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"You scribble."

This book changed my life.

My older sister said those words to me when I was about four years old, and they had such an impact on my still-developing brain that I didn't draw or color anything for quite a while after that. Eventually, my concerned parents bought me a copy of I Can Draw It Myself (1970) by Dr. Seuss, which got me to pick up a crayon again. Very little has changed in the ensuing decades since the incident with my sister; I'm still hyper-sensitive to criticism and am liable to quit a project after receiving any negative feedback.

Dr. Seuss got me back into making art, and I was further inspired by Lee J. Ames' Draw 50 Famous Cartoons (1979), which I discovered at the Flint Public Library. Because of those books—plus the influence of Mad, Cracked, and various DC and Marvel comics—I became a compulsive doodler for decades, drawing on any piece of paper I got my hands on. Did I get any good at it? No, but I was having fun. As I've mentioned on this blog in the past, I started creating my own comics and sharing them with classmates in elementary school, and I continued doing so through junior and senior high. I trailed off a little in college, until I saw Crumb (1994), which made me want to draw again.

I used to spend hours and hours drawing. To this day, I have two thick binders of the sketches I've created over the years. They're still on a shelf in my closet now, taking up valuable real estate. But whenever I've shared my hand-drawn art with others, it tends to get one of two reactions: either total indifference or mild dislike. I think the low point of my experience as an artist was submitting a cartoon to a website and being told, straight up, that the art was not of professional quality. I call this a "low point" because the same website had recently published a cartoon that was simply a drawing of a triangle with a funny caption. That's what had emboldened me to submit one of my own drawings in the first place.

Ed Wood Wednesdays: The house from Love Feast (1969) (Guest Author: Shawn Langrick)

This lovely house in Northridge, CA has had quite a past.

I'm fascinated and, some might suggest, a bit obsessive with what I've termed Sacred Profane Places. These are not just random locations where early adult films were shot—although even the simplest location does still intrigue me—but places that are used so often you begin to recognize them better than the performers, and/or places that are so memorable they can outshine the actual action occurring in or around them. 

Some of these locations have always been well-known to dedicated film fanatics. Others have been mysteries for as long as folks like me (and, I'd wager, like you) have been taking adult films seriously. Some might even be considered Holy Grail locations. I've been fortunate enough to sift out a handful of my personal Holy Grail Sacred Profane Places, including: 

• The dive bar seen in Andy Milligan's Fleshpot on 42nd Street (1972).

• A residence that Vinegar Syndrome's Joe Rubin has termed the "Wicker House," which was used in scores of early '70s adult films. This is where the most likely mis-Ed-tributed film Bloomer Girls (1972) was shot.

• The dilapidated brothel from Ed Wood's The Only House in Town (1971).

I've found several  others, too. But the elegant abode featured in director Joe Robertson's Love Feast (1969), starring Ed Wood himself as lecherous Mr. Murphy, has remained elusive, even though Love Feast gives us very clear views of both its exterior as well as interior, which is far more information than the three locations mentioned above. Well, the place has remained elusive until now. That is why you're reading this, right? 

Ed Wood Wednesdays: The Plan 9 Cocktail Lounge Identified (Guest Author: James Pontolillo)

Yes, we're delving into this topic again. I think this is the last time.

NOTE FROM THE BLOGGER: This is the second consecutive Ed Wood Wednesdays devoted to a mysterious cocktail lounge very briefly glimpsed in Plan 9 from Outer Space (1957). After musician Mike Hickey attempted to identify this elusive filming location last week, several other Wood fans quickly weighed in with various objections and doubts. One such fan, James Pontolillo, has offered his own alternative  conclusion as to the bar's location. That's the piece you're about to read. I very much hope that this settles the matter, once and for all. Thank you. J.B.

Slightly past the 17-minute mark into Ed Wood’s iconic 1957 film Plan 9 from Outer Space we see a montage of Angelenos reacting to flying saucers as they buzz Hollywood with seeming impunity (1). One of the startled citizens is a drunk man who has apparently just exited a cocktail lounge, whiskey bottle in hand. He can't believe what he's seeing and abandons his bottle, convinced that he must be hallucinating. It's a brief scene (~8 seconds split into two parts) that provides us with only a limited view of the lounge: a street number (4092), a portion of a neon "Cocktails" sign set into a framed opening in the building’s facade, a "No Minors Allowed" sign, and a windowless, light-colored facade that noticeably curves upward from the ground toward an angled awning overhead (2). I never thought about the identity of this cocktail lounge, but other Wood-fans have puzzled over it for some years now.

I have to thank Mike Hickey who resurrected the identity issue with his recent Facebook and YouTube posts suggesting that the Plan 9 cocktail lounge was a still-extant building at 4028 Santa Monica Boulevard (3). Since I love researching old buildings and properties, I immediately began digging into this location's history. Unfortunately, the results were not what I was expecting, and each new piece of information that I found undermined the idea that 4028 Santa Monica Boulevard was the Plan 9 filming location (see Blevins’ EWW #240 for details). 

Podcast Tuesday: "Oh, Dear God..."

Greg Kinnear in Dear God.

After the catastrophic failure of his kinky softcore sex comedy Exit to Eden (1994), director Garry Marshall decided to do something completely different with his follow-up film, Dear God (1996). This time around, he made a squeaky clean, heartwarming holiday film in the tradition of Frank Capra's It's a Wonderful Life (1946) and George Seaton's Miracle on 34th Street (1947). Surely, this would get him back on the right track career-wise and allow him to reconnect with the audiences who had loved Happy Days (1974-84) and Pretty Woman (1990). For extra insurance, he cast up-and-coming actor Greg Kinnear, who had already proved extremely popular with viewers across America, in the lead role of Tom Turner, a con man with a heart of gold.

How surprised and frustrated Garry must have been when Dear God bombed with critics and audiences nearly as badly as Exit to Eden had two years previously. The film was box office poison and received withering reviews to boot. It quickly disappeared from theaters and didn't make much of a splash on home video or cable either. Garry had missed again.

But that was nearly 30 years ago. A lot can happen in 30 years. Maybe Dear God has aged like fine wine. Or maybe it's somehow gotten even worse since the Clinton years. This week on These Days Are Ours: A Happy Days Podcast, we find out by doing a thorough review of this forgotten film. If I were you, I'd click that play button.

Ed Wood Wednesdays, week 240: Has the cocktail lounge from Plan 9 finally been found?

Don Davis is blinded by the light.

Ladies and gentlemen, a controversy is currently brewing in the world of Ed Wood. Controversy? Ha! Too weak a word! I should say a tempest! I've not seen the equal of it. Even now, while we're chatting here so enjoyably, a fierce debate rages in Ed Wood fan forums across the internet, turning friends into enemies and vice-versa. (Well, actually, the topic is limited to one Facebook group and the discussion has been quite civil, but humor me.) 

At issue is one particular location—a humble yet intriguing cocktail bar—from Ed's most famous film, Plan 9 from Outer Space (1957). Has the bar been found? Has it not been found? Is it unfindable? Is knowledge knowable? Does a Chinese chicken have a pigtail?

Way back in 2018, I wrote an article about a long-gone L.A. night spot called the Mocambo that appeared prominently in Plan 9 as part of a montage in which UFOs are spotted in various places across America. In that article, I mentioned that there was a scene in Plan 9 in which Wood associate Don Davis staggers out of a seedy-looking cocktail bar and sees flying saucers hovering over Hollywood, much to his bleary-eyed astonishment. The bar's street number, 4092, is clearly visible, but narrator Criswell doesn't bother telling us which street this is supposed to be. Knowing very little of Los Angeles geography, I incorrectly guessed it to be Sunset and left it at that.

I wish that I knew what I was supposed to know now when I was my current age

"Poor old Granddad, I laughed at all his words."

I keep hearing the Faces' song "Ooh La La" in movies, TV shows, and commercials. Why? What is it about this particular track that's allowed it to stick around for decades? As I see it, the song's main appeal is that it takes a near-universal sentiment—"I wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger"—and sets it to catchy music. This is a thought many of us have had at some point in our lives, and "Ooh La La" allows us to sing it out loud instead of just ponder it. And so, "Ooh La La" has become a song about the hard-won wisdom that only comes with age.

But I don't think the song, written in 1973 by Ronnie Wood and Ronnie Lane (both 26 years old at the time), is as heartwarming as people seem to think it is. The lyrics of the first verse add some necessary context to the song's famous refrain.

Poor old Granddad, I laughed at all his words
I thought he was a bitter man
He spoke of women's ways
"They trap you, then they use you
Before you even know
For love is blind and you're far too kind
Don't ever let it show"

Try making a heartwarming insurance commercial out of that. Sounds like Granddad is working through some serious issues with women. And his smartaleck grandson does not take him seriously whatsoever. So much for hard-won wisdom.

Still in all, we have that indelible chorus: "I wish that I knew what I know now when I was younger." It's a comforting thought. Everything would have turned out better, we tell ourselves, if we'd just been given the necessary information at a young age. Forewarned is forearmed.

As I think about the current, unsatisfactory state of my life, I've occasionally asked myself the question: what do I wish I had known as a child that would have helped me avoid this fate? And, frankly, I've come up short. The problem with the line "I wish that I knew what I know now" is that it assumes you actually know something now! I don't. Nothing good at least. I've only learned how rotten the world can be. I know which choices of mine didn't work, but I don't know of any better ones I could have made or should have made.

And so, despite what the song says, I can't think of any advice I'd give to my younger self that would have helped him or any wisdom that would have prepared him for adulthood. In fact, if it hadn't been for ignorance—the total, blissful stupidity we only tolerate in children—I'd never have gotten any fun out of life at all. The more I learned of this world, the less I liked. So my version of "Ooh La La" would probably go something like: "I wish I knew as little now as I did when I was younger."

Life update: A cry for HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Gene Wilder and Zero Mostel in The Producers.

There's a moment, early in Mel Brooks' The Producers (1967), when meek accountant Leo Bloom (Gene Wilder) finds a serious discrepancy while auditing the books of failing Broadway producer Max Bialystock (Zero Mostel). Max raised $60,000 from his backers for his last flop but only spent $58,000 on the show; the other $2,000 he kept for himself. This is fraud, Leo reminds Max, and could send the producer to prison. Max responds with a soliloquy:

Bloom, look at me. (more forcefully) LOOK AT ME, BLOOM! Bloom, I'm drowning. Other men sail through life. Bialystock has struck a reef. Bloom, I'm going under. I'm being sunk by a society that demands success when all I can offer is failure. Bloom, I'm reaching out to you. Don't send me to prison. (getting very close to Leo's ear) HEEEEEEEEELP!!!!!!!!

I've reached a stage in my life when I can relate to both men in this scene. Like Leo, I go to a dull, unrewarding office job every day. It's how I'm able to pay my rent and my bills and have medical insurance. At night and on the weekends, I pursue various creative enterprises. Unfortunately, like Max, I have largely met with failure. Despite producing a great deal of work over the course of several decades, nothing I have done has reached beyond a very small audience. Sometimes, the only audience is myself.

Ed Wood Wednesdays, week 239: The return of The Ed Wood Summit Podcast

Straighten that tie, mister! We've got a show to do!

When my late colleague Greg Javer (1968-2024) started The Ed Wood Summit Podcast back in January 2021, I'll admit that I didn't immediately see the full potential of the project. After all, what could he accomplish through videos that we weren't already accomplishing through our weekly articles about the life and career of Edward D. Wood, Jr.? I was more than happy to participate in the series, but I couldn't yet envision where Greg was going with this thing.

Well, I soon learned what made The Ed Wood Podcast so special. It became the ideal place to discuss Ed Wood and his work, both as a writer and a filmmaker. I was proud to be a guest on the show numerous times, usually reviewing Ed's books and stories. Other guests included such dedicated Wood experts as James Pontolillo, Milton Knight, W. Paul Apel, Rob Huffman, Mike H, and Robert Monell. In a very special episode from April 2023, the show even welcomed actress Casey Larrain, who'd worked with Ed on such films as Love Feast (1969) and Nympho Cycler (1971). 

At the center of it all was Greg himself, the Zen master of Woodology. He had all the qualities of a good host and moderator: curiosity, humor, patience, empathy, etc. The world could use a few million more of him. Greg is gone now, but it would be a shame for The Ed Wood Podcast to disappear with him. In that spirit, a few veterans of the podcast have reconvened to record the long-delayed 34th episode. The topic of discussion is an extremely obscure pulp novel from 1966 entitled Wild Nympho. It's credited to a mysterious one-and-done author named Matt Ronson, but could it really be the work of Ed Wood? That's what we're here to find out.

Our moderator, Rob Huffman, has also uploaded the episode to his own, excellent YouTube channel.

Podcast Tuesday: "Horny Idiot Island"

Dan Aykroyd (left) and Rosie O'Donnell in Exit to Eden.

What made him do it?

It's one of the great mysteries of movie history. Why did Garry Marshall, the genial Brooklyn writer-producer-director behind such decidedly mainstream fare as Happy Days (1974-1984) and Pretty Woman (1990), think he was the man to bring Anne Rice's kinky BDSM novel Exit to Eden (1985) to the screen? And why did he enlist Happy Days showrunner Bob Brunner to cowrite the screenplay? More importantly, what are Dan Aykroyd, Rosie O'Donnell, Dana Delany, and Iman doing in this thing? So many questions. So few answers.

Nevertheless, in the latest installment of These Days Are Ours: A Happy Days Podcast, we talk about the megabomb Exit to Eden (1994), certainly one of the most unusual films of its year (or any year). We analyze the plot (what little of it there is), critique the actors, compare the film to the novel, and speculate about what it all means. This episode, I can tell you, was quite an ordeal to research, record, and produce. It would be rude of you to skip it, and I know you're not a rude person. So click that play button. You wouldn't want me to spank you on your tushy, would you?

Incidentally, this episode marks something of a technical milestone, as it's the first one completely written, recorded, and edited on my new laptop. I think my previous one, purchased from a Best Buy in 2015, has seen its final days. Goodbye, trusted friend. You were enjoyed.