​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.)
 

​“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.

(From jplinde.com Close But No Cigar Department)
 
I mentioned in passing a couple weeks back, a treatment I co-wrote for a harried producer at Warner Brothers. I don’t remember his name (hey, it was the nineties) but I do remember sitting in his office, open comic books scattered about a glass coffee. Funny what you do and don’t remember.

​Anyway, it seemed said producer claimed he had pitched a Wild, Wild West movie and another rival producer, famed asshole Jon Peters and ex hairdresser, was about to steal it. To prove ownership, no-named producer was desperate to come up with a story idea that would convince the studio that he was the go-to guy. Well, much like the A-Team…
 
“If you have a problem (little or no money), if no one else can help, and if you can find him, maybe you can hire J.P. Linde.”
 
I met with the producer on a Friday with a promise to have a full treatment or him on or around the following week. Another not so fuzzy memory was the intense headache I had while in the meeting. My head was throbbing and once I adjourned, I skedaddled over to the studio commissary for a tin of Excedrin and a milk chaser. 

My cigarette with Timothy Dalton.

​Standing outside, waiting for the effects of the over the counter pain killer to take effect, I bumped into Timothy Dalton waiting for a valet to return his car. Minimal pleasantries were exchanged while the two of us mutually enjoyed the smooth tobacco flavor of our individual Marlboro cigarettes. Dalton, it turned out, was there to discuss taking over the role of Rhett Butler in the Gone with the Wind sequel, Scarlett. In hindsight, I should have tried to talk him out of it. After several moments, Dalton’s Honda Civic arrived and the extremely underrated James Bond slid into his car and cruised off the lot. If I believed in omens, it might have been a very good one indeed. 
 

​Thanks to the producer, still nameless, I possessed the galleys of a Wild Wild West Coffee table book with a synopsis of every single episode of the show’s entire 104 episode run. I readily admit to having never looked at the resource material and instead promptly called my good friend Tom McComb, my own personal resource on all pop references and television shows of the sixties, who proved to be more than up to the challenge.
 
In a flurry of writing that lasted most of three days and nights, Tom and I came up with the following scenario. Jules Verne, (who happens to have a brilliant and comely scientist daughter) has been kidnapped by the notorious Professor Loveless who will will activate Verne’s atomic device somewhere in the South China Sea. We also added a villainous steamship that doubled as a dirigible, a rocket sled for West’s signature railroad car and even had Artie going undercover, impersonating one Samuel Clemens (the first winner of the historic Mark Twain award) in a Nevada mining town for good measure. And, in keeping with the need for flawed heroes, so popular in the nineties, we made West despondent, drinking heavily over the assassination of his first presidential charge, James Garfield. To say that Tom and I threw everything in but the literary kitchen sink would be an understatement. Writers and comic friends who were lucky enough to get a first look were simply awestruck. Mostly in a good way. I humbly have to admit, that treatment was truly something.
 

I really thought we had a shot. And then, this happened.
  (Stay tuned for the conclusion next week!)

​ 
News Flash: Who’s Who in New Pulp by Ron Fortier has been released and you can now read all about me, Son of Ravage and hundreds of other authors, publishers and new pulp artists inside. A copy is less than 10 bucks with all proceeds going to charity. There is a hell of a lot of talented people out there, creating great adventure and new pulp stories. Why not find out who and where they are.
 
Welcome back. Things were a bit heavy for a while, so I thought it was high time to renew and refresh with a blog favorite (to this writer anyway): Odds and Ends. First things first. How are you all doing? In the words of Marc Maron, “Are you holding up okay?” Good!
 
Not sure what day of captivity this is. Travel has been restricted to only a few places and I only have my television, Apple Watch, iPhone, iPad, and two MacBook Pros to stay up to date. So, I will just have to guess that it is Saturday and get down to business.
 
Thanks for all the kind words and notes concerning my friend and colleague, Tom McComb. They are all truly appreciated. He was truly one of a kind and I wish you all could’ve met him.
 

​No spoilers: 
 
Speaking of great stories, took a sneak-peek at Star Trek: Picard. The rather surprise ending more than made up for a slow start and the addition of new characters and old colleague cameos is well worth the price of a CBS All Access subscription.  Patrick Stewart is great and the addition of Michael Chabon, writer of Kavalier and Clay, as showrunner is a masterful choice. Word of warning, this is not your mother or father’s ST: TNG. These characters are modern and smoke, vape and say the word “fucker” at least once every few episodes. I am so old. Why I remember the day when the TNG cast spoke in only Gene Roddenberry euphemisms and wore a colorful unitard. Is unitard even a word we can still say?

​One of the favorite comedies streaming on Netflix happens to be a sitcom that never really got the respect it deserved. Community, created by Dan Harmon, is worth a second look. Based on Harmon’s years at a community college (and hey, haven’t we all been there), Community manages to preset rich, nuanced characters with stories that often times are too good for mere television. The Russo Brothers (Marvel Universe super directors) produced episodes are among the best and the ensemble cast of McHale, Pudi, Bree, Jacobs. Brown and even Chase are all top-notch. However, it is the work of Donald Glover that is the standout for me. The versatile actor seems to bring his all to every single scene and episode. The pairing of Glover and Pudi is masterful and worth sticking with four of the six seasons. And staying for all six will only succeed in reminding you of how really great the first four were. There’s even a rumor of a movie on the horizon. Hmmm. Not so sure.
 
As we near word 500, it is time for a final thought. Hang in there! Be kind to one another, wear a mask, social distance, and try not be an asshole. Hey, the pressure is getting to everyone but that’ no excuse for having a meltdown. Which bring us to our new feature, Karen’s of the week. I think we can all agree on a couple of things. The upcoming election will never, ever take place (the Chinese will interfere and close the Post Office), and this, this is just classic Karen.