​Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr were players.
 
John Lennon sniffed heroin.
 
Sportscaster Marv Albert is into BDSM
 
Donald Trump sold his soul to the devil, was a Russian asset and sold out an entire country for 30 pieces of silver.
 
 
My wife says that if you do not want to learn anything bad about a person, stay away from the Internet. Sometimes you don’t have to. Sometimes it’s in the news and all you have to do is open a paper, unlock your phone or check your computer. Sometimes, someone you admire passes away and, because you think they are a genius and really miss them, you start digging around. In 99.9999 percent of the cases, my wife is right. You find something you would rather not know. 
 
I am a great admirer of Norm McDonald; a brilliant everyman who, in most cases, called it exactly as he saw it. And, in most cases, he happened to be one hundred percent correct. O.J. Simpson is just one example. The relentless pounding he gave the murderer was hilarious. It was worth turning in to Saturday Night Live just to see what he would have to say. My favorite comment, Norm holding a copy of the New York Post that reads: Another Juror Axed. “O.J. Strikes again,” McDonald commented wryly. And so it went, week after week. Lorne Michaels called him the one of the best performers on the segment. And he was right.
 
I could go on and on and on. Most recently, YouTube posted his corona virus routine. The epidemic was in full swing, and he was performing at one of the Imrovs. He was nothing short of brilliant.  His last performance on Letterman is legendary and his I predict his stand-up specials will be a true reflection of what humor is and was. God, I miss him.
 
So, I will choose to ignore that he was a misogynistic dinosaur who took pride that refused to bend with the changing times. Still, I think it is possible to love the art and hate the artist. Sometimes it is just a matter of when to draw the line. Go back deep enough in any of our lives and you will find something we said that does not meet today’s standards. 
 
Part of growing as a person is admitting your mistakes. Again, it is just a question of what, if anything, is too heinous to be forgiven. Right now, the jury is still out. In the meantime, I will continue to listen to my wife.

 RIP

​Confession Time: I love musical theatre. I’ve performed in a few, Godspell, Anything Goes, Hair, Two Gentlemen of Verona, and 1776, twice. I have written two, I Lost Me at the Movies (workshopped only) and Wild Space A Go-Go, both co-written with Kurt Misar and the latter featuring lyrics by Brad Beaver. And, I have seen countless, both on film, television and the most preferred, live. So, while not an expert, I know the difference between good and evil, excellent, and phenomenal. Like the rest of you, I delight in being surprised, loving the discovery of something that has the potential of blowing me away. Come from Away, the new musical by married team Irene Sankoff and David Hein, is all that and much, much more.
 
 Currently streaming on Apple TV Plus, and featuring the talents of an incredible ensemble cast, this Canadian musical tells the tale of a Newfoundland community that opened their doors and their hearts to the 7000 plus anxiety plagued and weary travelers whose airplanes were grounded on their rocky shores soon after the vicious attacks of 9/11.
 
This is musical theatre at its best, able to uplift, entertain, and gently remind us that there is still an abundance of good in the world. In this case, it just happens to be Canadian. 
 
I mentioned the ensemble before, but it bears repeating, they are collectively and diversely exceptional. Playing multiple parts with deftly, dancing and singing exceptionally and most rewarding of all, proving once and for all that you do not need to be a specific “type” to make it on Broadway.
 
There are just too many highlights for me to mention, but if you held a gun to my head, I would have to say the song and dance number, In the Bar/Heave Away, was the most fun while Prayer, 38 Planes and the Dover Fault moved me.  I cannot stress this enough, this musical is worth watching for so many reasons. Chief among them, celebrating the best of us and reminding us gently to what we are capable of.
 
It just opened up back on Broadway, the national tour will be restarting shortly, and you can always see it as I did on Apple TV Plus. Just see it.  
 

​I think there’s one genre of writing that remains harder than any other. I am referring, of course, to the sitcom. There’s a reason that a situation comedy writer’s room contains more bodies than an Osmond Family Thanksgiving. Each chair at the table’s occupied with a writer who specializes. Some excel with a story. Others are comedians adept at adding spot-on jokes that can punch up any script. And, there’s the head-writer, wrangling all these talents and making sure that he delivers a fully realized script each week.
 
Above him, the showrunner. Usually, the creator (or creators) overseeing it all and attempting to make sure that it does not come as a three-episode only train-wreck. I imagine it is the most stressful, aggravating, and exasperating job in all show business. And I say all that, realizing fully that it is one job that I would like to try on for size.
 
I have written three pilots in my long career. The first, Lucky 7, was an original idea by comedian Dave Anderson and me that concerned two hapless roommates who somehow inherit a down-and-out casino. It featured a close-up magician, who housed an endless community of dead and dying doves under his tuxedo, a gangster who was always attempting to buy the place, and the world’s oldest Keno runner. We knew nothing about sitcoms but went ahead and wrote it anyway. It was a lot of fun but never went anywhere. I’ll call that the Intro to Sitcom 101.
 
The second was a comedy pilot script titled Timber. The bottom-line pitch, Barney Miller in a Ranger Station. It featured a PTSD LA Cop who’s forced to take the job to get away from the mean streets of Burbank. Trouble is, any loud, unexpected noises set the poor guy off, hopefully into fits of improv hilarity. Amongst his fellow Forest Service employees, a low-level gangster sequestered away in witness protection, a clueless supervisor, and a long-suffering female partner. The script was written by me, Jerry Lambert, and Tom McComb and made it to a table read that featured the talents of the great Jerry Lambert and a couple of well-known others. Again, we went remarkably far for people who not only had no representation but did not always know exactly what the hell we were doing.
 
There have been other attempts that were never shown to anyone until…
 
CUT TO:
 
Tuesday, August 24, 2021.
 
What can I tell you? Not much. But this is a company that has experience producing television and desperately needs content. I sent them a story bible and an outline of the first ten episodes. The fact that they immediately responded to the idea and asked to see the pilot script is excellent. And, just maybe, it brings me one step closer to my dream.  
 
I guess the lesson here is this. You want to do something, keep trying. 

​Once in a great while, you happen upon something, resulting in an unexpected and delightful surprise. And who’d have thought that I would find it buried deep in the comedy section of a Netflix queue? Not wishing to keep any of you in suspense any longer, I will let you know I refer to the Sony Pictures Animation feature Mitchells vs. The Machines.
 
Written and directed by Mike Rianda and Jeff Rowe, co-written by Phil Lord and Christopher Miller, this is one comedy gem that does not deserve the obscurity that sometimes comes with a pandemic teamed with the streaming option. The characterizations of a dysfunctional family are spot-on. The comedy gags are robust and plentiful, and the message, which is more powerful than one might expect for a family film, is timely without being overwhelming. 
 
Clocking in at a lengthy 114 minutes (a tad longer than most animated comedies), Mitchells vs the Machines never loses its footing or pacing as it careens from one plot point to the next. The story, in a nutshell, concerns the desire of a father to get to know his filmmaking daughter with a cross-country road trip across the country to film school. Along the way, a jealous smartphone AI (sound familiar?) seeks revenge against all humanity for being replaced at a product announcement for a better and flashier version. Society is on the verge of distinction, and it is up to one family, the Mitchells, to stop the machines from disposing of the whole human race.
 
The look of the piece is the perfect blend of computer animation, live photos and old-fashioned hand drawn which makes it distinctly unique from the start and a visual treat from start to finish. It is a job extremely well done by the entire animation staff from top to bottom.
 
The vocal performances from everyone, Danny McBride and Maya Rudolph, down the line to John Legend and Conan O’ Brien, are all top-notch.  This is an excellent way for adults and kids to spend two hours of their entertainment week without the guilty feeling that you get from binging on the creative cotton candy of so-called other “tent-pole” films.  
 
To put it quite simply, Mitchells vs the Machines is as good as it gets. Go see it!

​I grew up on the mean streets of N.E. Portland with only two options of getting out. The choice was either pushing drugs or signing an N.D.A. My formative years were hard, my life tempered by the lawlessness and violence surrounding me. Time was running out for this streetwise rapscallion, and soon it would be too late.

Oh, you think I meant N.B.A. Nope. I'm afraid this player has got no game. I'm talking N.D.A. (Non-Disclosure Agreement). Recently I signed with an unspecified company for an unknown amount. Geez, J.P., could you be just a little more specific. Not really. This is what an N.D.A. is all about.

I can tell you this; I enjoy announcing my small creative victories on social media. Does that make me a social media whore? Yes. But we can talk about my seamy proclivities later. When I asked the company if I could announce I was working with them, they were pretty firm in their response. I will give you a hint. It was one harsh sentence, started with the word "no" and did not have "may" in it, as in, "no, you may not."

So, let's discuss the wonderful world of N.D.A.

According to Wikipedia,

A non-disclosure agreement (N.D.A.), also known as a confidentiality agreement (C.A.), confidential disclosure agreement (C.D.A.), proprietary information agreement (P.I.A.) or secrecy agreement (S.A.) or 'non-disparagement agreement' is a legal contract or part of a contract between at least two parties that outlines confidential material, knowledge, or information that the parties wish to share for specific purposes, but want to restrict access to. ​Doctor-patient confidentiality (physician-patient privilege), attorney-client privilege, priest-penitent privilege , and bank–client confidentiality agreements are examples of N.D.A.s, which are often not enshrined in a written contract between the parties.


I can't shake the feeling that I would've been much better off if I had signed several N.D.A.s throughout my lifetime. In this, or any, business, sometimes saying nothing at all is better than the alternative. Ask anyone who knows me; I am almost too willing to talk. I would have made a lousy prisoner of war. I'd have spilled it all: name, rank, serial number, personal debt to income ratio. In business, T.M.I. is a hell of a reason for N.D.A. For blabbermouths like me, suing someone for violating an N.D.A. can be one hell of an incentive.

I have signed an N.D.A. once before, and no, it wasn't for either Scott, Harvey, or even Kevin. I will just say it was necessary and easy. And, as far as the current one, it’s an N.D.A., I can’t tell you jack!

And now, since I could not find a video even remotely close to our subject matter, I bring you this.

"I thought you were good, Paul, but you're not good. You're just another lying ol' dirty birdie."
 
Well, summer is nearly over, and from one lying ol' dirty birdy to another, I hope you got a heck of a lot of creative things done. I say that because we may be going back into lock-down. Hospitals' beds are filling up, incubators are flying off the shelves, and the rumors of third shot boosters are as commonplace as Q Anon conspiracy theories regarding a stolen election. Oh, and most of the west is in extreme fire season. I swear it’s like being in a Roland Emmerick movie.
 
So, tell me something uplifting, J.P. 
 
Okay, here goes—fun fact for the day. If you have a piece of material out for consideration, and you send a status email, if it has been decided that it's a pass, you'll receive your call or email between 4:45 pm and 6:00 pm. If you do not send a status email, you will hear considerably earlier in the day. Why do I say this? What prove do I have for this wild assumption? I don't have any proof besides checking the timestamps on all my emails (which I do). Let's call it more of a pattern. 
 
Probably not as uplifting as you like, so that I will try again. Do something creative long enough and often enough, and you will get better. Will I be better sufficient to sell something for a lot of money? No. Be grateful for small victories. 
 
As a rule, people like to work with considerate people, listen, work hard, contribute, treat others well, don't throw staplers, and are considered fun to be around. Does that guarantee you a job? No. However, if you do get or have a job, they may very well remember you in the future.
 
Never sell yourself short. Oh, and never let them see you sweat and don't draw upon and inside straight and when playing Blackjack, hit on nine and below and stay on 11. 
 
As a side note, I got a gig, so my blogs will most likely tend to be shorter for a while. Be prepared as it may go on for a few months. I would tell you more, but I signed an NDA (More on that next week).  So, even though some of the blogs may be shorter, I will still painstakingly choose the very best YouTube videos. After all, I may be a lying, dirty birdy, but I am not a monster.

A picture of Gene Hackman happens to be making the rounds of late. What's the big deal, you ask? He's old. Not ascot wearing to hide a chicken neck old. We're talking, wow, you need some help crossing the street, mister, old. I happen to be considered old myself and only a stone's throw from looking like that picture myself.  I genuinely love that picture's smile and the "fuck you" look he gives us all. It says that I made my millions and now I will paint a few pictures and relax. And do I need any help crossing the street? Fuck no.
 
I've talked about ageism a bit in this blog. Mostly on how to hide it. But the fact of the matter is, age should not matter. Great art continues no matter what your age. For Gene, it happens to be painting. For me, it's cosplay. Kidding. I haven't played the cos since the very early eighties. 
 
I'd like to think that ageism is slowly retreating in Hollywood. The speed of the retreat is roughly the same at which the sea level is rising.  So, what I guess I am saying, is that by the time ageism is defeated, we will all be living underwater.
 
So, let's all take a tip from Gene Hackman and do what you love until they pour you into the urn. 

First and foremost, nobody caught me masturbating, so let’s just consider that a win. Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. But what kind of wanker whips it out during a staff meeting? Oh yeah, I remember, a New Yorker columnist.
 
Not only are we entering a new chapter of the pandemic, but discovering new ways of pitching our work through the, as Henry Rollins is fond of referring to it, internets. Ask anyone who knows me; I am not all that fluent in Zoom. For the record, I prefer skywriting or good ol’ fashioned smoke signals as a way to get my ideas out there.
 
At this juncture of my life, I not only have a face for radio but an entire essence best suited for poorly recorded podcasts. I possess the chicken neck of Roger Moore in A View to a Kill, the voice of Nick Nolte, in anything, and the jowls and general physique of Orson Welles hanging out a supermarket at all hours shopping for the best price in expired whole rotisserie chickens.
 
Not that I am any good at in-person pitches. I once had a pitch that went precisely as long as the logline. Oh, I hear you say, it could not have gone that bad. Oh, yes, it could. 
 
Other than all that, the Zoom pitch went exceptionally well, and I have to say it was because of the people I was lucky enough to meet with. They smiled at my lame attempts at humor and even chuckled at my timely reference to Paul Revere and the Raiders. It must have been the work itself because I was enthusiastically nervous, even going so far as to end it by assuring all in attendance that I was a team player and would do whatever it takes to make the project work for both the NY Production Company and the audience as well.
 
I have never pitched after a company had read my work, which threw me off my game at the very beginning. So, we ended up talking about my inspirations and the lead character. I stammered. I stumbled, but all with a smile on my face. I repeated that it was an underdog story (whatever the hell that means), and it all ended with a promise to follow up in a few weeks.
 
Their exact words were, “we are going to keep the script a few more weeks and talk about it.” I could tell the development team likes it, and the owner wanted to see the script after the initial email pitch. I guess it is up to the screenplay god’s now.
 
I will keep you posted.

(And now a few words from Rockwell.

​I was headed south for a few days: two meetings, one reconnection, and some quality time with friends. I am happy to report that I not only survived but thrived. I had put a few protocols in place and followed them rigorously. One, a face mask would always be worn inside. Two, I’d only have unprotected anal sex with street prostitutes that had been fully vaccinated (This was a firm rule, and I would only consider breaking the rule for intravenous drug users). 
 
The drive was hideous. I-5 is fastest but filled with meth-fueled truckers, racing to beat their best times to Los Angeles. Occasionally, one would wipe out and leave us all tied up in a jam lasting for at least two hours while overworked highway patrol officers separated the bloody remains from the twisted metal and hot pavement. My first celebrity sighting was at a Chevron Station just north of Bakersfield. Not only did I have the privilege of paying over five dollars a gallon for gas, but I was personally introduced to a large host of flies last seen in the film, The Amityville Horror.  The flies hitched a ride for the last two hundred miles, annoying me with the constant buzz of show business stories, a couple surviving the opening of both front and back windows, making it to Hermosa Beach, where they eventually left to stay with in-laws.
 
I had a couple of meetings that went extremely well, and a mask was always within reach.
 
The first meeting was a lunch with an established director in the historic Riviera Country Club in Pacific Palisades. Iconic location to such classic films as Pat and Mike, Against All Odds, and countless television episodes of The Rockford Files. Lunch was great, conversation was better and should be reaping some results very soon.
 
Yet another meeting on Thursday, this time with a producer on the same project. Breakfast was in Brentwood and consisted of avocado toast, latte, and a conversation with one of the industry giants. Amazingly enough, his resume did not include that he was one of the nicest people I have ever met in my entire career, and I count myself extremely lucky.
 
Alas, the visit was way too brief, the time spent with friends old and new, fleeting. Special thanks to Siri for getting me everywhere I needed with no problems. Sometimes even saving me a minute or two. I did learn something very important. Los Angeles is a very good city for podcasts. Since everything is at least an hour away, it is the perfect summer destination if you want to catch up on your podcasts. And a car is one of the few places you do not have to wear a mask.

And now a word from the world's most vulnerable choir:

​Just for the record, in my entire creative career, I’ve never had a stapler hurled at me. Nor have I ever had the pleasure of hearing the gentle whistling breeze of an inanimate object soaring past my ear. I consider myself fortunate that no one, Hollywood executive, ex-wife, or ex-girlfriend has ever felt the need to capture my attention in such a manner.

Consider, if you will, Scott Rudin, whose exploits are so notorious that they made a movie about it, with, of all people, Kevin Spacey. Talk about dream casting. That’s equivalent to casting disgraced General and Q Anon advocate Michael Fynn in your remake of Seven Days in May. Anyways, the celebrated antics of Rudin are legion. And no worries, if staplers are not your preferred projectile of choice, ask Rudin if he happens to be packing a Blackberry. And, if he can’t get his hands on something to throw, the two-time MVP for abuse will gladly hurl an insult or two. You know you’ve made it into the abusive hall of fame when you Goggle Hollywood assholes, and your name comes up before Harvey Weinstein.

And you do not need to hurl a stapler to win MVP. There are other forms of disrespect that do not leave bruises but can be just as harmful. I have been lucky and have not experienced any of the more egregious behavior. But I have heard the bone-chilling stories, and those are bad enough.

We will not weed out these types in one fell swoop, but bastards like Rudin are a start. And we have to start speaking up. As my friend Dan Sanders is fond of saying, witnessing, and doing nothing (aka The Speer Defense) makes you an accessory. Let’s all try and keep that in mind.

I once went into a pitch meeting, and while I was waiting for my appointment, I saw a sign hanging over the entrance to the inner offices. It did not read, “Abandon hope, all who enter here.” It simply said, “Be Kind.” Nice thought and the sentiment deserves to be hung and mounted in a few more Hollywood offices.