New and gloriously stupid project: 100 Buddy Hollys

Ten of the proposed 100 Buddy Hollys.

What is life without its pointless projects? As I look back on my own half century of existence, I see that I have always been the most productive when the work I am doing has no practical application in the real world. If it's completely and utterly useless, I'm all in. Often, the work only has "meaning" because it brings me some strange, indefinable enjoyment or satisfaction. I suppose this entire blog (which has been running since October 2009) is my ultimate boondoggle. I have faithfully maintained this madman's journal largely for my own amusement and at the expense of more noble or profitable pursuits. But it's far from my only folly.

Lately, for instance, I have embarked upon what might be my single-dumbest endeavor: a project called 100 Buddy Hollys. The idea is to create 100 different parodies and remixes of the 1994 Weezer song "Buddy Holly" and post these to my YouTube account, mostly as shorts. Why this song? Why now? I don't know and I don't know. But the project is already moving forward at a furious pace. I started on October 19 with a video called "Buddy Holly but Rivers fired the rest of the band and replaced them with The Moog Cookbook." I have since created several dozen sequels, combining "Buddy Holly" with numerous other pop culture properties and rearranging the song in various ways.

The most popular of these videos has garnered about 1,800 views -- not even a blip on the YouTube radar. The least popular currently sits at a miserable 23 views. I have no idea why some of them perform better than others, and I don't really care. All I know is that, at some point, I decided I'd make a hundred of these things and then stop. Will I make it? Will I lose interest or run out of ideas? Stay tuned, true believers.

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 211: The incredible artwork of Shenandoah See (and my total failure as an Ed Wood fan)

I think this piece captures something essential about Tor Johnson.

In August 2021, I did what I had hoped never to do again: I returned to full-time office work. It seemed like my only option, since my freelance writing career was truly dead by then. I couldn't sell very many articles to editors, at least not enough to cover my monthly expenses, and Dad Made Dirty Movies: The Erotic World of Stephen C. Apostolof (2020), the book I'd authored with Jordan Todorov, wasn't exactly opening a lot of doors. Meanwhile, I needed medical insurance and a reliable source of rent money. It was time to go back to the only life I'd ever known.

Turns out, cubicle jobs like the ones I'd had in the '90s and '00s weren't as common in the 2020s—especially after the pandemic—but I found a reliable (if low-paying) position at a mortgage company and have stayed there for over three years. Since then, free time has become my most precious commodity, maybe the only thing I really treasure anymore. Every second away from that office is golden, even if I'm spending it in traffic or waiting in a checkout line.

Since time is my most/only valuable asset, I have to decide how to spend it wisely. Maintaining this blog is one of my main hobbies, but it's not the only one. Believe it or not, I have a life beyond Ed Wood. Since 2018, for instance, I have cohosted a podcast called These Days Are Ours that requires many hours of research and editing. I'm also a member of the Glenview Concert Band, an ensemble that rehearses and performs regularly. So I have at least three sirens calling out to me. But there is a fourth that outranks the others: the urge to do nothing at all. Often, when I drag myself home from work, all I want to do is stare blankly at the TV for a couple of hours and then crawl into bed without accomplishing a single thing.

I feel guilty about all this, because earnest, well-meaning people continue to email me with questions, comments, and suggestions—pretty much all of it related to Ed Wood. To be honest, I've barely skimmed most of this material. In many cases, these fine folks are working on books and documentaries of their own, and they want my input or participation. If I respond at all, it's usually something like, "Sounds interesting!" or "Keep me posted!" Some help I am, huh? 

One of the people emailing me lately is a talented writer and artist named Shenandoah See. Even though I have been shamefully lax in responding to his emails, he graciously said I could share some of his work however I see fit. This is how I see fit. Here is a little gallery of Shenandoah's work. I genuinely hope you enjoy it.

2024 Comics Fun Advent Calendar, Day 9: Joy to the world! Your God is dead!

Did you find all six differences?

What's the holiday season without a little harmless blasphemy, huh? Relax. God's got a sense of humor about these things, I'm sure of it.

Today, we pay backhanded tribute to cartoonist Henry Boltinoff (1914-2001), who worked for decades in both comic strips and books. He's what you'd call a journeyman. His magnum opus, however, may be a long-running newspaper feature called Hocus Focus in which he would present two seemingly identical versions of a cartoon and ask us, the readers, to spot six obscure differences between them. I used to pore over such puzzles as a kid, though I never got good at finding the differences.

"Find all six differences" cartoons are still fairly common even today. You'll see them in Slylock Fox on a regular basis, for instance, and they're still used as filler in newspapers, newsletters, and fliers. Recently, at the office complex where I work, there was a cartoon like this projected on a monitor across from the elevators. I suppose it was there to keep people entertained while they waited.

I decided to take one of Henry's rather innocent cartoons from 1959 (plucked from Comics Outta Context) and take it in a darker direction. Or maybe Henry's cartoon wasn't so innocent! Obviously, these college students from 1959 are pretty square looking, but one of them is concerned enough about the state of the world that he worries the new year will not arrive. Can you sympathize with him? I can.

Ed Wood Wednesdays, week 146: Is there such a thing as TOO MUCH Ed Wood?

This reminds me, I need to catch up on my reading.

Ladies and gentleman, I might need to take a month off from work just to catch up on all the Ed Wood-related chores I have to do. I am so far behind on my Ed Wood homework, it's ridiculous. The trouble is, my day  job actually pays me money and this blog doesn't, so the blog inevitably loses. And, believe me, I've tried to monetize my misadventures in Woodology numerous times, but it's never been a success.

Soon to be reviewed by me? Maybe.

It's not that I'm burned out on Eddie. Far from it. Just watch my recent appearance on The Ed Wood Summit Podcast for proof. I think that's the most enthused I've been about anything in a while. Luckily, that video was recorded the day after Presidents' Day, so I had plenty of time to prepare. It was great delving into one of Ed's most unhinged "nonfiction" texts, the infamous Black Myth (1971), with two other dedicated Woodoholics. 

But there's so much more I need to get to. For instance, Edwin Lee Canfield recently published Fact, Fictions, and the Forbidden Predictions of the Amazing Criswell, the first-ever biography of the famed futurist and Ed Wood repertory player. I've gotta review that, right? And speaking of books, after seeing Greg Dziawer and Rob Huffman interview author Jean Marie Stine, I had to snag a copy of Jean's book, Ed Wood: The Early Years (2001). So throw that one on the pile, too, along with a couple of Wood-based manuscripts I'm supposed to look at.

Oh, god, I just realized I've never written much about the two Ed Wood Scripts from the Crypt books by Gary D. Rhodes and Tom Weaver. I mean, I've mentioned them from time to time, but I've never actually reviewed either one, and those books are several years old by now. Shame on me.

And for some reason, I must've felt I didn't have enough Ed Wood-adjacent text to plow through, so I had my local library track down a copy of Joanna Lee's out-of-print autobiography, A Difficult Woman in Hollywood. It includes a few absolutely scathing pages about Ed Wood, so I felt it merited at least a response from me. I've started writing a review of that in my head, but I haven't actually typed anything. Sorry, Joanna, you'll have to wait. That article should be a doozy, though, if it ever happens.

I'm still sticking to my promise to deliver a new Ed Wood Wednesdays each week in 2023, either by me or by Greg. But the last few that I've written have been articles that required virtually zero research and could therefore be completed very quickly. Last week, for instance, I wrote about watching a livestream of Trace Beaulieu and Frank Conniff (aka The Mads) commenting on Night of the Ghouls (1959). I have an update about that, by the way. Trace and Frank's version of Ghouls is now available on its own or as a three-movie collection with Glen or Glenda (1953) and Bride of the Monster (1955). Check it out if you're so inclined.

For right now, I just need you to be patient with me as I figure out how to get to at least some of these projects. Who knows? I might just get lucky and be horribly injured on the job. Then, I could go on disability and spend my days writing articles for this blog. A man can dream, huh? 

Ed Wood Wednesdays, week 140: Some Woodian curiosities, nothing more...

An illustration from Charles Dickens' The Old Curiosity Shop.

How did he do it? How did Edward D. Wood, Jr., a man with an out-of-control drinking problem, remain so prolific during the most chaotic years of his life? Even in the 1970s, when he was spiraling toward oblivion at an alarming pace, Eddie was still dependably churning out short stories, articles, novels, film scripts, and more -- all written in his unique style. 

Meanwhile, I, a total non-drinker, can barely find the time or energy to compose even a single blog post a week about dear Eddie. Work has been heavy lately, and when I get home from a long shift, all I want to do is collapse. Keeping the podcast going is a hell of a lot of work, not all of it fun, but I've managed to keep doing it. That's pretty much my only semi-creative outlet these days.

Still in all, I'm determined not to let Ed Wood Wednesdays die or even go into hibernation. It's my stated goal to post something to this series every week in 2023, barring some huge disaster or emergency. To that end, I'll point you toward some of the more interesting Ed Wood-related items I've come across lately.

Jordan Todorov, my co-author on the Steve Apostolof book (still available), posted a link to a 2004 interview with artist Chester "Chet" Collum, who created the posters for The Snow Bunnies (1972), The Cocktail Hostesses (1973), and Fugitive Girls (1974), as well as the covers for Ed Wood's novels Killer in Drag (1963) and Watts... the Difference (1967). Collum is remarkably forthcoming about his career: how he worked, what he was paid, why he stopped, etc. A must-read for Wood fans.

Meanwhile, some Ed Wood fans are doing very interesting things on YouTube. For instance, the amazing Kelly Luck has created an anaglyph 3D version of Plan 9 from Outer Space (1957) that you can watch if you happen to have a spare set of red-and-blue glasses lying around. Being a B-movie junkie, I always have plenty of those damned things, and I can say that Kelly's version of Plan 9 works great and provides a fun new way to see this much-dissected movie. As with the colorized version, this edition made me spot new details in a film I've already seen dozens of times by now. (For some reason, I started fixating on Jeff and Paula Trent's patio furniture.)

Another great YouTube channel belongs to one Dennis Smithers, Jr. Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, Dennis is providing a real service to the Wood fan community with his so-called "circumcised cuts" of Eddie's adult films from the 1960s and '70s. What he's done is take out all the sex and nudity, leaving just the acting and dialogue. Here's his version of Orgy of the Dead (1965).

Fun, right? It does my heart good to know that Ed Wood is still inspiring his fans, all these decades after his death. 

Podcast Tuesday: "Stacking Paper to the Ceiling"

Jed Cooper, Ron Howard, and Ted Gehring on Happy Days.

I honestly don't remember the first job I ever had. Does doing chores around the house count? I once edged the front lawn -- with manually-operated clippers, no less -- in exchange for a Green Lantern action figure. I put off doing any actual work for as long as I could in life. I never had afterschool or summer jobs when I was in high school. Eventually, when I was in college, I took a job as a Spanish tutor. (Don't ask me to speak any Spanish. It's long since vanished from my mind.) That was probably my first regular gig.

I've had plenty of jobs since then -- some fun (writing), most not (customer service). I've never been one to see work as anything more than a necessary evil. You wanna live, you have to work. That's all there is to it. Incidentally, I've tried not working. It's fun, but the pay is lousy. Following my dreams also proved to be enjoyable but unprofitable. So far, joyless drudgery has been the most reliable way of paying my bills.

In this week's episode of Happy Days, "Richie's Job," our man Richie Cunningham (Ron Howard) takes a job on the loading docks at The Milwaukee Journal so he can earn money for Shirelles tickets and a new raincoat. Unfortunately, a coworker named Frank (Jed Cooper) immediately takes a dislike to him and begins threatening and bullying him whenever the boss (Ted Gehring) isn't looking. Would you believe that Fonzie (Henry Winkler) actually sides with Frank?

Find out why when you listen to our review of "Richie's Job" on These Days Are Ours: A Happy Days Podcast. A new episode is available right now! 

Podcast Tuesday: "How I Learned to Start Worrying and Leave the Prom"

Dick Van Patten ruins the prom on Happy Days.

It's inevitable that viewers will bring their own personal baggage with them whenever they consume any kind of media. When we watch a TV show, for instance, we may ask ourselves how the experiences of the characters onscreen compare with our own experiences. Unfortunately, if there's a huge disconnect between what's onscreen and what we have experienced in real life, we may have trouble suspending our disbelief. Think of real-world cops or doctors watching prime time shows about their professions. The scripts may be so far removed from reality that these viewers will become alienated, unable to relate to what they're seeing.

I try not to be this way. I understand that TV is TV and life is life and never the twain shall meet. I don't expect sitcoms to be realistic. That's how I was able to watch and enjoy The Office, even though it was very much unlike any real office where I'd ever worked. I spent years toiling in cubicles -- first for an auto manufacturer in Flint, then for a market research company in Chicago -- and if anyone there had acted like the employees at Dunder-Mifflin, they would have been fired immediately and possibly led away in handcuffs. But what does it matter? This is just a television show. Its only purpose is to entertain. Why bring dreary reality into it?

Michael Scott: Like no boss I've ever had.

Recently, though, I had trouble accepting a major plot twist on an episode of Happy Days that I was reviewing for my podcast, These Days Are Ours.  Specifically, I was screening "Graduation (Part 1)" from February 8, 1977. The plot of this episode has Milwaukee teenager Richie Cunningham (Ron Howard) attending his senior prom at Jefferson High School. Also in attendance are Richie's pals, Fonzie (Henry Winkler), Ralph (Donny Most), and Potsie (Anson Williams), and their respective dates. Things are going great until Vice Principal Conners (Dick Van Patten) shows up and announces that everyone in the senior class has flunked the hygiene exam. Students will not be allowed to graduate, he says, unless they pass a make-up exam scheduled for the morning after the prom. Everyone leaves the dance to go home and study.

This was more than I could take. It was too ridiculous even for Happy Days.

I mentioned earlier that I had worked a few office jobs, which is true. But between those Flint and Chicago assignments, I spent a few years teaching high school and junior high school. My parents were both teachers, too, and I'm the product of a public school education myself. Based on all this experience, I can say that this "hygiene exam" story could never, ever happen in real life. There would be too much of an uproar from the students, their parents, the faculty, and possibly even the local media. Vice Principal Conners would be (symbolically) strung up by his thumbs for this. He is, to paraphrase Dr. Strangelove, exceeding his authority.

Did this little snafu prevent me from enjoying the episode? You can find out by listening to Episode 79 of our show. And here, conveniently enough, it is:

Ed Wood Wednesdays: The Wood Magazine Odyssey, Part One by Greg Dziawer

Souvenirs from Ed Wood's days in the magazine writing biz.

NOTE TO READERS: As you may know, one of this blog's more popular features, Ed Wood Wednesdays, has been on hiatus since late June. Those articles are time-consuming and research-intensive, so I had to take a break from writing them. Luckily, however, one of my readers has stepped in to carry on the series. Greg Dziawer has been doing his own intensive research into the life and career of Edward Davis Wood, Jr., and he has agreed to turn his findings into a new series of Ed Wood articles for Dead 2 Rights. In other words, Ed Wood Wednesdays is back, and I couldn't be happier. The following article is Greg's work, which I am proudly presenting to you. The crude censoring of images is, I am afraid, a necessity to appease the Google gods. - J.B.

Pendulum's Savage Sex and Dick Trent's "The Responsibility Game"

A Pendulum magazine.

"When Bernie Bloom left Golden State, Eddie went with him, then all of a sudden one day Bernie called Eddie and said, 'I'm going to start my own company, Pendulum Publishing, come and help me.'"

Kathy Wood, Nightmare of Ecstasy

Bernie Bloom filed Pendulum Publishers, Incorporated as a Domestic Corporation in the state of California on April 15, 1968. Its address, 5585 W Pico Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90019, would become home to numerous lines and imprints under the Pesndulum label in the next few years, including a plethora of theme-based adult magazines. Most titles were published bi-monthly. Savage Sex – its dominant theme BDSM – ran under the flagship Pendulum imprint, circa 1969-1972. Thanks to page scans here, we have a complete short story published in Savage Sex in 1972 and written by Ed:

The issue containing this story.

"The Responsibility Game" by Dick Trent
(Savage Sex, Vol 4 No 2 April/May 1972)


Dave Caulfield pulled his head slowly away from the gilden, silken crotch of his secretary and wiped his chin in the crook of his arm. It had been a long affair. They had both climaxed twice during the previous hour but there was a tremendous reluctance between them both to stop their actions. However, there was simply a limit to both their capabilities. Enough was enough . . . for the time being.
     "Drink, Tina?" 
  "I need one," replied the luscious blonde as naked she came to a sitting position on the leather couch with her legs hanging over the edge. The words had come slowly, softly, almost a whisper, but through a rush of hot breath.
     "You take all the hell right out of a girl."
     "Isn't that the way it's supposed to be?" And he was also naked. He crossed his plush office and pressed the switch which moved a false wall and the well-stocked bar was revealed.
     "As I remember you take Scotch?"
"You know I do!" She pulled her pink satin mini slip to her and draped it across her exposed pubic region. "I think I could use a strong one . . . even if it is during working hours."
     Dave started pouring the stiff jolts into the two chubby Scotch glasses. "You don't have to worry about working hours as long as you're with the boss." His grin was tried, but honest. Then when he had finished pouring, he lifted the glasses and carried them across the room. He gave one to the girl and noticed where she was looking . . . and that there was the same glint in her eyes which had been there every time she had looked at that thing.
     "Don't you ever get enough of that?"
"Is there enough?"
"I do believe you're insatiable."
"I hope so."
"Maybe you'd better join a group club."
"Show me the way."
Dave picked up his tie from the back of a leather chair and draped it over his almost limp manhood. "There, that better?"
"Looks a little bit like a gift-wrapped sausage now," she laughed then took a long swig of her Scotch. "There, that does feel better." Then she sighed broadly. "I've thought about swinging clubs. But I've also thought about the trouble I might get into. I think you're man enough to handle me. You have been for the last three months. Say, you know! I'm glad you hired me."
"That goes double right back at you." Naked he moved to sit behind his massive desk, and he put his feet up on the polished mahogany. "I've got big plans for you."
"I'd say you've already given me something big."
"With the business I mean."
"Honey," she furthered. "You've been giving me the business."
"Ahh, now cut it out. I mean I've really been thinking about you. About us! I'd like to keep you with me."
"Lord, I'd rather have it no other way."
"You really like it here, don't you?"
"The pay isn't that much," and she grinned and flipped the mini slip on her lap. "But the fringe benefits are something else."
"How'd you like to be a vice president?"
"I love anything to do with vice."
Dave took his feet down from the desk and the grin left his face. He formed the most official look he could muster. "You've got to take this seriously or we might just as well forget what I'm about to say."
The grin also faded from Tina's face. "Sorry Dave. I thought we were still kidding around."
"I never kid when business is concerned."
"I'll listen quietly."
"You haven't answered me."
"About what?"
"How would you like to be a vice president here in my firm? I think you'd find quite a jump in your salary."
"Such a promotion and after only three months."
"The time is unimportant. It has been the way you handle things. Of course there are many of my employees who have been with me for years. But there isn't one of them that I could honestly say is right for the position I'm offering."
"I'm flattered."
"Of course, you should be," he replied matter of factly. "But you must also realize you've more than earned it."
And her mind was laughing at the big jerk. Earned it! He could bet his sweet ass she'd earned it. How many times had she lied to him, to herself, to the silent world around them about what a great stud he was and how long she could stay with him . . . and how much torture she had put herself through to stay in the saddle with him so that he could have a double blow-off when he really wasn't even good for one?
A young man, a good looking man, a well-built man and a jerk. You bet she earned it! She'd like to have narrowed her eyes and told him so. She would liked to have thrown the Scotch into his face then spit on him. But that had not been the plan even from the start.
 

Of course he had hired her on the spot. It was all part of her master plan . . . there had been the club he generally frequented about cocktail time . . . she knew he had a wife somewhere . . . she knew he had a big bank account . . . a big firm . . . she couldn't get to the bank account because of the wife . . . but the firm was wide open . . . it was a corporation with dummy officers. He ran the whole thing. All she had to do was get in with him. That had been easy . . . a green mini cocktail dress of slippery satin . . .  shoes and mini purse to match . . . her blonde hair streaming down her back . . . those luscious red lips . . . she didn't really like to paint them at the bar . . . but it was an attraction getter . . . there was no doubt about that . . . and Dave Caulfield always had a couple of drinks at the bar before he went to the table which also was always reserved for him.
She marked her time until his arrival. Then when he took a stool at the bar she moved from her chair at a table and took the second stool from him.
That's when she ordered a Scotch and water and did the lipstick bit. Naturally it looked like a pick-up bit and naturally Dave was a guy who had been around. He couldn't have missed such a come on.
"Finish that one and there'll be a second one waiting for you right in front of the stool next to me," he had said.
"Why wait for the delivery?" she had grinned and moved over to the stool.
Then there were the introductions and there were several more Scotch drinks, then there was his car and then there was his apartment . . . the one he kept as a home away from home . . . and there was his bedroom.
Did she ever give him a ride that night. She rode him to a complete standstill. He thought he was something else . . . and she proved to him that she was something else . . . she was the best bronco on the range and she made him believe he was the best broncobuster in the world . . . and he should believe it . . . she told him enough times that night.
Then the following morning she discovered a closet full of nighties and negligees where she selected a sexy pink set with marabou trim, and went about making coffee for them both before he woke up. But they were not to drink their coffee the moment she brought it in to him.
His eyes had opened only slightly . . . too much of the night before. . . but all that dropped away when he caught sight of the vision of loveliness, the sex goddess which stood before him. To hell with the coffee! He jumped, naked, out of bed and took her in his arms. Their tongues had met and twisted and turned as they had the night before. His legs went around her so that she fit down his "V" and his hands pawed at her back, then into the front of the negligee and nightgown . . . then when the hand was free again it went up under the nightgown and negligee and played with the golden pubic region. . . .
He was steaming all over again and Tina knew that she was not going to have the coffee she so much desired at that moment. She would have to go into her act once more. But there was going to be much more in the act.
His hands flew from her and he backed up a step and his eyes narrowed. Suddenly his hands lashed out and tore the flimsy nightgown and negligee until there was nothing left to hold it together and the material fell in soft cloud-like folds at her feet. Then he knelt before her and took her as he had not taken her the night before.
Later when they both sat on the edge of the bed with the coffee in their hands and they were sipping of the hot brew he looked at her with his boyish grin. "My wife never let me do that to her."
"She doesn't know what she's missing."
"I've wanted to do that with a lot of the girls. I . . .I . . . I . . . just never had the nerve."
Tina had grinned. "I'm glad I turned you on like that. I liked it."
"When I saw you standing there all pink and blonde and I thought about last night, I simply couldn't keep my hands off you. I've always wanted to rip the clothes from a girl and do that other. I'm not sorry I did it."
"I'm not sorry you did either." He was falling into her plot . . . how well she knew the symptoms.
"Now what can I do for you?" He was serious.
 

That had all been three months before, and during the three months they made it every afternoon in his office and at least twice a week when he had to remain in town on business. And then the moment came to which she had been waiting for. . . .
"You really do mean you'd like me to be a vice president?"
"There are a lot of responsibilities connected with the job. But as I said. The money will be well worth your acceptance, and you're very well qualified for the position."
"Do I also get a silver key to the executive washroom?" The tension was broken and they both laughed.

     Tina slipped into her short brown mini skirt and white angora cardigan after she had straightened the slip down over her exotic body.
     "You'll even have your name on your own office door."
"I guess it pays to be a vice president."'
"Almost as much as it would to be president."
"I think I'll let you keep that position." She grinned. "You fit the chair better."
"There will be a lot of papers to sign." He pulled on his trousers and shirt, then started fixing his tie.
"I write a good signature . . . took a penmanship award in school."
"Miners have been known to transfer millions with a simple 'X' ."
"Well, I guess I've gone beyond that stage. I'll make sure anybody who reads the message over my signature knows who it came from."
"Always efficient, aren't you!"
"If I weren't you wouldn't be asking me to take over as vice president."
"Well we might also say I feel that running this corporation with a dummy board of directors is for the birds. It was alright in the beginning, but now with the firm as large as it is I'd like to have some of the decision responsibilities taken off my hands. I'm just tired of the full responsibility. A couple of minds put together are always better than one."
"I only hope I can live up to your estimation." She didn't give a damn about his estimation . . . the only estimation she had in mind was just how big is the company. That was going to be one of her first investigations. Then she would make further plans from there.
Dave, fully dressed and once more the business executive, pulled open the top drawer of his desk and took out the official document. "Come over here Tina."
Tina adjusted a tiny brown nylon scarf around her neck to top off the angora sweater, then moved across the desk. He handed her the paper . . . the very official looking document.
"It's all ready for you . . . witnessed and all." He pointed to one of the lower dotted lines. "Just sign there."
"Shouldn't I read it."
"Sure, if you want to. But it's a waste of your time." He stuck out the pen.
She shrugged. After all, it was the paper she wanted. She signed. "I'll have your copy notarized while I'm out this afternoon. By the way, your office is right next to mine . . . right through that door. It will make it even more easy for our get-togethers than before."
"That's what I call real cozy."
"Another drink? To celebrate our sort of partnership." He walked to the bar and poured. She didn't have to answer him. Then he walked back with the fresh glasses and they clicked glasses and drank.
    "I guess that makes it official."
    She thought it was wise. She put the glass down and locked her arms around his neck and their lips and their tongues met for a long moment. "What was that for?" he asked, grinning.
"Just for being you."
"Okay. More of that later. Go on into your new office and sign the papers on your desk. There's a lot of them. And I'll be out of town for a couple of days, so hold down the fort and keep those lazy characters outside busy. And when you get those papers signed have them mailed out right away. And you're nuts if you try to read all of them. I don't."
"You're the boss."
"No, you are," he grinned, then moved to his door and went out.
The papers were signed. They were mailed. And the company books were brought to her upon request. And over the following week she realized what had happened . . . . She knew or almost knew when she found the reservation note on Dave's pad. A reservation for Argentina.
She had played him for a sucker and he had played her for the dummy she was. And when the auditors came it was only a short while until the officers came with the warrant for her arrest . . . . The vice president had become the important one. After all the president was in Argentina and there was no extradition proceedings possible. And after all . . . she had signed all those papers which directed the banks to shell out the money to the bearer of the copy . . . Dave's copy . . . .
Dave had had all those other people's money in the bank . . . and he really had become tired of the responsibility. The only responsibility he wanted was the money in his own name.
In time Tina might be able to play the responsibility game again . . . maybe!

THE END

A Dick Trent book.

• Characteristically eliding narrative detail – sole details are 1) what kind of alcohol (always Scotch, in this case) is in the glass; and 2) lingerie specifics - Wood here propels his Darwinian male/female pair forward almost entirely via dialogue.

• The office was a milieu oft-explored by Wood, and its politics commonly fodder for derision. The turnabout is swift, suspense-less and untelegraphed, but nonetheless inevitable. Though we fully expect Tina's comeuppance, Dave's fully successful turnabout erases the possibility of any comforting morality tale.

• What to make of that final line? After she gets out of jail? If she makes it out of jail?

• It's easy to imagine Ed pushing this one of his typewriter in an hour or two while at his desk at Pendulum, never proofread. The apparent speed translates into the read, save those "huh?" moments, like Tina's discovery of Dave's "reservation for Argentina." A hotel reservation...a plane ticket?

• The evocatively awkward syntax throughout conspires with said lingerie specifics (a white cardigan angora and pink marabou)  to produce a representative Wood short story of its era.

• The dramatic hinge is perfection: She had played him for a sucker and he had played her for the dummy she was.

• Dick Trent was one of Ed's most-frequently-employed  pen names, across both books and magazine articles/works of short fiction.

A weird, sad, true story about me and the Old Spice guy

For very personal reasons, the Old Spice ads make me feel sad.

Not an actual Nazi.

The actor in the goofy, over-the-top Old Spice ads is Isaiah Mustafa. That name is branded into my memory for the weirdest, saddest reason ever. 

You see, a few years ago, I was a regular member of an online movie discussion forum where that actor's brother was also a frequent participant, much more active than I was. He was very proud of his brother's career and would occasionally post updates about what Isaiah was up to. All very nice and positive stuff. No problem there. 

Unfortunately, one day there was a thread on the forum about the use of terms like "grammar nazi" and whether they were offensive and should be avoided or banned. I argued that history was full of infamous, real-life people whose names eventually became figures of speech. I cited, I believe, Attila the Hun as an example. As events recede further into the past, I argued, they become more and more abstract, so it is inevitable that they will take on symbolic meaning. A character like the "Soup Nazi" on Seinfeld is not intended as a literal member of the National Socialist Party, and there is no implication of antisemitism in his portrayal. The epithet merely means that he is very focused on rules, neatness, and absolute control. Banning terms like "grammar nazi," then, is ultimately futile. It's just how language works. Eventually, the "n'" in "Nazi" will be lower case. I still feel that way. You may not.

One person who definitely disagreed with me on this point was the Old Spice guy's brother. He accused me of being, in essence, a Nazi sympathizer or Nazi enabler, if not an actual Nazi myself. It was, unequivocally, the nastiest thing anyone has ever said about me, online or offline, in my entire life. (And I was once a customer service rep for a major automobile manufacturer, so I've been called plenty of nasty names.) 

I was shell-shocked. At the time, I still felt that online forums actually mattered, so I responded to this attack with a lengthy, heated post in which I accused the Old Spice guy's brother of being blinkered and dogmatic to the point of being unreasonable. I refrained from implicating him in the deaths of 6 million  Jews, however, a kindness he did not extend to me. I don't believe the dust-up between us ever came to any sort of agreement or peace accord. We both just kind of gave up on it and never directly interacted again on that now-dormant forum. To this day, I cannot sit through the Old Spice ads without feeling an awful mixture of embarrassment, anger, shame, and regret.

And that's my story about the Old Spice guy.

What if Cousin Eddie from 'Vacation' had been played by Karl Marx?

"I don't know why they call it Hamburger Helper. The hamburger must learn to help itself."

Actor and stubborn individualist Randy Quaid has been in the news lately for all the wrong reasons. The much-arrested, 65-year-old Quaid, who has appeared in such films as The Last Picture Show, Independence Day, and Brokeback Mountain, was detained once again on Friday as he tried to sneak across the Canadian border into Vermont. The actor and his wife had been living as refugees in the Great White North since 2010, when they fled the United States to avoid prosecution on various charges, including burglary and vandalism. 

Recent photos of Randy Quaid show that he does not look like the busy character actor he had been in the 1970s, '80s, and '90s. He now sports a bushy, white beard and long, straggly hair, making him look uncannily like German philosopher Karl Marx, whose ideas gave birth to the Communist Revolution. 

This, naturally, got me to thinking. What if Randy Quaid's most famous character, uncouth redneck Cousin Eddie from the National Lampoon's Vacation franchise, had been played by Karl Marx himself? It actually makes sense. Poor, downtrodden Eddie is exactly the kind of pissed-upon prole Marx was trying to reach. In that spirit, I present this little gallery of images of Cousin Eddie matched up with appropriate quotes from Karl Marx. Please do enjoy.

Note: If it makes these captions funnier, please add the word "Clark" to the end of each one, e.g. "WORKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE, CLARK!"

Sometimes, I just need to be openly miserable, okay?

I want you to study this graph very closely. Commit it to memory.

This blog has sucked lately, but I don't apologize for that because it has sucked for a valid, legitimate reason. As anyone who has read Dead 2 Rights or who has known me for any amount of time should be aware by now, I suffer from depression and anxiety. (You should know this because I won't shut up about it.) And we're talking medically-diagnosed, clinical depression and anxiety here. I take antidepressants and attend weekly therapy sessions, and these things help somewhat, but they are not magic by any means. They are not a cure-all. Treatment of mental health issues can be complicated and frustrating. The best, quickest way to illustrate this is to direct you to a recent BuzzFeed article by Anna Borges entitled "13 Graphs Anyone Who's Ever Been Depressed Will Understand." Please read it. It's an excellent summary both of what depression is truly like (read: mostly boring) and of the various misconceptions people have about the condition. Of particular interest is Borges' keen observation that "sometimes, you relapse." That's very true for me.

Since my hospitalization in late 2012, I have made slow, sometimes barely-perceptible progress in my quest to become a happier, healthier person. But I have my share of bad days, too, and sometimes those can turn into bad weeks or even bad months. Lately, I will admit that I have been relapsing somewhat. My high-stress, low-satisfaction job is a constant source of both depression and anxiety, and some recent changes there have had a significant negative effect on me. Part of the fault is my own. As an anxious person, I am liable to take minor, inconsequential issues and magnify them until they are huge, life-threatening crises. And as a depressed person, I am liable to fall into a state of helplessness and lethargy. Combine the two and you've got a real mess on your hands.

One thing which really helps -- and this can be difficult for people to accept or understand -- is to vent my negativity. I do that in therapy, sure, but I also occasionally do that on this blog and in private conversations, too. There are some posts on Dead 2 Rights which are strictly excuses for me to be negative and complain about everything which is going wrong in my life. If those articles don't interest you, by all means skip right over them. There's plenty of other stuff here to read. But if you do choose to read those articles, please try to understand that I just need to be a total downer sometimes. I don't want these articles to worry you or upset you. Believe it or not, these articles help me to feel better. Please just let me be miserable sometimes. It's important to me.

Okay, I'm glad we had this little talk. You may go in peace to love and serve yourself.

Ed Wood Wednesdays is going on hiatus (and other disappointing blog news)

Yup. That about covers it.

"If I could not earn a penny from my writing, I would earn my livelihood at something else and continue to write at night."

-Irving Wallace (via Michael O'Donoghue)

Yesterday, I went into my Blogger "Draft Posts" folder, where all my unfinished articles and stories reside, and deleted everything in it. It was a sad and profound moment. I knew I was never going to finish these posts, so why should they taunt me? Among the casualties: a very high-concept short story about cartoon characters (specifically, cartoon nephews) getting together in Hollywood; a far-reaching and history-minded analysis of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, one which connects it with such films as Easy Rider, The Big Chill, and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas; and a half-kidding, half-serious editorial about how Jim Henson's Muppet Babies was the beginning of the end of everything. They all bit the dust, along with a number of never-to-be-completed reviews of certain movies, including (yes) some titles from my Mill Creek Comedy Classics box set. (I haven't forgotten about it.) I honestly thought I could live like Irving Wallce suggested: earning my livelihood by day and writing at night. Kafka did it. "The Night Writer," some have called him, though that nickname brings to mind talking cars more than talking cockroaches.

Folks, I've tried, but I just can't be Kafka. Not right now, anyway.

Between working and commuting, I have only about two hours every weekday between when I finally get back home and when I have to be in bed. During that two hours, I have to eat dinner, make my daily phone call to my father and patiently listen to every detail of his event-free day, check my e-mail and social media accounts, and maybe try to watch a little TV or part of a movie. That leaves very, very little time for writing. Today, I'm using part of my two hours to write this little update. Was it worth it? You tell me. I suppose I could write on the weekends, and I try to do so, but those are my only days to catch up on laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping. and (oh, yeah) something called sleep. While it's still warm outside, it would be nice to get some fresh air occasionally, too, if possible.

Ed Wood Wednesdays is going to have to go on an indefinite hiatus for the time being, at least until my mind and body adjust to my new work schedule. All other writing projects I may have had are hereby cancelled. As always, I will probably post some brief, informal articles here from time to time, as I have always done. But I don't see myself writing anything research-heavy or complicated in the foreseeable future. This is a very troubling and disheartening time in my life. It feels like I'm putting a well-loved pet to sleep. The creative/silly side of my personality is dying. Maybe it's already dead. I just know that I'm tired all the time now. Tired of mind. Tired of body. Tired of spirit. As Lili Von Shtupp once succinctly put it, "Goddamnit, I'm exhausted."

On the bright side, I discovered a neat little obscure R&B number from the late 1950s, lurking on a compilation I've owned for years. It's called "King of Fools," and it's credited to a singer named Sam Hawkins, who currently does not even merit a Wikipedia entry. Give it a spin.

Let us ponder the riddle that is Orson Bean

Orson Bean admits to having eaten the baloney.

Orson Bean on Match Game.

Orson Bean. It's very possible that this name will mean little to you if you're under 40. Cinephiles may remember him as dotty old Dr. Lester, the lecherous, carrot-juice-drinking boss from 1999's Being John Malkovich. ("My spunk is to you manna from heaven.") He was also the voice of Bilbo Baggins in the 1977 animated version of The Hobbit.

Connoisseurs of TV reruns may recall Orson from his appearances on The Twilight Zone, The Love Boat, or The Facts of Life. He did 146 episodes of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman back in the '90s, too, if that's what you're into. (Hey, there's no shame in it. My sister loved that show.)

If you watched Game Show Network back when they showed many of the old panel-style game shows from the 1960s and 1970s, Orson Bean should be a familiar face to you. He logged countless appearances on Match Game, To Tell the Truth, What's My Line, and more. In fact, I think of Orson Bean as a sterling example of a now-dying breed: the all-purpose professional celebrity with no particular specialty.

Bean was an actor of stage and screen as well as a comedian and author, but his real claim to fame was as a "personality." Need a familiar face for your talk or game show? Just call Orson! He possessed numerous traits that made him ideal for television: an impish sense of humor, a vast storehouse of jokes and stories, a winning smile, impeccable diction, and a flair for accents and dialects. The man was born to talk into a microphone.

The Orson Bean discography.

Like most stand-up comics of his generation, Orson Bean put his act down on wax a couple of times for posterity. He released At the Hungry I, recorded at the legendarily-hip San Francisco nightclub, in 1959. A decade later, however, Orson released the album that concerns us today: a collection of songs, poems, and "street jokes" entitled I Ate the Baloney. I first heard the title track, an irreverent religious-themed anecdote set to the tune of "Pop Goes the Weasel," on The Dr. Demento Show in the 1990s. Just this year, I found the entire LP had been uploaded to Archive.org.

For reasons I cannot adequately explain to you, I have listened to I Ate the Baloney in its entirety at least 20 times in the last few months, almost becoming able to lip sync the jokes as Bean tells them. I just like the sound of his practiced voice, especially when he slips into an Irish brogue. There's a vaudevillian old-fashionedness to the entire affair I find comforting and satisfying.

Since this LP comes to us from the 1960s, Bean can still openly acknowledge ethnicity in ways that would draw tremendous fire today. Take a conceptual bit called "The American Restaurant," in which Bean affects a broad, almost caroonish Chinese accent. One might be tempted to call the bit racist because of this, but in fact, Bean is poking fun at racism and stereotypes in a clever, insightful, and even subversive fashion. The Chinese characters in Bean's story talk about Americans in the bigoted, reductive way we Americans too often talk about the Chinese. It's a classic role reversal, as when the speaker ponders an infamous urban legend about sex. "Not look now," the man says to his giggling buddies. "American girl sit a-next table. Ooh, that's a nice lookin' girl! Built like a bamboo house! I don't know... American girl... I always wonder. I don't think so either. That's old Army story!"

But the track from I Ate the Baloney which has really captured my attention has nothing to do with religion or ethnicity. Instead, it's a brief bit of comedic doggerel about the plight of an urban commuter. The poem describes a man's experience aboard the IRT, which is what New Yorkers used to call the subway because it was run by a private operator called the Interborough Rapid Transit Company. I don't have much experience with the IRT, not being a New Yorker, but I do commute by train to and from work each day and can thus sympathize with the hero of Bean's poem. Some of the humor and pathos come from Bean's performance, but I think the words are worthy of study, too. In that spirit, the entire text of the poem is included below:

Last week, I'm ridin' in the IRT,
And this poor slob is sittin' right across from me.
So he's sittin' in the subway, kinda slumped in his seat,
Like a tired old dog, so dead, so beat.
His clothes, his face, everything looks sad,
And I'm thinking what a rotten life he must've had.
So I look in his face, and what do I see?
He looks like he's feelin' sorry for me!
But you don't know the IRT!
The windows are filthy. The lights are dim.
It was my own reflection, and I am him!

On the LP, this actually leads into entire bit about whiskey ads on the New York subways.  But I will leave that one for you to discover on your own. Bean is so convincing in delivering this particular hard-luck story that he elicited actual sympathy from the audience. Periodically throughout the recording, you can hear a tender-hearted woman in the audience say, "Awwww." Incidentally, Orson Bean is still alive at the age of 86, thanks to all that carrot juice. He worked as recently as 2014 in a parody of Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman entitled Dr. Quinn, Morphine Woman. More intriguingly, back in 2008, he recorded a delightful little 10-part series of YouTube videos called "The Art of Joke Telling." Here is possibly my favorite of the ten:

Incidentally, that patch on Orson's shirt commemorates the Flying Goose Brew Pub & Grille in New London, NH. Sounds like a nice place.