​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.)
 

​“The Woman are gone. WE are going next!” Roger Simmons (Richard Chamberlin) The Towering Inferno
 
When I think of cowardice of the highest order, I look no further than the character of Roger Simmons in the Irwin Allen classic disaster, The Towering Inferno. Handsome, educated and basically full of shit, Simmons is the incarnation of where 38 percent of American public is today. If you don’t remember, Roger is the man ultimately responsible for the destruction of the tallest skyscraper in the entire world; a state-of-the-art facility over 138 floors (counting the world class Promenade Room) and comprising both commercial and residential tenants. Seems ol’ Roger cut a few corners and well, you know what happens next.  
 
In the throes of this pandemic, I reflect often on the personality of Roger Simmons. Whenever I hear a Karen’s blathering on about personal freedom, or the blustery bigotry of some musclebound asshole standing in the middle of a Costco, I naturally recall Simmons handsome smirk. His false sense of self-assuredness and his ability to be 100 percent wrong, 100 percent of the time. The world’s literally burning all around him, but the handsome, cold contractor can never admit it. It’s simply not in his suave DNA. To do that, would mean he’d have to take personal responsibility and to someone like Roger Simmons, that would be admitting weakness.
 
To witness Simmons act in a time of crisis is truly something to behold. Survival of the fittest is his sacred mantra. Much like the chanting free maskers of today, he believes the weak only need to be sacrificed in order to survive. Let the weaklings fend for themselves (even if I have just recruited them), for there’s only room for one person on life’s Breeches Buoy.
 
Let’s face it, life right now is a fucking Irwin Allen disaster film. We’ve got the rich and greedy, cutting corners while the resulting catastrophe ends with the harrowing death of too many good and decent people (the charming Jennifer Jones comes immediately to mind). There will be acts of heroism to be sure, but also far too many instances of cowardice. Most will be the direct result from bullies, and while not possessing the suave or charm of Roger Simmons, still swagger along life’s disaster insisting that they are above reproach and that the rules simply do not apply.  Be forewarned, push will come to shove at some point and the first individuals plummeting off the single-seated rescue device will be those that need it the most. 
 
Have a great day!
 

America in action.

​During the eighties and nineties, I spent a hell of a lot of time driving from Los Angeles to Portland. I made the exhausting long haul at least once a month and it was always generally related to some sort of writing work, stand-up comedy work or both. Only on very few occasions was I lucky enough to have a production company flit the bill and fly me down. The results of these trips are unimportant. After all, don’t they keep reminding us, it’s about the journey and not the destination? To me, the exhausting drive became sort of a challenge. How fast can I do this and how many vehicles will I go through to best my personal record? Han Solo did the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs. If parsecs happened to be hours and the Kessel Run was roughly the exact same distance as Los Angeles from Portland, I had a shot.
 
I had made the exact same run several times in the mid-seventies, but things had changed since the days of Discos and the Pet Rock.  Back then it seemed the trip took an entire 24 hours of 55 miles per hour traveling, a maximum speed imposed by then President Jimmy Carter. Sure, there were a few spots of freeway that you could open it up, but it was not until the rescinding of Carter’s maximum speed by Ronald Reagan that I was able to dream of competing with Han Solo’s record.

​First things first, divide and conquer was my rule on this run. Break it up to into fueling, eating and restroom stops. Keep in mind, the adult diaper had yet to be invented, so there was no cheating. Portland to Ashland is generally considered to be 4 ½ to 5 hours. Dedicate yourself to making it in 4. This is harder in Oregon as the State PoPo are a bit harder on enforcing the limit than their CA brothers. Top off the tank and drive the 2 hours (really more like 2 hour and 22 minutes) to Redding CA. Now, if you leave Portland by 6 am, you should arrive in Redding just in time for lunch at In and Out Burger. 
 
Hint. When passing through the infamous fruit inspection station shortly after arriving in CA, when asked if you are carrying any fruits or vegetables, do not, I repeat do not, whisper to the guard that you have the heir to the Safeway Supermarket fortune bound and gagged in trunk. If you insist on doing so, you will need to make up some serious time later.
 
Burn about an hour for lunch. You earned it. And, if you play your cards right, you should only be one hour off schedule. Trust me, you can make it up later.
 
From Red Bluff to Sacramento is your first chance to make up some time. Traffic generally flows a bit faster as you are now in the Golden State. You’re going to need it because Sacramento to Stockton is a cluster fuck of congestion. 49 minutes 6am on a Sunday. Not today, you are hitting it about 3 pm. Be patient, it will all be over soon.
 
Stockton to LA – 5 hours and 4 minutes
 
Here’s your chance to demonstrate some real skills. This thing opens up once you past the Westley Rest Area at the junction of 505. Once you pass that gas station on the bluff, open it up to what drivers in Montana affectionately refer to as, “reasonable and prudent.” Watch out for extreme boredom. This can be the killer part of the tip where every landscape looks very much the same. Lesser drivers have been known to become clinically insane, pulling off onto the closest rest area, ditching all of their clothing, and racing naked through California Poppies. And be sure and roll up your windows and crank up the air conditioning at Harris Cattle Ranch if you want to live. 

In only a couple of hours you will arrive at the Grapevine, my wife’s personal nemesis and the gateway to southern CA. As steep as the Matterhorn, this stretch of freeway literally climbs up into the clouds and has witnessed more deaths than the entire Civil War.
 
If you’re extremely lucky, you may even sport your first celebrity. On my first drive, I happened to spot Optimus Prime, the Transformer, disguised as a semi-truck hauling tomatoes. No time for autographs as I had already reached the summit and was now racing downhill and through the seventeen fir trees that make up the entire Los Angeles Forest. Do not tarry at the historic wilderness to count the buried bodies, you’re almost at your destination. All you need to do is get past Magic Mountain, the Budweiser Brewery and you’re in the valley. Congratulations. You made it. Why, you’re practically a Cannonballer.  
 
My best time was 14 hours and 45 minutes, arriving just before sunset. My worst time. Well, let’s just say I was a bit older, the car smaller, and when I stepped out after the thousand mile plus trip, I possessed the posture of a 1960’s John Carradine.
 
Cheers.           .    

​Writing anything on spec (aka, the hell of it) is a crapshoot. That’s why it is very important to always get it in writing and to be paid up front. If you continue to write for free, producers will continue to refrain from paying you…anything. You become the date that is easy and “who will deliver the milk for free.” No matter how hard it is to bring the subject up, you must remember to always insist on cash upfront. And remember, it makes no difference who it is. Even the bigger names in show business will insist on getting something for nothing. Sometimes even stars and A-list producers have been known to exploit writing talent. If fact, if you research history long enough, you may discover that writing on speculation is actually the older of the two “oldest” professions. I was once in the office an executive who later become the president of the Motion Picture Academy. He was considering option a western I wrote for TNT. Coverage was good. It was merely a question of price. Without an agent, it was up to me to mention it and when I did, the expression on the man’s face was priceless. His eyes glazed over and all emotion drained from his exterior. He became speechless. Prying open his “discretionary fund” appeared to be not even an option.
 
With this cautionary paragraph out of the way, let’s move on. I presented the 10-page treatment to the producer at Warner’s a week later. He read it excitedly and immediately placed it in a memo folder, scribbling down the name to the appropriate studio head and handed it off to his assistant. He barely had time to tell me how great it was. It was already heading moving up the chain. I met the gentlemen who helped me orchestrate this deal on the lot. He had not even had a chance to read it, so he perused the treatment before the two of us said our goodbyes. Tom and I had done good, he reported. Our chances were solid. 
 
When I turned in our draft, the rumored stars of the project were Tom Cruise and Dustin Hoffman. Upon further research now, I discovered there were several other incarnations of Wild, Wild West out there. One was by legendary screenwriter Shane Black with Richard Donner scheduled to direct and Mel Gibson to star. I was brought into the picture when things had cooled off after a year or two. Now, apparently every producer with a shingle on the lot had been given a chance at the project. I was one of hundreds. Writers were literary bounty hunters and we were all after the same story.
​
Somewhere between 1995 and 1996, the die had been cast and Peters had been deemed the keeper of what they hoped would be the exciting new franchise. Will Smith had been announced to star and no less than Barry Sonnenfeld had been brought into direct. Several writers worked on the script, at the beginning credit going to the two lads who wrote both Short Circuit and Tremors. However, these two were jettisoned, replaced by the writers of Roger Rabbit. Soon, the total of screenwriters taking to half dozen. 
 
It seems Peters won on another front as well. His failed attempt at reviving Superman, resulted in a 3rd act masterpiece of an idea. He insisted that his hero fight a giant spider. In Wild, Wild West, the hairdresser finally got his wish. West and Gordon do tangle with a spider which also happens to be mechanical. 
 
Whenever I get to down in the dumps about this particular opportunity that got away, I simply google Will Smith hates Wild, Wild West and am rewarded by the headlines of the subsequent articles.
 
2016. Will Smith Regrets Wild, Wild West, Will Smith Embarrassed by Wild, Wild West and my personal favorite, Why I Turned Down the Matrix to Make Wild, Wild West.
 
There is happiness in Hollywood. It’s merely knowing where to find it.