and pitch their ideas. I prepared a list of ideas, my favorite being a 60’s record store with a hippy proprietor played by an appropriately Apocalypse Now wigged out Dennis Hooper. Upon stepping into the listening booth and hearing the song by Peter, Paul and Mary, Little Jackie Paper is instantly transported the mystical land of Honali. I’d tell you more, but often my genius doesn’t translate well. Anyways, you get the picture.
 
I had the Fez, I had the pitch, and I had the meeting. What happens next is anyone’s guess.
 
(Next week, the thrilling conclusion.)