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

Travel further into the "smut magazine" vortex with Edward Davis Wood, Jr.

Pendulum pushes the envelope into
gay and interracial terrain.

"There is no mistaking the thoughts in a man's mind!"

-Bela Lugosi in Ed Wood's Glen or Glenda?

   
"He was naked and the young sailor with him in the back seat had the thirteen buttons of his front flap open and his manhood was rigid and being serviced by Paul. The boys in blue surprised the action with a double flashlight blast. There was no dressing or zipping up of trousers. They went to the station in the black and white as they were."

-from Ed Wood's uncredited story in The Boy Friends 

As Ed Wood toiled away at his desk Monday through Friday in the Pendulum editorial offices on West Pico in the late '60s/early '70s – the last of the few lasting and significant day jobs he ever held – his typewriter often drifted into a stream-of-consciousness reverie of pet themes, obsessions, confessional autobiography, oblique turns of phrase and mind, and – indeed –  even something akin to ecstasy. Which is as good an introduction as any to another long little-seen short story written by Ed at Pendulum. Though uncredited in The Boy Friends, a gay-themed magazine published by Pendulum circa 1969-1972, the magazine seller here both wisely identified and graciously scanned it. You can guess the theme of this Pendulum mag and this story from their titles.

Two gents just enjoying each other's company.

"Captain Fellatio Hornblower" by Ed Wood (uncredited)

The Boy Friends, Vol. 3, No. 3 (1971)

   An attorney just doesn't seem to make it unless he specializes in one particular vein of law. Anyway, that's the way Captain Ralph Henry Hornblower (late of the U.S. Navy and far from being a Captain - more like an Ensign), thought. And there was no one to argue with him, certainly not his landlord who rented him the entire penthouse suite of a tall office building.
     Of course Captain Hornblower (and his magical title) wasn't always the success he presently claimed. There were the lean years right after World War II in which he served. There was the struggling through law school, and the time he was caught having a fruity session with one of his classmates, at the all male school. But it was better that the incident be kept quiet than to have him expelled and with all the notoriety that might accompany such a scandal. Besides, it was thought, boys will be boys, and being such they are always investigating things . . . even their bodies . . . or the body of the boy in the next bunk to him. It was one of the hazards of a one sex school.
     And if we pin-point it right down to the nitty gritty, the one time he was caught wasn't the first time he'd done such a thing and it certainly wasn't the last. Captain Ralph Henry Hornblower was quite the rounder, and if the nick name started anywhere, it started in those law school days. And the name stuck with him throughout his own circles and cliques.
     Captain Fellatio Hornblower!
     And to the Captain it was a badge of acceptance, a badge of honor.
     But the badge did little for his general law practices when he went out into the make a buck world. There was too much general for the Captain and very few clients. Thus he hit upon the one program which turned out right for him. There had been a time that he, starving, and an author, starving, sat down to bite a crust of bread over a bottle of cheap wine and eat a few other physical morsels, that the author decided he should quit writing about the world and places he'd never been. He should write only about the things he knew and start selling for money instead of rejection slips.
     This hit home for the Captain also. After all, what did he know about general law except what he learned from law books? And there was a general law practitioner on every street corner and hundreds more in every tall office building. He had to specialize, and like his writer friend, he had to specialize in what he knew.     Thus back to the law libraries and to the musty books dealing with all the sexual deviations known to mankind, but especially to homosexual relationships where it concerned the law. And it would appear homosexuality of any kind had a hell of a lot of relationships with the law, when discovered. Yet he couldn't find one attorney who specialized in that one phase of crime in the entire town. There was a built-in market for him. It takes one to know one. It certainly takes one to understand one. And Captain Fellatio Hornblower was the ONE.
     He didn't have to advertise even if advertising was permissible in his profession. One case, selected because he was on the right spot at the right time when an arrest was made put his name up high. He simply presented the boy with his card which simply read HORNBLOWER, then an address and phone number. It might have smelled a bit of the old ambulance chaser, but it was only a one time operation and the word got around like wildfire and was accepted just as the wheat accepted quickly the wildfire.     Hornblower moved up quickly in the legal world, once he had made the change over, and continued to climb the ladder of success until he reached the penthouse offices, with an apartment and bar attached for special occasions. And there were many special occasions, and the more financially secure he became, the more lavish were his special occasions.     However, the one thing for sure: if a client got Fellatio to blow his horn the courts stood up and took notice.
     A successful lawyer first charges a lot of money, and second wins a lot of cases. But then a lawyer doesn't become successful and make a lot of money if he doesn't win cases. Fellatio Hornblower seldom lost a case, that's how good he was. He had a good voice, a resounding one when he wanted, but most of all he had convincing tones which could sway the hardest of jurors. And strange as it may seem it appeared most of the time that the jurors were waiting to be swayed and enjoyed the process. He was a showman from the word go, and along with the medical terms for the things his deviate clients might have perpetrated, he sparced his words with the hard core terms which shocked, but enlightened the listeners.
     There were none, even the most ignorant, who didn't know exactly what he was talking about. And there were none that didn't hang onto each word he spoke and dangle expectantly for the next one.     But it wasn't only the jurors . . . the judge and the clients themselves were just as enthralled. His court appearances also assured a packed courtroom. The showman of the attorney's circle. The director of thoughts and curver of minds. The twister of fiction which always came out fact.
     "But then, who really wants to put these poor homos behind bars anyway? The greatest number don't even need a doctor. They don't go around molesting children. They are in the greater part consenting adults doing their thing."
     It always worked!
     "Besides! You the tax payer must pay for every inmate the prisons house. Leave those expenditures for the real criminals who are out to do harm to society. There is no harm in the makeup of the homo. Leave him alone and he is bound to leave society alone. Why ladies and gentlemen of the jury, there is a place in this world for each and every one of us . . . and we must understand that all of us have our own little problems. You! You! You! You and you! Do you think your problems rate that you be put away behind prison bars? And perhaps one or more of you may have the same problem as my client. Perhaps it might be one of your closest relatives or friends. Think about that! Would you care to be, or have your relatives or friends in the same situation as my client?"
     It always worked!
     Then there was the ceremony of paying Fellatio or the devil, his dues. And it always took place in the penthouse, starting with the desk where the check was presented, then to a congratulatory drink, then on into the bedroom where any other little gratuity might be in order. Gratuities were always in order, and the pleasure of being on the outside looking in caused those gratuities to be considerable in a tremendous amount of the incidents.
     "What do you do when you find out a client is really guilty?" questioned a friend.
     Fellatio could only laugh. "Good friend! All of my clients are guilty or they wouldn't have been picked up and charged in the first place. The only problem is what is the extent of their guilt. And is it worth making a big deal out of. Most of the cases are dropped because of insufficient evidence. Witnesses don't like to appear in such cases . . . all the embarrassment and that sort of thing. In the beginning the excitement of the moment, they will swear they have seen everything, but when it comes time to get them on the stand their memory has an immediate black-out, a failure which can't be redeemed. The more vile the deed the less available the witnesses.
     "In the kind of cases I handle it is seldom the arresting officer is on the scene during the commission of the act. He is the second party brought in and therefore must take the word of those who have been the informants. Very poor witnesses for the state. After all, what can they say except to repeat what they have heard second-hand? A complaint is made and they must act upon it. That's where I come in! A complaint is only a complaint until the facts are proven. Law is a very strange and intricate entity. But one by which we must all live and be governed.
     "The law is the law. But there are thousands of ways of interpreting the law. And that's the key to the entire operation. Interpretation!"
     Fellatio Hornblower knew whether or not he was going to win a case even before he entered the courtroom. In fact his brain was so intuned to what the eventualities would be that he knew how a case would run even before he took it. Fellatio liked to win. He didn't take cases he knew he'd lose. There were a few losses however, but it was through tricks he had not expected. There were not many.
     Then there was one Paul Mestroni who was picked up on the beach in an automobile. He was naked and the young sailor with him in the back seat had the thirteen buttons of his front flap open and his manhood was rigid and being serviced by Paul. The boys in blue surprised the action with a double flashlight blast. There was no dressing or zipping up of trousers. They went to the station in the black and white as they were. The arresting officers were first hand observers.      Fellatio Hornblower was contacted by Paul when he used his one phone call, and bail was set quickly by a desk sergeant. But the arraignment was delayed until the next morning.
     Fellatio had to know the story. "You know what this is going to do to you in the navy?" he asked of the young, frightened sailor who shook his head. "Well, the one thing for sure is you'd better unpack your civilian clothes."
     The shore patrol came into the station waiting room and took him from the police. He was not to be Fellatio's client.
     "Poor kid," muttered Paul as he got dressed from the bundle the police had tied his clothing into. "But if they stand around on street corners looking for some action they gotta' expect to be busted. After all, I didn't rape the punk . . . and he wanted five dollars. You know what that makes him! You should, you've handled enough of their kind."
     "You know, you guys never cease to amaze me. You go out looking for a score on any street corner. You pick up bums, tramps, bumboys, anything to get your jollies. You speak all kinds of words of love to them in preparation for getting his pants and drawers off, then when you get it, or get busted the love words cease to exist and he becomes what you went to pick up in the first place . . . bums, tramps, bumboys!" Fellatio Hornblower frowned deeply, the same frown he had used on tough witnesses or an obstinate juror. "Whore! I wonder which is the worst whore?"
     "Well," grinned Paul fixing his tie. "That's the name of the game I guess. You win some and you lose some. The street corner whores are always the losers. You know that!"
     "You keep saying, I know that. Listen mister. I don't know anything about your kind of life, physically that is. I look a case right up the ass and see where the dirt is. Then like a dutiful mother I wipe it clean. Then you go right back on the street the next weekend and the whole process starts all over again."
     "That's what keeps you in business barrister."
     "True, so true. Sadly true, but true. There are times I look forward to my retirement."
     Paul grinned again and slipped into his violet, velvet jacket. "You'd die within a year. Lawyer, you couldn't last a month without the entaglement of cases like mine. You going to get me off?"
     "I haven't heard all the facts yet."
     "That will come later. You going to get me off?" He opened the packet containing his wallet, watch and diamond ring. He selected five one hundred dollar bills and handed them to Fellatio Horn-blower.      "Just a retainer as usual."
     "Want to visit a psychiatrist for another six months?" Fellatio pocketed tl e money after folding it.
     "Hell, why not! Especially if the next one is as cute as the last one."
     "Okay! You'll get off with a slap on the wrist as usual. I'll see what I can do about the condition of the psychiatrist's appearance."
     A jury loves to think they have saved some poor boy from a life of torture in some prison when they feel he has a slight mental problem. It is easy to sway them into recommending the criminal proceedings be dropped and the poor lad have a few psychiatric treatments. No one wants to confine a sick person to a cell, unless he's dangerous or has committed some heinous crime. A poor homo getting mixed up with strange boys who lead them on . . . Paul would never see a second appearance in court . . . on that particular charge. There would be others. Of that Fellatio Hornblower could be positive. They always came back . . . most of them. But generally the crime was no more than the first time. The only difference was that the charge was a second or third or whatever. None of them ever changed. They could take psychiatric treatment from now until hell freezes over and they would come out with the same ideas as when they first went in.
     None of them wanted to change!
     That was the entire point. In order for any psychiatrist to help a person, that person has got to want to be helped. Like the alcoholic. He can't even start for a cure until he admits he is an alcoholic, then wants the cure himself. The homosexual male or the female, or any of the other deviates . . . they simply do not want any kind of a cure. They like life the way it is. Any change would take away from their personality. They want to retain that personality.
     "Like many of them want to be picked right out of the crowd," tells Fellatio Hornblower. "Not all of them of course. Some would rather stay in the background and not be discovered. But many want to be recognized. It does something for their ego. That particular difference takes them out of the realm of the common ordinary status and puts them in the different limelight. That's the way they must have it for a comfortable life.
     "At first when they're caught they are scared out of their wits. The cops and the booking and all the other processes that go with being arrested. But by the time they get to court there is the feeling that they have suddenly begun to enjoy their position in the unusual. Actually when the trial is over and they are once more on the street there is the feeling also of reluctance on their part that it's all over. Now they must return to their regular life and all the spectacle is gone.
     "Naturally I make it more of a spectacle, in the courtroom, than it really needs. But that's what wins cases. I blow my horn a lot. Fellatio Hornblower the hornblower. That's me, and I guess I get a lot of my kicks being in the limelight too. Right out there in the courtroom. And I'm always out to win. I hate to lose. That's why I don't lose very often. I can out-shout any other attorney in the country. I can out-shout just about anybody in the country. And as I learned a long time ago. The guy who shouts the loudest is the one who is listened to and heard the longest.
     "Hitler was a master of shouting. And he will go down in history for all time. Perhaps I won't go down in history, but you can bet your ass I'll be heard as long as I'm around."
     Fellatio Hornblower then ushered Paul Mestroni to the door. "Don't you want a little something extra . . . like in the bar and the bedroom?" questioned the startled man as he was shown to the door.     "You're not my type. I'm not one who goes around street corners for my character analysis. That's where you belong. See you in court . . . next time." 

• • •

The same black man on the cover of 

 Vol 4 No 1 from 1972

In the oft-ironic world of Wood, add this one to the list: The magazines that Ed wrote for in his latter years were purchased then, principally, for their proven assistance in achieving customer satisfaction. The stories and articles were likely rarely read. Flash forward 40-45 years, and issues now sell for 50+ times the original cover price... largely if not solely because they contain Ed's work. For which he was paid, we might add, an hourly wage that maybe covered a bottle of Imperial per story. 

Highlights:

• "It might have smelled a bit of the old ambulance chaser, but it was only a one time operation and the word got around like wildfire and was accepted just as the wheat accepted quickly the wildfire."

• "A successful lawyer first charges a lot of money, and second wins a lot of cases. But then a lawyer doesn't become successful and make a lot of money if he doesn't win cases."

• "The director of thoughts and curver of minds. The twister of fiction which always came out fact."

• "Like the alcoholic. He can't even start for a cure until he admits he is an alcoholic, then wants the cure himself. The homosexual male or the female, or any of the other deviates . . . they simply do not want any kind of a cure. They like life the way it is."

• "Hitler was a master of shouting."

The Captain returns!

A follow-up story – "The Return of Captain Fellatio Hornblower" – appeared in Gallery's Man to Man, Vol. 1 No. 2 (not to be confused with the '50s/'60s pinup men's magazine). Gallery was a later magazine imprint as Pendulum diversified in its short existence (roughly 1967 to 1975), into SECS Press, EduSex, Pendulum Books, Calga, others and perhaps even others yet to be explored. The July/August issue of The Boy Friends featured a Dick Trent article about VD, "Where Did it Come From?," "The Sex Superman" by James Olsen, and the uncredited "Tattoos Are His Thing," all possibly written by Ed. "Captain Fellatio Hornblower" has – beyond pilfering the title to employ, given the context, the easy pun – no connection to C.S. Forester's series character. In and of itself, it is one of the most breathtaking of Ed's stories that I've ever read.

Next week's Wood Wednesday: "A Taste For Blood," credited to Ed, from Pendulum's lesbian-themed Hellcats.

As we say goodbye to Halloween 2015...

Lisa Loring and Ted Cassidy on The Addams Family.

Let us remember that any day of the year is a good day to watch the clip from The Addams Family in which Lisa Loring's Wednesday Addams teaches Ted Cassidy's Lurch how to dance. It's just one of the best things there is, and it has no expiration date. Go ahead and watch it the day after Halloween, especially if you're coming down fast from a sugar high. You'll see what I mean. It's from an episode called "Lurch's Grand Romance," which originally aired on April Fool's Day back in 1966, during the show's second groovy season. The context here is that Lurch the butler has a crush on one of Morticia's friends and wants to impress her. Little Wednesday Addams volunteers to teach him some dance moves, and then this happens:

So... yeah. Lisa Loring could really dance. Maybe she still can. She's one of the few Addams cast members still alive and kicking in 2015. Morticia, Lurch, Fester, Grandmama, and Pugsley are all gone, It's just Gomez, Wednesday, and Cousin Itt left now. Lisa's had one of those up-and-down lives, like many child stars. Drug addiction, a few marriages that went south on her. The usual. Funny how real life can be "creepier and kookier" than any sitcom. The hot rumor is that she wound up doing porn, but that's not 100% true. It was her third husband, Jerry Butler, who was actually a pornographic actor. Anyway, that's all behind her now. Hopefully, she can still take pleasure in little moments like this from the show. There have been a lot of Wednesday Addams remixes over the years. Here's maybe my favorite:

My idea for a can't-miss Halloween theatrical event

Neither Sissy Spacek nor William Katt are involved, unless they want to be.

Be part of the magic!

So I had this idea a few years ago for what I still think would be a really cool theatrical experience. I'd stop short of calling it a "play" because it's not quite that, though it would involve actors, props, costumes, a massive "set" (more on that later), and some ingenious practical effects. It's an immersive adaptation of Carrie, specifically based on the 1976 film version by Brian De Palma, and it's called Bates High Prom '76. De Palma renamed the high school in the story "Bates High" as one of the many, many, many Psycho homages he's made in his career. Anyway, Bates High '76 would not be staged in a traditional theater, but rather a gymnasium, VFW hall, or other large public space, possibly even a warehouse if need be.

The idea would be to recreate the prom from the movie as closely as possible. The venue would be decorated to look just like the gymnasium in the movie, complete with silvery stars hanging from the ceiling. We'd get real musicians to portray Vance or Towers, the band seen in the movie. They're the ones performing "Education Blues" in the background. I guess I'd also have them perform "I Never Dreamed Someone Like You Could Love Someone Like Me" and other tunes from the Carrie soundtrack. Mostly, they'd be playing mid-1970s Top 40 stuff all night. Ticket-buying attendees would be encouraged (not required) to wear either prom-appropriate clothing or 1970s-appropriate clothing. Both, if possible.

My actors would portray all the characters from the movie: Carrie White, Tommy Ross, Sue Snell, Billy Nolan, Miss Collins, and the ginger-haired super-villainess herself, Chris Hargensen. The prom would play out more or less in real time, and the actors would just be intermingled with all the other attendees -- not bothering people, you understand, just doing what they'd normally be doing under the circumstances. A lot of what they said and did would be scripted, but they'd have to improvise a lot, too. What would set the actors apart from the spectators is that the former would be miked and made up to look like the actors from the movie. How much of what a spectator hears during Bates High Prom '76 depends on his or her relative location and ability to notice details. If you attend the show, the story would be happening all around you: Carrie coming out of her shell, Miss Collins beaming from the sidelines, Chris and Billy rigging the election, etc.

And then... well, you know. You've all seen the movie by now, I hope, and you remember what goes down at the prom. Imagine living through it... or a safe simulation of it, at least. That's where practical effects, lighting, and sound come in. We'd have smoke machines, sprinklers going off, strobe lights, gallons of fake blood everywhere. It would be the most fun ever. Bates High Prom '76 is one of my many totally impractical ideas, and it probably wouldn't work in real life, but I'd like to give it a try sometime.  

UPDATE: My ever-reliable West Coast connection, Bob Blackburn, informs me that Carrie:The Musical is actually being staged in a manner similar to this in Los Angeles... to great reviews, no less! In a way, I feel justified. Maybe my ideas aren't as impractical as I'd thought. I'd love to see it. I think the only way to really do Carrie as a live show is to completely engulf the audience in the story and make them feel is if they are living it.

Dashiell Hamster

Dashiell Hamster. Does what it says in the description.

See, this is the kind of joke I find funny, but that no one else ever seems to like. I dunno. Maybe it's just me. But the thought of a hamster dressing up in a suit and sitting down in front of a wee little typewriter, miniature bottle of booze on his desk, tiny cigarette dangling from his mouth... to me, that's comedy. A hamster writing The Thin Man: how is that not hilarious? 

I went on a pulp/detective reading jag a few years back. Cycled through all the usual suspects: Chandler, Hammett, Cain. All good, but Jim Thompson remains my favorite because he didn't give a shit what people thought. Or at least that's the impression he gave off. After Thompson, reading any of those other guys was like switching from whiskey to sarsaparilla. 

But still, Hammett's no slouch. Loved Red Harvest especially. So did Kurosawa, who ripped off the plot for Yojimbo. Usually, the ripping off goes the other way in popular culture. Anyway, here's a picture of a hamster in a suit. Enjoy. 

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 Game of Checkers: An extremely short story by Joe Blevins

The Wilsons' names are George and Martha.

Mrs. Wilson turned her head halfway toward Dennis, paused, then looked back at the wall. The room grew very quiet then for about thirty seconds, at which point Dennis heard a sound he eventually recognized as Mrs. Wilson sobbing softly. Mr. Wilson must have heard it, too, because he said something that sounded like ‘goddammit,’ and he lifted his heavy frame from the chair and walked out of the room. Mrs. Wilson didn’t even watch him go. Dennis, sensing an opportunity, rearranged the pieces on the checkerboard in his own favor.

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.

That moment when you realize Powdered Toast Man is actually Jesus

"Leave everything to me."

"And he took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them, saying: This is my body which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me." -Luke 22:19

A PTM comic book.

Writing about Nickelodeon's The Ren & Stimpy Show recently caused me to think about -- and truly consider the oddness of -- the show's colorful cast of supporting characters, including frazzled kids show star Muddy Mudskipper (a seeming first cousin to The Simpsons' jaded Krusty the Clown), textbook suburbanites Mr. and Mrs. Pipe, taciturn steed Mr. Horse, and the dinner-jacketed announcer known only as That Guy.

But perhaps no R&S costar is better remembered or more loved than Powdered Toast Man, a ridiculous superhero voiced by Laugh-In veteran Gary Owens. He is essentially a muscular, deep-voiced man with two giant slices of toast where his head ought to be, and his outfit is the usual form-fitting leotard with the underwear worn on the outside.

During the show's first season, back in 1991, PTM appeared briefly in a mock commercial for the space-age product bearing his name. The concept of Powdered Toast is simple: just shake some powder out of a Comet cleanser-type can onto your plate, and in a few seconds it transforms into warm, crispy toast! In a example of the show's proudly juvenile, absurd gross out humor, the costume-clad crime fighter always made sure to fart on every slice of powdered toast Ren and Stimpy ate. The character made such an impression on R&S viewers that he was given his own episode during the show's second season premiere in 1992. Another PTM cartoon, "Powdered Toast Man vs. Waffle Woman," appeared in 1994.

For such a strange character, Powdered Toast Man's origins are fairly obvious. Superheroes and breakfast cereal ads have both been integral to animated children's TV shows for decades, so it was natural to combine them in this fashion. On the Ren & Stimpy DVDs, furthermore, creator John Kricfalusi has stated that he was inspired by the many Hanna Barbera heroes who, like PTM, routinely shout their own names, a lineage that includes Space Ghost (also originally voiced by Owens), Birdman, and Captain Caveman. Plus, we must factor in that "toast" is just a funny word, especially when you say it repeatedly in a short span of time. PTM's name led to such memorable quotes as Stimpy's "He's toast-terrific!"

I've already written about how Ren & Stimpy was filled with hyper-masculine, strong-jawed, he-man archetypes. PTM would seem to be one of the friendlier examples.

But I started thinking about that 1992 "Powdered Toast Man" episode, and I realized that there may be something else going on with the familiar character. Maybe PTM isn't just a breakfast-based superhero. Maybe he's a stand-in for Jesus Christ, the only begotten son of God. 

Okay, it's a far-out theory, I realize. But hear me out.

Take and eat.

Powdered Toast Man actually opens his own head up and scrapes out some powder onto Ren and Stimpy's plates. This is as close a cartoon representation to the Eucharist as I can imagine on The Ren & Stimpy Show. PTM uses his body to feed a hungry cat and dog! The transformation of powder into toast may, in fact, be miraculous, like the story of the fishes and loaves in Matthew 14.

Fish and bread, it should be noted, are both important motifs on The Ren & Stimpy Show. Their hero, as I've already pointed out, is literally made of bread. In "Son of Stimpy," Stimpy's prodigal son (another biblical reference!), Stinky, even marries a rotting fish carcass before honeymooning in Ren's nose. And fish are common comedic props throughout the series, as in "Haunted House," in which one unlucky trout or halibut becomes part of a grotesque sandwich. That episode, incidentally, features another example of a character literally turning into bread, as an unlucky ghost disguises himself as a slice of bread in an attempt to trick Ren and Stimpy. Eucharistic symbolism abounds!

But getting back to Powdered Toast Man, what other Christ-like characteristics does he have? After studying the "Powdered Toast Man" episode from 1992, I've made the following observations:

• His skimpy red shorts are monogrammed PTM, but only the cross-like T is emphasized. Throughout the episode, his catchphrase will be "Leave everything to me," which sounds like an updated version of that classic bumper sticker slogan, "Let go and let God." Like Jesus, Powdered Toast Man is voluntarily taking on the burdens of the human race. PTM knows of our fears, our weaknesses, our sins, and our frailties, and he is willing to accept them all if we only ask for his help. Truly, he wants us to leave everything to him.

• An overly-excited announcer describes PTM as a mysterious, god-like being from another world: "Who is this stranger from another land? Why does he walk among mortal men? What is his mission? Where can we get a pair of undershorts like his? Who is this man of toast and what does he want from us? What is his dark secret?" That second query -- "Why does he walk among mortal men?" -- seems particularly applicable to Christ as well. It's one of the central mysteries of the Christian faith.

• PTM's chosen alias is "Pastor Toastman, the cool youth deacon." His assistant  is a lovely young lady who dresses much like a Catholic schoolgirl and refers to him as "Father." The fact that the character casually tears off his priestly collar could be viewed as either deliberate sacrilege or the fact that Christ would have no use for the hierarchical structure of organized religion as it is practiced today.

• In an outlandish parody of Christ's mercy, PTM saves a small kitten from being run over by a delivery truck by crashing a passenger plane directly into the truck. Like Christ, PTM is primarily concerned with the humblest and most helpless of God's creatures. (Never mind that he carelessly tosses the animal into the path of another vehicle moments later.)

• PTM is, in some ways, better than God or Jesus because he directly answers prayers. He can be contacted through his Toast-omatron Communicator, his inflating and deflating red shorts, and even his tongue, which functions as a telephone. When Ren and Stimpy need toast, PTM comes quickly, as in Revelation 22:12.

FZ as the Pope.

• Whom does PTM save in the episode's main event? The Pope, as portrayed by Frank Zappa. And from whom does he save the Pope? An angry fish villain, as portrayed by Muddy Mudskipper. There is an absolutely religious-seeming moment in which PTM floats angelically over the semi-conscious, almost-dead Muddy Mudskipper and "resurrects" him, only to tie him to a barrel full of about-to-explode gunpowder. As with the kitten incident, it plays like a parody of a miracle.

• In the cartoon's final act, PTM becomes heavily involved in American politics, perhaps denoting how much influence the Christian right has over the United States government. After saving the hapless, unnamed president, who gets his penis caught in his zipper in the White House john, PTM assumes the role of Commander-in-Chief, vowing "to relieve the American citizens of their basic human rights."

• As president, one of PTM's top priorities is settling the "Three Stooges stamp controversy," possibly an oblique reference to the Holy Trinity. In another example of political satire, PTM then burns the Constitution and the Bill of Rights in order to heat the Oval Office, warming himself in front of the fire with his nubile female assistant, a possible cognate for Mary Magdalene.

So as you can see, there are numerous parallels between the Man of Toast and the Lamb of God. Whether this was intentional or not is up to you to decide. And am I, the author of this piece, being sincere with the evidence presented here, or is this an intentionally over-the-top comment on far-fetched fan theories? Well, that, too, is for you to determine. Read it over, examine the evidence carefully, and come to a conclusion that suits you and your spiritual life. Me, I'm off to enjoy some delicious powdered toast.