Stop me before I play again!

Hi, my name is Ken and I’m a Free Cell addict.
For years I blamed my assistant. She was the one who introduced me to the game. But over time I’ve come to realize I have to take responsibility for my own actions. I still should have fired her sorry ass but that’s not the point.

I’m the addict. I’m the one who can’t turn on his computer without playing just one game. And as you all know, one turns into two, which turns into ten, then twenty, and before you know it you’re out in the street living in a Maytag box.

Oh, it started off so innocently. “What’s that?” I asked my assistant Luciferita. “It’s Free Cell,” she said casually, drawing the helpless moth to the flame. “It’s kind of like a Solitaire game. You like Solitaire, don’t you?” I admitted that on certain social occasions I had imbibed in a game of computer Solitaire or two. “Well, this is better,” she said. “Let me show you how it works.”

I should have known better. That’s the same thing someone said to me about Tetris. By the time that was through I was eating Hamburger Helper right out of the package.

At first I had a little trouble getting the hang of Free Cell. Little did I know that that degree of difficulty, that “challenge” was what made the game so insidiously addictive. Anyone could win METAL GEAR SOLID 4: GUNS OF THE PATRIOTS, but Free Cell – the triumph over that game produced such a greater high, a euphoria that few have ever known.

But that high is somewhat transitory. It’s usually gone in one second, two if you’ve trained yourself to really savor it. So you must have more. That window pops onto your screen. “Would you like to play another game?”

In the background you can hear your kids say, “Daddy, come out here. The lunar-eclipse is about to begin. It’s the last one earth will see until 3052.” “Be right there, guys!” I call out. But that little window beckons. "Would you like to play another game? Would you? WOULD YOU??! Sweat beads form on your forehead. You try to resist. You’re almost up from the chair when…

“Aw hell, one more game.”

And now I can’t stop. Emails pile up. I haven’t checked my Nigerian bank account for months.

And eventually it’s not just winning the game. You need more kicks! How many in a row can you win? How fast you can win? How few moves do you need to win? How long can you go without peeing?

Obviously, I need help. I can’t control this on my own. I just found out today that Hillary’s no longer in the race. So hopefully, with all of your support I can rid myself of this destructive habit and return to the light. I have a sponsor assigned to me. I just got an email from him introducing himself. For the first time in months I'm starting to feel there is a way out. One quick game and I’m going to write him back.

Dumb critic questions

...Speaking of TV critics (or at least two days ago), they’ve all been in Los Angeles lately for the big annual TCA convention, a month long hypeorgy where networks trot out their new stars and show runners in endless panels of “We’re the next great thing” presentations. Every creator is super excited, every cast just immediately clicked on day one and now are a big family. I’ve been on those panels. I've said those same things. But in my case of course it was true. For both shows.

Uh huh.

Lying your ass off and fooling no one aside, there’s nothing like looking out at 200 people who are bored out of their skulls, knowing you’re the seventh panel of the day and this is day eleven. Do the math. They just want to go home.

The networks try to help your case by wining and dining the critics. There are usually lavish cocktail parties complete with shrimp. At least now each critic must pay his own way (i.e. his paper pays). Years ago the networks popped for the entire junket. And they would provide perks like laundry service since they knew this was a lengthy stay. One critic one year brought his living room drapes from home and had them dry cleaned at the networks’ expense. But you gotta give that guy credit for chutzpah.

Most of the questions asked at these presentations tend to be the same (as do the answers). But every so often the monotony is broken by someone asking something really stupid. Here are a few from this year:

One guy asked Lucy Lui how it was to be 40.

When Dave Attell, hosting a new GONG SHOW (what took so long to revive that masterpiece?), said the show would feature a beer pong act, one of the critics asked him what a beer pong act did.

One critic informed Jonny Lee Miller that she had seen HACKERS ninety-five times, and later asked him if he was going to call Angelina Jolie (his ex-wife) to guest star on the show. (Miller, annoyed but diplomatic: "You'll have to call her, I'm afraid.")

To Kevin Reilly, whom the critic had clearly confused with Ben Silverman: "Have you made up with Steve McPherson?"

To the showrunners of LIFE ON MARS: "If it's set in New York, why is it called "Life on Mars"?"

And just a few from years past (I’m sure there are thousands more):

A critic who was a sci-fi fan once asked Dawn Ostroff whether VERONICA MARS would be adding any "genre elements" -- because apparently nobody clued this person in that film noir is a genre.

Terrence Howard was once asked why he was dressed like a pimp.

Ron Glass was asked if his hair was real.

And finally, when I was on a panel for BIG WAVE DAVE’S I mentioned that the show would be shot multi-camera in front of a live audience on a soundstage in Hollywood and one critic asked, “So will there be actual surfing on the show?”

These cocktail parties obviously feature open bars.

The CHEERS episode I'm still writing in my head

Recently I was asked by TVSquad.com to contribute an article for their CHEERS week. For those who didn't see it, here it is. For those who did see it, here it is again in a different font. Enjoy.Sometimes you just never know.

David Isaacs and I wrote an episode of CHEERS the first season called “Boys in the Bar”. We were also producing the show at the time with the Charles Brother and Jim Burrows.

The subject matter was a little tricky. It had been reported in the papers that a former player for the Dodgers, Glenn Burke admitted he was gay. We thought, what if Sam’s roommate during his playing days made the same admission? It seemed like a great way to explore the homophobia you find in some sports bars. Okay…most.

So came up with this story: When Sam’s ex-roommate reveals he’s gay Sam must decide whether or not to support him. There is concern from the bar regulars that if Sam does the bar will go gay. I never said these were smart bar regulars. Still, Sam does back his former roomy and the regulars are very on edge. The next day, when they suspect two patrons of being gay they try in their clumsy oafish way to “encourage” them to leave. The suspects eventually do and Norm, Cliff, and the gang are feeling very good about themselves until they realize they chased out the wrong pair. The real gay guys are standing on either side of Norm and both kiss him at once.

There was concern from the get-go that this story might be a little too risky for a series that at the time was struggling to find an audience. (It’s bad enough CHEERS was losing to SIMON & SIMON at the time, it was getting its ass kicked by TUCKER’S WITCH too.) We forged ahead anyway and wrote the draft.

Everyone seemed to like it but was still a little worried. To their credit, the Charles Brothers and Jim Burrows did not back away. They put the show on the production schedule.

The first day of production a table reading is scheduled. The cast sits around a large conference table and reads the script aloud. Writers gauge how it’s playing and begin rewriting the things that didn’t appear to work. “Boys in the Bar” seemed to go okay. Not through the roof but decent.

As I walked out of the room Ted Danson approached and said, “Don’t change a word.” I was a little overly defensive and didn’t appreciate the sarcasm, “Hey, give me a break”, I snapped, “We tried for something, okay?” He waved his hands. “No, no, I mean it. It’s great. Don’t change a word.” Needless to say I felt like a giant ass… but was relieved.

The week of rehearsals went smoothly. Just a little tweaking here and there but no major rewrites.

CHEERS, like most multi-camera shows, operated on a five-day production schedule. The first three for rehearsing with the cast alone, then on day four the camera crews come in and the technical work is done. Finally, on day five the show is shot in front of a live studio audience.

The crew is usually a good indicator of what works. We’ve now heard every joke nine times. Nothing is funny to us. They’re hearing the material for the first time.

The crew LOVED “Boys in the Bar’. Big laughs all the way through. And by far the biggest was the last joke where the two guys flanking Norm kiss him. It was easily the biggest crew laugh of the year.

So we felt great heading into show night. Sure enough the audience was with us from the first minute. One joke (Sam telling Diane he should’ve known his roommate was gay, in a piano bar he once requested a show tune) got such a thunderous prolonged laugh that they had to stop cameras. Too much film was being wasted.

The show and the laughs barreled on. I was having the time of my life. There’s nothing a writer craves more than hearing big laughs. Now we’re at the end. The two gay guys lean in and kiss Norm, and…

Silence. Dead silence. You could hear crickets.

It wasn’t like some people got it and others didn’t. Nobody laughed. Not a single person.

I felt like Wile E. Coyote when he runs off a cliff and is in mid-air for a few seconds before he realizes it, then plummets to the ground. That was me and the rest of the staff.

We quickly huddled. No one had an explanation. The best we could come up with was that the audience didn’t realize that was the end. They were waiting for something else. So we reshot the scene and after the kiss we added a line. Norm points to one and says, “Better than Vera”. That got a sort-of laugh but was the best we could do. Cut to the closing credit and get the hell out.

We received an Emmy nomination for that show and won the Writers Guild Award for it. It’s still one of my proudest episodes. But to this day I scratch my head.

The crew liked it! They all got it!

TV critics

In a recent post I mentioned that uber TV critic Tom Shales had hated the BIG WAVE DAVE’S pilot and Tom then filed the actual review in the comments section. I don’t completely agree (I mean, Jesus, it’s not THAT bad. You can judge for yourself here.), but bad reviews are part of the bargain if you want to be a television writer. When you write for a mass audience you put yourself out there. And sometimes that means you relive the final scene of BONNIE & CLYDE.

But you can’t take it too seriously, just as you can’t start believing you’re a genius just because the TV critic from MERCENARY LIFE loves your new comedy.

Yes, it stings when you get a bad review. You take comfort in knowing it’s only in the paper for one day (although in the case of Shales’ slam of BIG WAVE DAVE’S the LA Times chose to print it in their weekly TV guide so it was around for everyone to enjoy for seven lovely days). But if you can force yourself to read the review objectively sometimes those sons of bitches make good points.

What kills me though, is when you agree with their criticism but had to do it that way because of pressure from the network, studio, actors, etc. You’re the one thrown under the bus. My partner and I did a pilot one time and I wanted to change the name of our production company to “It’s Not Our Fault Productions”.

I sure wouldn’t want to be a TV critic though. Certainly not today, with newspapers all in the shitter and cutbacks occurring almost hourly. And then there’s the little matter of having to watch television. How many VIVA LAUGHLIN and K-VILLE pilots can one screen before blowing their brains out? One? Two maybe?

The truth is TV critics can’t kill a show but they can help save one. No matter how excoriating the reviews for CAVEMAN, had the show gotten ratings it would still be on and its stars (in full make up) would be hosting next year’s Rose Parade. But being a critical darling can protect yourself from cancellation. Do you think the exceptional MAD MEN would be going into its second season and collecting all those Emmy noms were it not for its glowing reviews? The Scott Baio reality show kicked its ass in the ratings. That’s like Beyonce losing a beauty contest to Phyllis Diller. ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT is another show that had a longer life thanks to critical bouquets.

Like everything else, there are better critics than others. Some are thoughtful and perceptive while others are just plain imbeciles. The morons you ignore and make fun of mercilessly in the writers room , but there are a few critics worth checking out. Some of my favorites are Maureen Ryan in the Chicago Tribune, Alan Sepinwall in the New Jersey Star-Ledger (he watches fifteen hours of television a day, he’ll be dead soon), Aaron Barnhart from the Kansas City Star, and yes, even Tom Shales of the Washington Post. There’s also the former Seattle P.I. TV critic who is hilarious and now has her own blog. Melanie McFarland.

And my last thought is that TV critics exist because there is such a great general interest in television. There are very few insurance salesman syndicated critics. It’s nice to be in a field where people even have opinions about what you do. Even if you don’t always share them. I still say BIG WAVE DAVE’S had some laughs.

Comedy savers

To be a TV comedy writer you have to have thick skin. Generally you’re in a room with other comedy writers, all neurotics, competing against each other to get your ideas or jokes in the script. Eight puppies and one Milkbone.

Many times you’ll pitch a joke that doesn’t get a laugh or doesn’t get in. You’re out there with egg on your face. I find it’s best to develop a series of savers. As a public service, here are a few I use. (Note: if you find yourself using all of these in a five minute span consider other employment).


Hey guys, don’t all hoist me on your shoulders at once!

Okay, but you’re denying America pleasure.

Oh God, it’s my prom night all over again.

If Jon Stewart pitched that you’d put it right in.

I hear laughter but I don’t see the pencil moving.

Okay, don’t see your kids tonight. Stay all night. I’m doing this for you. Some thanks I get.

Sure, it’s not funny when I say it. But when (actor) says it…

You’re only mad because you didn’t think of it first.

Nurse! They’re being mean to me again!

The laugh machine will LOVE it.

I bet at CSI:MIAMI they’d be hysterical.

Fine. I wasn’t meant to be appreciated in my time.

I don’t feel the love, you assholes.

You try being funny when you’re having a stroke.

See it typed. You’ll think differently.

Okay, what if they said it in a funny accent?

I’m sorry. Are there no more seats at the Algonquin Round Table?

So you’re saying perfection isn’t good enough?

Hey, you hired me!

(In Forghorn Leghorn voice) I say, I say, I keep pitchin’ ‘em, boy, and you keep missin’ ‘em.

Jesus, people, doesn’t ANYTHING make you laugh?

You all remember. I used to be funny, right?

And of course, the ultimate saver and perennial crowd pleaser – Go fuck yourself.

Favorite American Expression

Non baseball fans will laugh just as hard at this. Ichiro Suzuki is All-Star player for the Seattle Mariners after being a legend in Japan. Over the last few years he has been learning English. Here he is being interviewed recently by Bob Costas. I think he should be awarded citizenship for this answer alone.

I don't suck!

Thanks much to Tom Hoffarth of the L.A. Daily News for his all-too-kind article today on the radio show I co-host, Dodger Talk. Here's the link. He also includes more on his blog. That link can be found here.

This was sure a lot better than the review of BIG WAVE DAVE'S I received from Tom Shales where he basically said I single-handedly destroyed network television.

Friday questions of the week (yes, more than one)

Two questions today. The first from Mike:

I recently read a review of the Season 9 DVD of Cheers, and was saddened to see that, in the episode where the bar gets a karaoke machine, the part where Frasier sings "Isn't it romantic?" is cut. As was the very brief part where Norm and Cliff load up on helium and sing "Lollipop." And it's because Paramount didn't want to spend the money on licensing the songs for the DVD release. How does that make you feel, as a creative talent, knowing these moments are cut, all because of money? And when you were working on Cheers, did you guys have to be concerned with the cost of having a character on the show sing a song? Particularly when they only sing a little snippet of a song like in the karaoke episode. Or did you have to pay to have a song sung, regardless of how much of it was actually sung on the episode?

What annoys me most is that studios would rather just eliminate the music rather than paying the license fees. The musicians deserve their royalty just as much as the writers, actors, and directors. But since their contribution is easily removable and unlike the writers, their contractual participation is significant the studios would much rather just cut them out than pay them. And if the shows suffer, so what?

The worst example is WKRP IN CINNCINATI. The studio has practically destroyed that show by substituting generic music for what was originally there. And of course the studio claims that if they didn’t do this they would not have released the DVDs at all, so at least fans of the show can see episodes in some form. Gee, thanks soooo much.

Each studio has a different policy. When your show is in production most will allow you to use songs from the library that they own. If a Paramount show needed a romantic ballad you’d always hear “Autumn in New York” , “Moonlight in Vermont”, or “Moon River”. Need a Hawaiian tune? “Blue Hawaii” or nothing. On ALMOST PERFECT we had a big fight with Paramount over having a character sing a few seconds of the old Vikki Carr song, “It Must Be Him”. It got down to just how many words would we want to use? At 20th I’m sure you could always use the soundtrack from CLEOPATRA.

Wayne asks:

Question. How jealous do regulars get when a weekly player (like Kelsey first was) score big enough to get brought back?

I can’t speak for every show but on CHEERS I can tell you that Kelsey was accepted almost immediately. Especially after a show has been on a while the cast recognizes that adding new people can freshen things up, and possibly add a few years to the run. So they may lose a few lines but they end up with a lot more money.

I do know of some other shows where new characters were viewed by the cast as a threat and that can sometimes lead to ugly situations. I’m not at all privy to what goes on but I can’t imagine the original cast of HOUSE being all too happy over last season. They went from stars of the show to having fewer lines than the coma patients.

My big question (and maybe someone from the show is reading this and can respond) is how do the original cast members of LOST feel? Every year they’re squeezed out more and more, usually by better, more interesting characters. A lot of the original survivors have been killed so they’re no problem, but I do wonder about the remaining Oceanic Six + two. I guess they can’t bitch too loudly or they’ll be in Davy Jones locker with Charlie. Ironically, some of the “others” became the stars and they became the others.

If I find out more, I’ll let you know. Keep those questions coming. Thanks.

A boy named Moxie Crimefighter... or is it a girl?

Celebrities complain that they’re not taken seriously and then they do stupid things like give their babies ridiculous names. The most recent example is when Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban welcomed Sunday Rose into the world July 7th. What were they thinking? Was that the day he got out of rehab and the flower a street vendor gave her?

I don’t know which attention hog exactly to blame for starting this absurd trend. Sonny & Cher named their daughter Chastity way back when. And of course Frank Zappa’s children are Moon Unit and Dweezil (but they may just be named for his maternal grandparents).

Bruce Willis & Demi Moore thought Rumor would be a pretty name for a child to go through life with. And Gwyneth Paltrow is the proud brain dead mother of Apple.

But it gets worse. Lil’ Mo (a great name in itself) has a child named God’iss Love Stone. INXS former lead singer, Michael Hutchence left behind a daughter named Heavenly Hiraana Tiger Lily. And Jermaine Jackson named his off-spring Jermajesty. Guess he wanted to keep that tradition going of "JER" being the first three letters. He himself should change his name to "JERk".

Continuing the theme of royalty, don’t blame rapper T.I.’s son for thinking he has a God complex when he goes through life as Messiah Ya’majesty.

Kal-el was Superman’s birthname on the planet Krypton. It’s also Nicholas Cage’s son’s name. If he’s smart he’ll change it to Clark Kent and go live in a foster home.

Is Moxie Crimefighter a boy’s name or girl’s name? Ask Penn Gillette because that’s the idiotic name he gave to his son… or daughter.

Tamika Scott (Xscape) has no sense and also can’t spell. O’shun? And Ving Rhames, the word is “rainbow”, not Reign Beau.

Speaking of bad spelling and horrendous judgment, Jason Lee takes the prize with his son, Pilot Inspektor. He’ll be the first baby to go into therapy while still in the maternity ward.

Bob Geldoff’s daughter Peaches Honeyblossom was probably named for a room freshener.

Jaimie Oliver writes recipe books. I guess that explains Poppy Honey.

Andre Benjamin (Andre 3000) and Erykah Badu (now there’s a handle) must like the 70s music channel on satellite radio because their child is Seven Sirius.

Brandy went for AMERICAN IDOL finalist type name, Sy’rai.

And what drug was John Cougar Mellencamp on when he named his son Spec Wildhorse?

And finally, Rob Morrow from NUMB3RS went for the simple but elegant Tu. I’m guessing that’s his second child.

YOU IDIOTS!!!! These kids will likely be seeeeeriously fucked up. And you will wonder why. Oh well. Just send them off to boarding school and adopt some new ones from Africa.

They won't have Levine to kick around anymore!

Here's another installment of my 60s memoirs. It was a decade far more exciting than my life but still. This was my initial post on this feature. From time to time I'll be sharing more these memories as the sodium pentathol kicks in. Enjoy.
There were two big elections in 1964. The presidential and the more hotly contested “vice president of the student body” race at Parkman Jr. High. I was one of the candidates (of the latter). I don’t remember whom I ran against. All I know is: I lost, learned a valuable lesson in comedy, and got expelled.

Meanwhile, Henry Cabot Lodge, Nelson Rockefeller, and the far scarier Barry Goldwater were duking it out in the Republican primaries while President Johnson was opening the World’s Fair in New York. (The two big attractions were Michelangelo’s Pieta and Walt Disney’s “It’s a Small Small World”.)

For the life of me I don’t know why I ran for a student body office. It’s not like I was particularly popular and I had no idea what the vice president even did. I suppose I thought it would make me more attractive to girls. Power is an enormous aphrodisiac.

My campaign consisted of a poster, cardboard buttons, and a speech to be delivered to the entire student body. Every good campaign needs a great slogan and I had mine. Personally I thought it was way better than “All the way with LBJ” or Goldwater’s “In your heart you know he’s right” (in truth: “In your heart you know he was a fucking psycho who would start World War III).

Mine was “Ken Satisfies Best” which was a slight modification of Kent cigarettes very popular catchphrase “Kent Satisfies Best”. To stay with the theme I drew my poster to look like a package of Kent cigarettes.

I unveiled my campaign and handed out my buttons and it was an immediate sensation. Everyone wanted to wear one of my buttons. Most people just added the “t” back to Ken and suddenly the campus was filled with minors advocating smoking.

The principal absolutely freaked out. I was immediately expelled and my buttons and posters were banned from the school.

After a day of my parents assuring the administration that my campaign was not underwritten by the Lorillard Tobacco Company -- and that nowhere do I mention the benefits of the Micronite Filter -- I was reinstated and even allowed to remain in the race.

I no longer had a slogan and buttons but I now had that whole martyr thing going for me so that helped in the pre-election polls.

The campaign speeches were to be given at three assemblies, one for each grade (7th, 8th, 9th). I decided to make my speech funny since that was more my forte and I had no clue what the office entailed.

And here’s where the valuable lesson comes in.

First up was the 9th grade and I KILLED. Huge laughs all the way through. Forget votes, it was that laughter that “satisfies Ken best”.

Next up was the 8th grade and much to my surprise the reaction was only lukewarm. Laughs along with way but not huge like before. Hmmm?

By the 7th grade – death. Not a single laugh. Not one. Hundreds of kids just staring at me. And of course, my pausing for the laughs that weren’t there didn’t help either. I practically crawled back to my chair. For the first time in my life I WANTED a Kent cigarette.

“Know your house!” as comics say. That seems so obvious now but not when you’re 14 and a major smartass. I lost the election but it serves me right. Learner’s Permit jokes for 7th graders? What the hell was I thinkin’??

Hey now you're an All-Star

It’s time once again for the big mid-summer’s classic – the All-Star game, held this year in historic Yankee Stadium soon to be torn down because they can’t jam enough luxury boxes into it. Come on you non-baseball fans, there may be some humorous tid bits in this post for you too.

To make the game fair they just start by giving the hapless National League a 3-0 lead.

Now that the All-Star game COUNTS I notice a much greater intensity on the part of the Seattle Mariner and Pittsburgh Pirate players for that coveted home field advantage in the World Series.

What good is the home run derby when elite power hitters like Alex Rodriguez decline to participate? Come on, Madonna, let him play.

Best home run derby moment was a few years ago when Barry Bonds stepped up to the plate and the Astros bullpen catcher signaled for an intentional walk.

Does anybody in their right mind keep score of an All-Star game?

The All-Star game is the only time a member of the Texas Rangers is ever on national television.

A number of ace reporters have blasted the fans for voting in Boston catcher Jason Varitek who’s hitting only .220. That’s fine except he’s a reserve so players voted him in not the fans.

Only one player (not active) was selected in All-Star games every year of his career. Answer below. Hint: It’s not Coco Crisp or Choo Choo Coleman or Hee Sop Choi.

Here's what I'd REALLY like to see in an All-Star game -- a benches clearing brawl. Would guys get suspended from future All-Star games? Would Yankees and Red Sox start wailing on each other even though they're on the same team?

Remember the year Lou Whittaker forgot to pack his uniform? He had to buy a jersey from a concession stand and he wrote his number on the back with a Sharpie.

NL manager Clint Hurdle did not name Joe Torre to his coaching staff so the former pinstripe manager won’t be returning to Yankee Stadium for one last time. And he couldn’t be more thrilled.

Josh Groban will sing “God Bless America” and Sheryl Crow will attempt the national anthem.

When the Indians decided to trade C.C. Sabathia there was a huge frenzy. He was like a Snickers Bar in a fat farm. Anyone notice that he didn’t make the All-Star squad? Same with Rich Harden.

Another question: Had Sabathia been selected, which team would he play for? He was with Cleveland in the American League and now is with Milwaukee in the National League. Harden went from the American League A’s to the National League Cubs.

This exact situation happened a few years ago. Carlos Beltran was voted into the starting line up of the AL as an outfielder of the Royals. Between then and the game he was traded to the Astros in the NL. Originally he was told he just couldn't play in the game at all (that'll show him for getting traded!) but when Ken Griffey Jr. bowed out due to injury he was allowed to take his spot on the NL roster.

At least there’s defense in a baseball All-Star game. Were it played like its NBA counterpart (or in Colorado) the final score would be 69-58.

The bunt sign is the third base coach yelling “bunt”!!

If you’re a relief pitcher and you’re not a closer you’ve got no shot. Several have better statistics than the glory guys who got in. Sorry to say it but “Chicks dig the long ball, not middle relief”.

And Fox analyst, Steve Lyons on my KABC radio show recently felt that there should be a spot for utility players. That’ll happen the day they give Tonys to understudies.

Fun betting pool: Which player will get seriously stabbed by a broken maple bat?

Kevin Youkilis is Jewish. Ian Kinsler and Ryan Braun are both half Jewish. So there are two Jews in the All-Star game. And then there’s Alex Rodriguez studying the Kabbalah.

More people watch the Home Run Derby than divisional playoff games (this is true).

I like the fact that every team has to have at least one representative to the All-Star game. That way viewers can say, “Hey, Kansas City is still in the league!”

There is one Los Angeles Dodger but three Tampa Bay Rays on the rosters. As it should be.

Now that you can vote on-line from anywhere in the world I bet American Idol David Cook got more votes for centerfield than Andruw Jones.

Joe DiMaggio is the only player to have played in All-Star games every year of his career.

The All-Star Game is a lot like the Academy Awards. It never lives up to the hype, you don’t recognize half the stars, and it’s usually too long, but every year you gotta be there. See you next summer in St. Louis.

The new iPhone hates U

Apple Computer, Inc. is misogynistic!

This is the claim of Erica Watson-Currie, a consultant and lecturer of some renown (I guess) who maintains that it’s hard to operate the new iPhone if you have long fingernails. She says, “Considering ergonomics and user studies indicating men and women use their fingers and nails differently, why does Apple persist in this misogyny?”

She wants Apple to go back to a stylus so women with long nails can use the keyboard. Um, isn’t one of the beauties of the iPhone the fact that you don’t need a stylus?

Somehow I can’t imagine the Apple design engineers all getting together and saying, “Women won’t date us for some completely unknown reason. What can we do to get back at them?”

Are contact lens manufacturers also misogynists?

And guitar makers?

How about the folks who make single-ply toilet paper?

And the ones who made rotary phones? Those couldn’t have been easy to dial with Vampira nails, even the “princess” models.

This goes back to my rant on political correctness. Why do we have to take everything so personal? It’s a friggin’ cellphone with a bunch of extras! It’s not a statement. It’s not the revenge of the nerds.

Seems to me you could touch the screen with the side of your finger, or the pad of your finger, or your thumb, or new nose? Or, just not buy one.

Now the people who make that Ikea furniture you have to construct yourself...that’s a different story. Those man-haters ought to be SHOT!!!!

What I learned on my first musical

Cast of the 60s PROJECT: Michael Gillis, Andrew Rannells, Megan Lewis, Maggie Benjamin, and Rodrick Covington.
It's the summer stock time of year! Having spent a recent summer in Connecticut where the musical I co-wrote (the 60s PROJECT) went into production at the Goodspeed Theatre, I learned quite a bit about the process. For those of you hitting the boards somewhere in our nation's heartland, here are a few things you might want to know.

The director must encourage everyone to share ideas. He must then discard 80% of them, especially the ones from the prop guy who's taken the liberty of writing new songs.

You need six weeks to rehearse a musical. But if you have six weeks, you'll need eight.

If the choreographer had her way, seven of the eight hours of rehearsal everyday would be devoted to the dance numbers. If the music director had his way, those same seven hours would be devoted to teaching and practicing the music. If the book writer had his way, scene work would fill the day. And if the director had his way it would be a one woman show with Bernadette Peters who could do it all in five hours.

One change, no matter how small, is like pulling a string in Penelope's Tapestry. It effects everything. If the music director adds a bar in a song, the choreographer will want to reblock the entire dance number. If the book writer changes one line it effects the underscoring, next cue, choreography, lighting, sound, background visuals, upcoming costume change, transition into the next scene, and future of the American musical theatre. So it better be a good new line.

If there's a fight scene or even fight moment there has to be a daily fight rehearsal before a performance. For West Side Story you can rehearse without the knives.

Wireless mics that stick out of cast members foreheads produce better sound and are not noticeable and distracting beyond the fiftieth row.

The cast elects an Equity Deputy whose job it is to snitch behind the director's back if an Equity rule is broken. Rules include looking at an actor with an expression that might hurt his feelings.

To learn even one dance number I would need to practice eight hours a day for six months at which time maybe I could do the whole thing without elbowing someone in the face. These kids get it down in six minutes.

You need a good drummer. A real good drummer.

See a night time performance rather than a matinee.

Actors need to yell out their dialogue. Not just speak loud, but YELL. Even if the line is "Pssst, let me tell you a secret." Only Renee Taylor can talk in her regular speaking voice.

When your wife or girlfriend needs forty-five minutes to change her clothes, just know it can be done in as little as ten seconds.

Every performer comes from a dysfunctional family but thanks them profusely in their Playbill bio.

Most people pad their Playbill bios, listing every credit since they played a kitty in grammar school. So my favorite Playbill bio remains: Jerry Belson, who wrote the 1975 movie SMILE that got turned into a musical, submitted only this -- "SMILE fulfills a lifetime dream for Mr. Belson, to get paid twice for the same script."

During performances there are nine people walking around with headsets. No one knows who they are or what they're doing.

A good running time, including a fifteen minute intermission is 2:20.

The song you loved the most before going into rehearsal is the song you need to cut.

No two people have the same script. Everyone is on stage working off different drafts.

The Teamsters are pansies compared to the Equity Union.

Actors will tell you: it's hard to be sung to. And offstage it's even harder.

When you're in the orchestra section, don't think the cast can't see you. If you're going to be Pee Wee Herman you're going to have an audience.

It's always better to say it in a song rather than dialogue. But those few lines of dialogue can galvanize the entire story.

Since there is limited rehearsal time once a show opens, it can take up to a week to put in some changes. You have to prioritize fixes, based on how needed they are and how long they will take to implement. What that means is you take notes every night and they're always the same notes.

Casting decisions are still the most important. Everything else can be fixed. Except if you want to do C-SPAN: The Musical, that idea might kill it.

Actors are not allowed to talk to conductors. There's a very strict chain of command. Book writers are not allowed to talk to anybody.

The guard at every stage door is named "Pops".

When it works, a musical can be more than entertaining, it can be thrilling. There is an electricity, a magic that is so powerful it transcends whatever's happening on stage. Yes, it's a tall order and rarely achieved but that's the goal. And if you don't hang yourself in a hotel room in New Haven it can be quite exciting.

CHEERS gag reel

When you're on a series, one of the highlights of the wrap party is the gag reel. Kudos to all the editors who save the out-takes and put these together. Here's one from CHEERS from the second season. A tradition on CHEERS and many other shows is to end with a montage of all the guest actors who appeared throughout the season. To fully enjoy this gag reel you must be like we were at the time -- drunk on our asses. So grab four beers and come along.

Friday question of the week

I couldn't think of an appropriate picture so as is my policy, here's another photo of Natalie Wood.

Today’s question is from reader Matthew Price:

You write about Cheers, Frasier, and MASH a lot, and it's obvious that you really loved working on those shows. I'm pretty sure you were well compensated for your time, too.

I was wondering if you've ever worked on a project that you loved, but you didn't make much money on. An indie comedy, perhaps, or a spec pilot that didn't go anywhere?

It's great to hear about getting paid to do what you love, but if most of your readers are like me, we're not getting paid much (or at all), yet. What was that time like for you?

It’s easy to look back nostalgically at those “hungry years” since I made it but the truth is I loved that period. After years of saying I’d like to be a comedy writer I was actually doing it. Yes, there was the tiny detail that no one was paying me and there was no guarantee anyone ever would, but still. I loved the process.

And still do.

I have a running joke with my friends now that my quest is to write as many things as I can that will return no money even in success. This blog is a great start!

I also have a play that has cost me money, a musical I co-wrote, several spec pilots, and numerous spec screenplays (some romantic comedies, two indie type features, and even one straight drama. My coffee table is littered with unsold scripts.

Side trip: When I called my feature agents and told them I was bringing in a new spec they were very excited. I then mentioned it was a drama and the silence was deafening. They didn’t even hide their disappointment. “Why would you do that?” they asked incredulously. I told them it was subject matter that resonated with me and I wanted to stretch myself. “Yeah, but you’re a comedy guy,” they said. “I know, but I’m also a writer.” Another long beat of silence and they said, “Well, are there any jokes in it? Maybe we could sell it as a dark comedy?” I am no longer with that agency. And by the way, I love that script.

If you intend to be a writer solely because you see it as a way of making fast money, find something else to do. It’s hard work. The money's not as fast as you think. And when people pay you they have the right to make suggestions. That can make it VERY hard work.

But real writers are compelled to write. They’ll suffer through those assignments just so they have the opportunity and freedom to write what they want, what’s in their hearts, without the benefit of helpful notes.

That said, if someone would like to buy my 60s memoirs, travelogues, play, musical, pilots, screenplays, outlines, treatments, beat sheets, articles, college essays, letters from camp, or advertise on this blog I'm open for business!

The trial of the century (so far)

Have you been following the Christie Brinkley custody trial?

Here’s what we’ve learned:

Her husband was banging a teenager, sometimes in their house.

The husband, Peter Cook, also allegedly stuck his stepdaughter’s head into a bucket of water.

When Peter and Christie needed to get into the “mood” they watched downloaded porn and he had spent untold thousands on it.

Had he been checking he'd learn there are hundreds of free sites.

To prove Christie is a good mother she had introduced as evidence an elaborate dinosaur diorama (complete with a volcano and flying raptors!) that she helped build with her son for his science class. The woman is a saint!

Cook also gave the teen he was carnalizing a $300,000 payoff.

Christie testified that she tried to spare her young children the details of the messy break-up (of course now it’s a public trial).

A psychologist charged Cook with being a raging narcissist.

The same psychologist made the shocking assessment that Christie needs to work on "her choice of male figures".

So my question is this?

How come this is not a bigger story? What is happening with this country? Are we so consumed with higher gas prices, the presidential election, and a war to focus on what’s really important? I’m disappointed, Americans! Where are your priorities?

I mean, this is good stuff!! Rich attractive privileged socialites, sex scandals, character assassination, online porn, payoffs, adultery, betrayals, science projects – what moves you people anymore?!

Because if this trial can’t spark your interest then Lara Logan getting pregnant or Alex Rodriguez dating Madonna while his wife diddles Lenny Kravitz or George and Sarah splitting up will mean nothing, and if that’s the case – well, let’s just say the terrorists have won.

Don't hurt me, Ms. Crawford!!

Thanks for your interest in my 60s project. My goal is to make it entertaining enough that even if you didn't grow up in the 60s or were even alive in the 60s (or were alive in the 60s but not alive now) you'll find it fun reading. Here's the next installment. I may actually write more of them after this. Not this week 'cause I'm too consumed with the Christie Brinkley trial (my thoughts on that tomorrow) but soon.
The next day at school every boy tried to wear his hair like a Beatle. It wasn’t easy to do since we all had crewcuts. Combing it down over our foreheads we looked more like Julius Caesar than Paul McCartney.

The girls meanwhile, were practically walking into walls. They all had this dazed lovesick expression, which is great when it’s because of you but nauseating when it’s not. For all of us adolescent males with exploding hormones, the message was clear:

If you want to get girls, be a rock star.

I think that afternoon every cheap guitar in America was purchased along with every “How to” book and piece of Beatles sheet music. I imagine some guys were so obsessed they began German lessons.

The Beach Boys still had their staunch following – usually the tan blond great looking athletic types who knew at the end of the day it wasn’t talent that won over girls, it was how you looked with your shirt off. I was 6’, having grown an entire foot in a year, and weighed 130 pounds. In a bathing suit I looked like a Q-tip with eyes, so siding with the surfing camp was not an option.

I didn’t want to expend the time, effort, and money required to buy and learn how to play guitar but fortunately I found an easier, cheaper, and faster way to achieve the same ultimate goal. I bought a five-dollar harmonica.

John Lennon had played harmonica on “Love Me Do”. If was an official legitimate Beatles instrument. And it came with a three-page booklet teaching you how to use it. Forget that the instructions were in Japanese.

So like an idiot I would come home from school, lock myself in my room, and blow into this crappy piece of tin until I had a hernia. Little did I realize that even Polka bands were not interested in adding a harmonica player.

The Beatles appeared on THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW again the next week (February 16th) but this time instead of playing to frenzied teenage girls in New York, they performed in Miami Beach for old Jews. The electricity just wasn’t the same playing to codgers in leisure suits with hearing aids who generally show their appreciation by clicking spoons. Charlie Brill & Mitzi McCall received a better ovation.

The following week they were on SULLIVAN again but this was a performance taped before their first appearance so there wasn’t that live “event” status that made their debut so memorable. Only ten million girls had their first orgasm as opposed to forty.

So where were the Beatles when that pre-recorded performance aired on February 23rd? Actually back in England I just learned. But at the time I thought they were right here in Los Angeles, California, U.S.A. But where in Los Angeles? That was the big question.

Like kids everywhere, we followed the group’s U.S. exploits through the radio. Every Top 40 station in the country covered it, and every one seemed to have one d.j. who crowned himself “the fifth Beatle”. Yeah, like the Beatles are going to let only one person enter their exclusive inner circle and it’s going to be some pimple cream huckster from Modesto. Murray the K. Kaufman in New York was the most outspoken “fifth Beatle” but in Los Angeles it was Dave “the Hullabalooer” Hull. Dave did afternoons on KFWB’s chief rival, KRLA. He led his audience to believe that he and the boys were thick as thieves. If Dave needed a kidney, George Harrison would insist he take his.

So anyway, according to the Dave, the Beatles were holed up in a secluded mansion somewhere in Bel Air (Blue Jay Way??). I’m sure after his show Dave was going to go up there and maybe flip some burgers for the guys, unless the “fifth Beatle” from Kalamazoo got there first.

One day after school I visited a friend, Bobby Kaye, who lived in Bel Air and he had heard that the Beatles were staying with Capitol Records President, Alan Livingston, whose estate was right up the street. “Great!” I said, “Let’s go up there and meet ‘em.” Hey, we could always just say Dave sent us. So off we hiked up to Livingston’s house.

There was one tiny detail we had overlooked in our zeal. Bobby wasn’t exactly sure which house was Livingston’s. He knew it was one of like four but couldn’t say for sure which one. Swell! We’re going to pick the wrong place and Joan Crawford is going to beat the shit out of us with wire hangers.

We decided to go around to the back, climb fences, scope out backyards and try to surmise which was Location X. Maybe we’d get lucky and spot the Beatles catching some rays or playing Marco Polo in the pool with Elvis. We were such morons.

Our search ended when the Bel Air patrol arrived and threatened to arrest us for trespassing. Or let Joan Crawford go medieval on our asses.

So I never saw the Beatles that day. In later years I did meet John Lennon, passed George Harrison on the street once, and Ringo almost hit me with his car.

But by then they were just people.

My so-called past

This is another of my ersatz blog experiments.

I've been playing around with a new project lately, a memoirs of sorts. Any account of the 60s you read features pretty much the same story -- clean-cut kids become drugged out hippies, college revolutionaries, or Scientologists. Well I did none of those things. And it turns out, neither did 90% of the kids who grew up in the 60s. So I thought -- maybe there's a book in their story, which works out well since it's also my story. I don't know what I'm going to do with this. I've only just begun. I may expand it, change it, move forward, or scrap it. Let me know what you think. This is the first installment.
The Beatles appeared on THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW.

It was Sunday night, February 9, 1964.

I was almost 14, living in a ranch style tract home in an upper middle class suburb of Los Angeles called Woodland Hills. The farther west you got in the San Fernando Valley, the more pleasant the names of the towns. Woodland Hills, Canoga Park, Hidden Hills. Far better than the more easterly Pacoima and Sylmar. I lived with my relatively young parents (still in their 30s) and younger brother, Corey.

I don’t remember who else was on THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW that night. Probably a plate spinner, the Obratsov Russian Puppet Theatre, British comedian Mr. Pastry, Baby Opal & Baby Kay (elephant act), Ginny Tiu & her siblings, and if time permitted, Robert Goulet.

Back in 1964 there were only three networks and we watched whatever crap was on. Human-robot Ed Sullivan hosted a weekly variety show tolerated by the entire family. I can’t tell you how many three-legged dog acts and Szony & Claire dance teams I suffered through just to catch three minutes of the Four Seasons or Abby Lane in leotards.

The Beatles’ timing couldn’t have been better. The country was still in a giant funk over the assassination of JFK and the largest generation the world has ever known was starting to get a weekly allowance.

The Beatles had first burst upon the scene a month before. It seemed like every hour a new Beatles song was premiering on Color Radio, KFWB. “I Want to Hold Your Hand”. “Love Me Do”. “She Loves You.” They even started playing German versions (“Sie Liebt Dich”). That’s when you knew you had a phenomenon on your hands (although German versions of anything would be better than the Bobby Vinton oozeburgers that were topping the charts back then).

Parkman Jr. High, where I was trapped in the 9th grade, was abuzz with the Beatles. That’s all anyone talked about at “Nutrition”. (Why they called this recess “Nutrition” I do not know. The only things they sold were flying saucer sugar cookies and chocolate milk.) The girls in particular were quite taken with these four lads. They’d cluster in excited little huddles, debating which one was cuter, squealing and laughing. I remember thinking at the time, “Jesus, they’re acting like idiots” but just chalked it up to yet one more thing I didn’t understand about girls. (And as I went through the decade and got to know them better, that list only grew.)

Guys were still a little skeptical. Beatles songs were fine but this was Southern California. We already had our group – the Beach Boys. They connected with our lives and our lifestyle. The beach, surfing, hot cars, that whole California dream. It was real. We were living it. Okay, well, I wasn’t living it. I don’t think I could lift a surfboard at that age. And girls seemed more impressed with Corvettes than a Schwinn ten-speed with raised handlebars.

But that was unimportant. The Beach Boys were singing our anthems.

“Little surfer
Little one
Made my heart come all undone.”

Oh, to be that lucky guy in the “Woody”, taking her everywhere I go (except maybe to temple).

Who the hell could relate to Liverpool?

So we guys took more of a wait-and-see attitude. The Beatles were coming to America for a three-week tour and three appearances on THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW. Let’s see if in person they were as cool as five guys in striped shirts singing macho songs in falsetto.

73,000,000 people watched the Beatles that first Sunday night. They were dazzling, electric, unlike anything I’d ever seen. Words can’t explain why. You look at the tape today and it’s just four guys in matching dark suits with long hair bouncing around singing “Yeah yeah yeah” in harmony while crazed teenage girls in the audience scream their guts out and cry. But I could sense, right then, that something was happening. I could just feel it. Something not just big, but huge, seismic – a national coming out party for my generation.

The Beach Boys started a craze. The Beatles started a revolution.

February 9, 1964 officially became the start date of our time.

If only we knew what the hell to do with it.

BIG WAVE DAVE'S

In 1993 my partner David and I did a pilot for CBS called BIG WAVE DAVE'S. It got on the air in the summer of that year after testing higher than any other project they had. Why wasn't it on in the Fall? Because CBS had series commitments to Diane English and Linda Bloodworth, and starring vehicles for Peter Scolari and Faye Dunaway. There was no room.

During the week of production for BIG WAVE DAVE'S CBS wanted us to replace Jane Kaczmarek. We refused. We believed in her and did not want to do the show without her. She wound up testing through the roof. To CBS's credit, they thanked us for sticking to our guns.

Anyway, here for the first time since it originally aired in August of 1993 is the BIG WAVE DAVE'S pilot -- starring Adam Arkin, Jane, David Morse, Patrick Breen, and Kurtwood Smith as Jack Lord.

P.S. The show did get on the air. It aired for six weeks, averaged a 19 share and kept 100% of our MURPHY BROWN lead in audience. And STILL we were cancelled.

When you're looking for sophisticated comedy...

This is a typical story.

In the mid 80’s my partner and I had a pretty good movie career going along with our TV work. (I think this was that honeymoon period between the time VOLUNTEERS was made and actually released…because that window was pretty short as I recall.) Disney wanted to meet us.

We trooped down to Burbank, appropriately entered the Dopey Building and met with this very nice energetic young executive. If we had any movie ideas he wanted us to bring them to Disney first. Because of our work on CHEERS we were the perfect writers for them. They were looking to do sophisticated romantic comedies with with and heart, and smart crackling dialogue. Very few people could do that but we could and that’s what they wanted. We were obviously very flattered and said when we came up with something we would call them.

He then said, “Listen, while you’re here, we do have one project that’s open, and we think you guys would be perfect for it. THIS was the movie:We graciously passed. We could write sophisticated comedy but we weren’t Noel Coward.

Fireworks

I hope you enjoyed fireworks last night without blowing your hand off. I never quite got the attraction of holding lit sticks with small explosives made in unknown countries by craftsmen who earn nineteen cents a month.

I saw a lovely fireworks display last night at the Hollywood Bowl. Of course, so did people who paid much less for seats than me and saw them just as well.

Being a baseball announcer I see firework shows at least five times a year. They’re usually on when I’m doing the postgame show, trying to read out-of-town scores while Baghdad is being bombed in the background.

When I broadcast for the Mariners we used to have indoor fireworks at the Kingdome. That never seemed like a good idea, and in fact ceiling tiles began plummeting to the ground.

And then of course there was the post game fireworks show at MacArthur Stadium when I was broadcasting for the Syracuse Chiefs. A spark started a brush fire beyond the left field wall.

But the best fireworks show I ever heard of was on July 5th, 1985. It was supposed to be a July 4th show. The Atlanta Braves were hosting the New York Mets that night. The game went 19 innings and ended at 3:55 in the morning. At 4:01 the show began. I’m sure the twelve people in the stands LOVED it.

Happy July 4th weekend. Drive safe out there.

The 4th of July

When I was a kid growing up in Woodland Hills, California – a suburb in the San Fernando Valley we always had a July 4th parade. It was not very big. Zero floats. A few school marching bands all playing Stars & Stripes Forever and Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini, girls twirling batons (which proved to be more dangerous to crowds than today’s maple bats), local dignitaries (“Hey, there’s Mr. Neider from Neider’s Auto Body!”), some elementary school classes, and local politicians (“We have a councilman?”).

But for me the REAL reason to stake out my spot on Ventura Blvd was that the grand marshal was always Buster Keaton. He was probably 150 by then but still, there he was. Mostly forgotten today but Buster Keaton was a comic genius in the era of silent films and early talkies. His flair for physical comedy was so inspired that even today I don’t think there’s a single comic who can remotely touch him. If I couldn’t still see George Washington in person at least there was Buster Keaton.

I miss those parades. If you still have one where you live, go. Wave a flag. Cheer. Just duck when the baton twirlers go by.

HAPPY 4th OF JULY EVERYONE!

Friday question of the week on Thursday

Since tomorrow is the 4th of July and no one reads blogs anyway on holidays I thought I’d do my Friday question on Thursday.

A reader asked about those pop up ads and ridiculous banners that now appear during programs. As a writer, does it drive me nuts?

YES! As a writer. As a director. As a viewer.

The pop ups are intrusive, they’re DESIGNED to divert your attention from the show you’re watching, they’re completely disrespectful to the creative team that mounted the show, and the audience resents them.

You want to say to the network geniuses who dreamed up these screen invaders, how would you like it if you were in the middle of a private conversation and I jumped in and started screaming for thirty seconds?

Or you’re driving on the freeway and I stick my hand in your face for thirty seconds?

Or you’re in the middle of sex and Universal tour bus drives through your bedroom?

Writers kill themselves to create compelling and entertaining stories that hold the audiences’ attention. If we wanted Kathy Griffin to suddenly appear in the corner of the screen we’d put it in the script. If we thought the viewer was so stupid he wouldn’t know he was watching FRASIER just by seeing Frasier on the screen, we wouldn’t be writing Cezanne jokes for the show.

I find it amusing that networks are so concerned about the program content that they note the writers and producers to death and then when the show is aired it’s obliterated by Brad Garrett or David Caruso (and nothing can kill a laugh faster than seeing that mug on TV).

I remember watcing an episode of SABRINA and as an experiment they employed that Pop Up Video device throughout the entire episode. A character would say a line and a box would blip on saying the cat in this scene died a week later. I felt sorrier for the writers than I did the cat.

I understand that people fast forward through commercials and promos and networks need alternative ways of getting their messages across but turning off viewers is not the way to attract them. I wish I could get some network brass to read this. Hey, is there any way I could put a widget on the bottom corner of their computer screens?

Vacation tip: Where to find writers

I read articles all the time about where tourists visiting Los Angeles can see stars. There are also maps to the stars homes (although Jack Benny and Lucille Ball have moved to more permanent residences. ). But what about all those millions of visitors who come to Tinsel Town just to catch a glimpse at writers? There’s yet to be an article about that….

Until now.

So for those of you scribe groupies hoping to see an actual TV or screenwriter this summer vacation, here are some places to go:

NATE N’ AL’S – This perennial Beverly Hills delicatessen is officially Broadway Danny Rose west. Here is where old comedy writers go to die of heart failure. Usually in tables of five or more, piled high with pastrami sandwiches (“I’m hungry now that I’ve quit smoking!”) the old sitcom guard holds court, trading stories of the good old days when Elizabeth Montgomery was a doll to work with but that Cosby kid was a handful. (“Two comedy albums and suddenly he knows funny!”) Morning meetings between writers and agents, managers, or producers start about 9. The ones that are over by 10 are working writers, the ones that go on til 11 are not.

THE AMC THEATRES, CENTURY CITY – weekday matinees only. Usually in pairs. Listen for the keywords: “Who greenlit this shit?”

THE FARMERS’ MARKET FOOD COURT – weekday mornings, early. They have coffee, read the trades, bitch about their fantasy baseball teams, and get the hell out before all the tour busses arrive.

Every STARBUCKS and COFFEE BEAN on Ventura Blvd between Vineland and White Oak. They’re easy to spot, sitting in front of computers, nursing one $3.00 ice blended for eight hours.

ART’S DELICATESSEN – Studio City. The San Fernando Valley equivalent of Nate N’ Al’s. Close to CBS Radford with oversized artery clogging triple deck sandwiches that include pastrami AND chopped liver. The one-time popular haunt of all the MTM writers so it’s kind of a shrine.

CEDARS SINAI HOSPITAL – West Hollywood. Home for all reunions of GRACE UNDER FIRE, CYBILL, and ROSEANNE writers.

THE SMOKE HOUSE – Burbank. Across the street from Warner Brothers studio. The bar area. Leave it to writers to think a good place to pick up chicks is at an old style red booth restaurant that’s been around since John Barrymore used to pass out there. Historic note: Captain & Tennille were discovered playing the Smoke House lounge – thus adding even more to the hip factor.

THE AROMA CAFÉ – Cute little coffee house with cute outdoor patio. On Tujunga Blvd in the valley mere steps from where Robert Blake had the love of his life whacked.

RESIDUALS – A bar in the valley that used to let writers pay for drinks with residual checks that were under a dollar. They eventually had to stop that practice because they were getting too many. I myself have received a check from THE SIMPSONS for one cent. And I’m sure it cost $5.00 to process and mail the check.

THE BRENTWOOD COUNTRY MART – Westside smaller version of the Farmers’ Market Food Court. Writers and news anchors hang out here. You’ll have no trouble telling which is which.

THE OAKWOOD GARDEN APARTMENTS -- Burbank. See recently divorced writers.

Any coffee shop above Hollywood on Franklin – Lots of guys trying to write the next PULP FICTION. Or TIL’ DEATH.

Happy hunting. One rule though: no handing out spec scripts! Let me repeat that:

NO HANDING OUT SCRIPTS!

Either working writers will be pissed or non-working writers will give you theirs.