"Into the mud, scum queen."

Of all the social media platforms, the one that comes closest to mud wrestling would have to be Elon Musk’s X. And, for the record, I use the term mud very loosely, as just about any sort of mammal excrement seems a far better term for wading through what happens there every day. What once was a platform for connection has now become a microcosm of America, discourse replaced with profanity, accusations, and name-calling. Where discourse still exists on other platforms, it thrives on X.
I mistakenly reactivated my account, taking the advice that it would be helpful for my career. All it really did was make me angry. Every day, bots masquerading as human beings (and most likely vice versa) spew out such hatred that it can only inspire more of the same. It makes you kind of wonder what Truth Social is like.
So, in order to preserve my sanity, I decided to deactivate once again. This time, for my sake and sanity, I hope it sticks.
Goodbye and good luck.

I have been thinking all year of the gift I will be presenting  you this year, and I finally decided; Just Think of it as your bonus for turning in each week.  Enjoy and, most important, no regifting!

How to Differentiate Between the Duplass Brothers and the Duffer Brothers
First, an important clarification: neither sibling pair is affiliated with Property Brothers. No open-concept kitchens or shiplap will be involved.
The Duplass Brothers—Mark and Jay—are an American independent film and television production duo known for their mumblecore roots and character-driven storytelling. Their credits include The Puffy Chair, Baghead, Cyrus, and Jeff, Who Lives at Home, among others. If there’s awkward intimacy, emotional honesty, and a slightly rumpled couch involved, odds are you’re in Duplass territory.
The Duffer Brothers—Matt and Ross—are the masterminds behind the global phenomenon Stranger Things. Their wheelhouse includes supernatural horror, Spielbergian nostalgia, synth scores, and children facing world-ending threats with bikes and walkie-talkies.
As for who would win in a fair fight? Hard to say. The Duplass Brothers might out-talk you into submission, while the Duffer Brothers would probably summon something from the Upside Down. Either way, it would make one hell of a main event—pay-per-view, undercard optional.
It’s been a challenging political year, and my sincere hope is that now and then I’ve managed to inform you, distract you, or at least make you smile. Here’s to 2026. Wishing you all a wonderful new year.

I  saw The Princess Bride in Westwood Village in 1987. The theater was packed, students lined up for the first evening show. At the time, Rob Reiner had already proven himself with This Is Spinal Tap, and I felt confident that if he stayed true to the source material — a book I already loved for its wit and originality — he would have something special on his hands.
 
He did more than that.
From start to finish, it was extraordinary filmmaking.
 
The screenplay, adapted by the novel’s author William Goldman, was perfect. The production was elegant without being showy. Mark Knopfler’s score was sweeping and unexpectedly tender. And Reiner’s touch — that rare ability to balance comedy, romance, sincerity, and fantasy — held it all together. Watching it with a full audience, hearing laughter ripple through the room, felt like one of those rare, communal moviegoing experiences you never forget.
 
Later that same year, I auditioned for a small film called Stand by Me. It was for an off-screen role — a radio disc jockey — and remains the only time I was ever called back for a second audition. No, that isn’t me in the finished film. The second audition didn’t land the way the first one did. That’s how it goes sometimes. I doubt Rob Reiner ever saw either audition, and I wasn’t far enough along for it to matter. Still, it remains a small, personal footnote in a career that intersected with his work in the most fleeting way.
 
The recent news surrounding Rob Reiner and his wife Michele is heartbreaking. It has left many of us stunned. Whatever the circumstances, the loss itself is profound.
 
Rob Reiner’s films mattered. They still do. He told stories that trusted the audience — stories with humor, warmth, intelligence, and heart. He brought joy without cynicism and emotion without manipulation. That kind of voice is rare.

We will miss the work.
We will miss the generosity of spirit behind it.
And we will miss the laughter.
 
Rest in peace.

​The following is an encounter with a notable motion picture director whose glory days fell somewhere between 1903 and 1995. That should narrow this nameless individual down to, oh, a few thousand likely candidates.
Picture it: a Beverly Hills country club, late lunch, sunshine glinting off the Range Rovers. The occasion? A meeting to discuss a screenplay I’d written—one the director had pursued more than once.
Spoiler alert: although the script was optioned several times, the movie never got made. (Shocking, I know. Try to contain your gasps.)
This particular lunch was a first on several fronts.

• First lunch at a country club.
• First lunch with a director whose films I actually counted among my favorites.
• And the first lunch where I found myself smack dab in every writer’s eternal dilemma: blind agreement or gentlemanly correction.

Let me explain.
The conversation had drifted to westerns—always dangerous territory. Most notably, one of my all-time favorites, The Magnificent Seven. I’d been lucky enough to attend a special screening years prior, complete with a Q&A by the legendary composer Elmer Bernstein himself. Truly one of the standout experiences of my movie-nerd lifetime. (And maybe a story for another week.)
Back to lunch.
Dessert arrives. I order a latte; the director orders a single scoop of chocolate ice cream—an oddly adorable choice from a man who once terrorized an entire studio system.
We’re talking westerns, composers, the usual. And then he drops it:
“Elmer Bernstein did NOT compose the music to The Magnificent Seven.”
Cue the writer’s dilemma.
Option One:
Smile warmly, nod, apologize, and pretend this towering fact you know to be absolutely true is suddenly a figment of your imagination. Because hey—maybe he’ll make your movie.
Option Two (recommended only for those over fifty, well-medicated, or just done with Hollywood nonsense):
Gently disagree.
Stick to your guns.
Watch the temperature in the room drop ten degrees.
Naturally, I chose Option Two.
Did the lunch get uncomfortable?
Oh, absolutely.
Did I stand my ground?
I did.
Did the movie ever get made?
A thunderous, unequivocal no.
But honestly, by that stage it wasn’t headed for production anyway, so I figured I might as well salvage my dignity—or at least the reputation of Elmer Bernstein.
Am I happy with my decision?
Sure. As happy as one can be after nuking their chances over a film credit.
And in the end?
It was a free lunch.
There’s always that.

First, a quick refresher: The original Gilded Age (1870s–early 1900s) was a lightning-storm stretch of American history—booming industry, runaway innovation, and enough new money flying around to pave the streets in gold… assuming you ignored the child labor, the sweatshops, the political backroom deals, and the sort of wealth inequality that made the Titanic look like a dinghy.
Sound familiar? With the news of Netflix snapping up Warner Bros., I couldn’t help thinking we’ve circled right back to those “good old days”—only now the industrial giants have traded smokestacks for servers. Different era, same playbook: act in your own best interest, slap a friendly label on it, and hope no one notices the quacking. (A gentle nod here to Tim Cook: if it walks like a duck…)
And here’s the part we keep forgetting: history doesn’t just repeat—sometimes it remixes. We’re past the point of failing to learn from the past. We’re at the point where we’re reenacting it—division, scapegoating, and the age-old pastime of deciding who does and doesn’t “belong.” Just like the Gilded Age… only with better Wi-Fi.
So yes, make your money, nurse your grudges, do your thing. But just remember: the pendulum always swings back. And when it does, to quote the ever-reliable Ben Grimm, “It’s clobberin’ time.”

The second time around the block, silence wasn’t golden — it was a klaxon. Fortunately, I had Glen Held in my corner, and Glen isn’t the type to shrug and hope for the best. Ask him yourself, but I’m fairly certain a small storm of emails and texts went flying into the ether demanding to know what the hell was going on. It didn’t take long before the truth peeked out from behind the curtain.
Pro Se Productions had folded up its tent.
Perfect. A fully finished, fully edited novel… and nowhere for it to land!
Enter the next hero — the creator of Max Davies, the Peregrine himself — Mr. Barry Reese. Barry, the very definition of prolific, wasn’t about to let two authors drift off into the void. Practically before the dust settled, he let us know he’d be publishing both books under his newly formed Reese Unlimited banner, bundled into a series appropriately titled Flights of the Peregrine. Deals were made, handshakes exchanged, and just like that, Glen’s novel and mine were back from the dead and flapping their wings again.
Cut to November 2025: two Flights already in the air, with more warming up on the runway courtesy of some very talented writers.
My paperback of Flights of the Peregrine: The Last Argonaut just arrived, and it’s a stunner. A gorgeous edition, beautifully put together. And as I type this, I’m waiting on the hardback — yes, you read that right — both Glen’s Legends of the Earth and my own The Last Argonaut are now available as handsome hardcover collector’s items.
A lot of people deserve thanks, and they know exactly who they are. But for the record, one more round of applause for Mr. Glen Held, Mr. Dale Russell, and our caped crusader of the hour, Mr. Barry Reese. I thank you, Glen thanks you, and I’m pretty sure The Peregrine and The Red Menace tip their fedora and cowls as well.
Cheers.

It’s never a good sign when a publisher suddenly slips under the radar like a Cold War submarine. Unreturned emails, unanswered calls—it all adds up to one thing: uh-oh.
Fortunately, I had a not-so-secret weapon in my corner—author, investigator, and all-around mensch, Mr. Glen Held. Glen’s a hell of a writer, and both of us had pitched novels featuring Barry Reese’s pulp hero The Peregrine. Part vigilante, part occult detective, all hero—the guy checks every box for two writers who grew up on shadowy alleys and two-fisted crimefighters.
We both worked our tails off on our novels and turned them in… and then? Crickets. Not even polite crickets. Meanwhile, I also had a short story (Operation Purple Zombie) parked with the same publisher, and the runaround had become so routine I felt like I needed frequent-flier miles for it. Add to that the joy of switching literary managers—never a stress-free process—and let’s just say my attention was somewhat divided.
But Glen? Oh, Glen wasn’t having it. He was not about to take this publishing slight lying down.
We traded messages, always ending with Glen promising he’d “look into it,” and look into it he did. He hounded the publisher until, miracle of miracles, an editor named Dale Russell finally emerged from the mist and contacted him. Together they whipped Glen’s book into shape—and surprise! I was next in the chute.
Success! After three years of waiting, something was finally happening.
Once Dale and Glen wrapped, it was my turn in the editing chair. It was my first time working with a bona fide, capital-E professional editor, and Dale was an absolute godsend. Detailed notes on everything—story, structure, and my unnatural fondness for overwriting and repeating myself. (Guilty as charged.) It was genuinely a joy.
Two months later, after a lot of work and a lot of fun, we were finally done.
Off it all went to the publisher and…
You guessed it:

Silence. Again.

Final Chapter:  Next Week!

My hard drive is a virtual elephant’s graveyard of lost stories, novels, and screenplays. Honestly, they’re almost too numerous to name. Some died because of an accident at birth—usually at the hands of their loving author. Some died of old age. (Hey, I fed them as long as I could.) A few were commissioned and then abandoned when the money evaporated, or for some other very Hollywood excuse. And some simply lie in wait, biding their time until I die.
Ha. Bad news, stories: I’m never going away.
But The Last Argonaut was different.
The tale of the Golden Fleece has always held a special place in my heart. It was a favorite story—and film—when I was a kid, and I could never shake the epic adventure out of my head. Many years ago, I wrote a screenplay called Barry and the Argonauts—think Ray Harryhausen meets Ghostbusters. It floated all around La La Land. People read it, even liked it, but no one had the faintest idea what to do with it. Its last stop was the producers of Bill, Mickey Rooney’s Emmy-winning TV movie. Long story short: the concept died a quiet, dusty death, and no one ever made the film.
Cut to many, many years later. I get an invitation to submit proposals to a publisher called Pro Se Productions. I’d already had one story accepted there and figured, why not try my luck again? (If you want more on that other tale—the Purple Zombie one—pick up Tales from the Chair, available now. Yes, that’s a plug. I am shameless.)
My proposal was accepted, contracts signed, and I rolled up my sleeves to write my opus. Barry became author Barry Reese’s daring creation, The Peregrine. Pro Se sent me literal volumes of stories—an entire universe of pulp heroes and villains. It was all wonderfully adventurous and fit perfectly with my lifelong love of pulp fiction.
A quick side note: This is also when I met someone I now consider a friend—Glen Held. His pitch had been accepted too, and we became a sort of two-man support group, trading tips on how to bring Barry’s character to life. Glen and I turned our novels in within days of each other, both of us chomping at the bit to see what Pro Se had planned.
And then… nothing.
(To be continued.)

BTW, did you see the big contest? Now is your chance. December 2o is the deadline so don't let it slip by. Not just one, not just two, not even 3. All four autographed by me. What are you waiting for?

I get asked sometimes if I miss stand-up. The short answer? Not really. There were—and still are—so many comedians who were simply better. Years later, I can look back and truly admire what they do: the discipline, the grind, the sheer nerve it takes to keep getting up there night after night.
As for me, I’m exactly where I want to be. These days, I get to write stories, create worlds, and still make people feel something—sometimes even laugh. Folks read the books, visit the site, and check in just to see what I’m up to. That’s more than enough spotlight for me.
If my website were a small comedy club, we’d be doing just fine.
Most nights, about sixty people wander in — some regulars, some curious first-timers. The lights are dim, the mic’s a little dented, and the jokes are equal parts pulp and punchline.
Real laughs don’t come cheap. But the crowd sticks around, orders another round, and lets me try out new material — whether it’s a fresh story, a wild idea, or a screenplay that just might land.
Some nights, the room’s packed. Other nights, it’s a quiet set for the diehards who’ve heard every bit but still laugh in the right places. I like those nights too.
Every so often, someone important drops by — a producer, an agent, a reader with the right sense of humor. They sit in the back, watch the set, and maybe, just maybe, something connects.
So if you’re one of the sixty — thanks for coming back. If you’re new, grab a drink, find a seat, and stick around. The next set starts any minute now.
Headlining soon: The Last Argonaut, Stay Tuned