Actors (including disgusting feathered animals) recall their roles in old-time westerns.
FROM THE CHAPTER ENTITLED:
“CRITTERS”
VULTURES
(AKA: “BUZZARDS”)
“What I remember most is the heat. It’s hot? There’s the smell of death in the air? That’s our cue.
“‘Bring on the vultures.’”
“We had three moves, that’s it. We could hover in a tree – which is generally a one vulture thing – gather on the ground – that’s a group; one vulture can’t gather – or we could circle in the sky – which could be solo or in a group, depending on the budget. Vultures don’t come cheap. They ‘lowball’ ya, you can peck their eyes out.”
“There was this ‘special business’ bit they’d give us sometimes, where we’d spread our wings real wide and go ‘caw.’ Vultures don’t go ‘caw’ – that’s crows – but they liked the sound, so they dubbed it in later.”
“Circling was the worst. Nine or ten ‘takes’, circling round and round, a vulture can get pretty queasy, lemme tell ya. Why would they need nine or ten ‘takes’? Prima donna directors, thought they could get more out of us. ‘Could they have, maybe, a glint in their eyes?’ No. We just circle.”
It’s not well known, but we vultures have a pretty good sense of humor. It’s subtle. Kind of dry. What do we do that’s funny? Well, if you watch closely, you’ll see us circling in one direction, and when they cut back to us, we’re circling the other way. Once, as a goof, instead of circling, I did ‘Figure Eight’s.’ I didn’t work for a year.”
“By the way, that’s what distinguishes vultures from buzzards. Buzzards aren’t funny.”
“My biggest pet peeve? I’ve always resented the word ‘carrion.’ It’s just dead animals. Isn’t that what you eat?”
Friday, October 9, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
"My Football Dilemma"
Of all the major sports – of which I include hockey, though others may disagree, believing it can’t be a major sport if its nationally televised games are broadcast on Channel two hundred and seventy-five – the sport I am least enthusiastic about is football.
There are reasons for that. I have given them before, so I’ll do it fast. First of all – no, that’s not first of all, this is first of all – critically assessed, football is a neck injury surrounded by a game. Call me wimpy, but I find the imminent possibility of paralysis interferes with my enjoyment of an event. This also explains why I rarely watch boxing, and avoid car racing. I mean, comedians “die” on stage, metaphorically. In boxing and car racing, they can actually die.
“And I saw it happen!”
And that’s a good thing?
So much for doing it fast.
My city doesn’t have a professional football team, so I have nobody to root for. I don’t bet, so there’s no financial interest. I am also troubled by a sport whose most recognizable figures are the head coaches.
The coaches are the game’s biggest stars. Control freaks with a scowl. Dictators with headsets. These maniacs retire, and when they say, “I want to spend more time with my family”, you can hear their families screaming,
“No!”
The game is smotheringly micromanaged. The quarterback comes onto the field with a preset series of plays written on his wristband. And when he runs all of those, further instructions are delivered through the radio in his helmet. For me, this constricting manipulation takes all the “juice” out of the game. It’s like a movie star being forced to wear an earpiece, and during the scene, the director, sits off-camera, ordering his emotions.
“Okay – your first three reactions – happy, then angry, then really, really sad.”
“You want tears?”
“Did I say I wanted tears?”
“Sorry. I just thought…”
“Don’t. Think. This is a two hundred million dollar picture. Nobody thinks but me.”
And nobody calls the plays but the coach.
Okay. Argument against football made. Case closed.
And then I turn on the game.
And I see this:
The quarterback takes the snap, goes back to pass. The defenders break through the line. Appearing certain to be sacked, the quarterback eludes the grasp of the oncoming rush, all the while looking downfield for an open man. As he’s about to be tackled, he spots his wide receiver, steps up, and lofts a spiraling “bomb” in his direction.
Leaping high over the defensive back, the receiver makes a “fingertip” catch near the sidelines. The expected move is to run out of bounds. But he doesn’t do that. Instead, he turns away from the sidelines, racing laterally across the field. When his path is blocked, he reverses directions and heads back where he came from, picking up blockers as he goes. He finds the narrowest of seams, bursts into the clear and streaks towards the end zone.
Touchdown!
There was undoubtedly a set play at the beginning. But at some point, it broke down.
And the players took control.
And did impossible things.
Boldly.
Skillfully.
And under unbelievable pressure.
Watching it brings tears in my eyes.
I’m hooked.
And seriously confused.
What can I tell ya?
I love a game I don’t like.
There are reasons for that. I have given them before, so I’ll do it fast. First of all – no, that’s not first of all, this is first of all – critically assessed, football is a neck injury surrounded by a game. Call me wimpy, but I find the imminent possibility of paralysis interferes with my enjoyment of an event. This also explains why I rarely watch boxing, and avoid car racing. I mean, comedians “die” on stage, metaphorically. In boxing and car racing, they can actually die.
“And I saw it happen!”
And that’s a good thing?
So much for doing it fast.
My city doesn’t have a professional football team, so I have nobody to root for. I don’t bet, so there’s no financial interest. I am also troubled by a sport whose most recognizable figures are the head coaches.
The coaches are the game’s biggest stars. Control freaks with a scowl. Dictators with headsets. These maniacs retire, and when they say, “I want to spend more time with my family”, you can hear their families screaming,
“No!”
The game is smotheringly micromanaged. The quarterback comes onto the field with a preset series of plays written on his wristband. And when he runs all of those, further instructions are delivered through the radio in his helmet. For me, this constricting manipulation takes all the “juice” out of the game. It’s like a movie star being forced to wear an earpiece, and during the scene, the director, sits off-camera, ordering his emotions.
“Okay – your first three reactions – happy, then angry, then really, really sad.”
“You want tears?”
“Did I say I wanted tears?”
“Sorry. I just thought…”
“Don’t. Think. This is a two hundred million dollar picture. Nobody thinks but me.”
And nobody calls the plays but the coach.
Okay. Argument against football made. Case closed.
And then I turn on the game.
And I see this:
The quarterback takes the snap, goes back to pass. The defenders break through the line. Appearing certain to be sacked, the quarterback eludes the grasp of the oncoming rush, all the while looking downfield for an open man. As he’s about to be tackled, he spots his wide receiver, steps up, and lofts a spiraling “bomb” in his direction.
Leaping high over the defensive back, the receiver makes a “fingertip” catch near the sidelines. The expected move is to run out of bounds. But he doesn’t do that. Instead, he turns away from the sidelines, racing laterally across the field. When his path is blocked, he reverses directions and heads back where he came from, picking up blockers as he goes. He finds the narrowest of seams, bursts into the clear and streaks towards the end zone.
Touchdown!
There was undoubtedly a set play at the beginning. But at some point, it broke down.
And the players took control.
And did impossible things.
Boldly.
Skillfully.
And under unbelievable pressure.
Watching it brings tears in my eyes.
I’m hooked.
And seriously confused.
What can I tell ya?
I love a game I don’t like.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
"Story of a Writer - Part Twenty-Eight"
Sometimes, I simply enchant myself.
Not all the time. Enchantment, in my work, reflects the achievement of something original and surprising, an accomplishment as exhilarating as it is rare. And “rare” is fine. I wouldn’t want to enchant myself all the time. Or even a lot.
“Ho hum. I’ve enchanted myself again. Yawn, yawn, yee-awn.”
Enchantment doesn’t happen that often. Just often enough to remind you it could.
Case in point.
I’ve got a development deal at Paramount. They’re paying me to create new series ideas for half-hour comedies. I mentioned one of them in “Story of a Writer – Part Twenty-Seven.” Company Man. I read that script in preparation for writing that post. It’s okay. Workmanlike. Funny in spots. Moments of originality. But it feels fundamentally formulaic, and it doesn’t really hold up.
This one does.
When I was a kid, there was this long-running afternoon local talk show that was broadcast out of Buffalo. (Toronto got all its American programming from Buffalo.) The only time I got to see it was when I was home sick from school. The show wasn’t really for kids. Still, I found it bizarrely mesmerizing.
It was called Meet The Millers.
Meet The Millers was co-hosted by a husband and wife couple, Bill and Mildred Miller. When you’re a kid, you’re not good at judging ages. I guessed the Millers to be in their mid-forties. Even if they were younger, they had an older feel about them. Bill had a military-short haircut, wore loafers with tassels, accessorized by a rotating series of cardigan sweaters. Mildred masked her spreading girth in large print dresses, and stuck knitting needles through her tightly wound bun.
Even as a kid, I sensed some gender-related role reversal going on. Bill covered the cooking segments and gave imaginative tips on making your own Christmas tree decorations. Mildred interviewed suspected members of the Mob. If there’s such a thing as a Gender Demarcation Line, Bill and Mildred seemed to have slipped over in opposite directions.
Bill was fussy. Mildred was stern. Bill was emotional. Mildred was a rock. Bill was passive aggressive. Mildred was brutally direct. But beyond their atypical personal traits, what made the show irresistible was the subtext of their interactions, which subtly but clearly exposed the nature of their relationship. Nothing was ever expressed directly, but there were definitely moments when even a boy watching at home with a fever could receive the message that…
These people hate each other.
And sooner or later,
They’re going to explode.
The purported concept for Meet The Millers may have been straightforward – a long-married couple hosting a local talk show
But underneath, it was Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Taking that riveting relationship as a starting point, I wrote my version of Meet The Millers, as a pilot for a half-hour situation comedy.
I didn’t pitch it anywhere. The show was too one-of-a-kind. I had to demonstrate what I wanted to do. So I wrote the whole script. “On spec”, as they say.
At this point, I would normally quote extended excerpts from the script, to give you a sense of what it was like. But with this one, I can’t. Meet The Millers is cut from one extended piece of cloth. You can’t extract hunks of it out of context and have them mean anything.
Meet The Millers is different in fundamental ways. For example, the fifty-page pilot script concerns a grievance Bill is harboring, which seriously affects his behavior, but we don’t discover what’s eating him until Page 42. Professional “script doctors” would frown mightily at that. But in this case, the extended buildup and its belated resolution is what Meet The Millers is all about.
The naturalistic dialogue is designed to appear improvised, rather than structured in the set-up, punch line tradition. With “Bill” and “Mildred’s” voices clearly in my head, I wrote down what I thought – what I was pretty certain – they’d say. The situation was fabricated by me, but their responses to it were uniquely their own.
A couple of months after finishing the script, I met Martin Short in an airport VIP Lounge. (I was commuting to a show in New York at the time, and everything was First Class.) I knew Martin to say hello to, but not well enough to call him Marty. I said hello. I also, very uncharacteristically, asked if I could send him a script I had written.
It was Meet The Millers. I thought he’d be perfect for Bill.
A few weeks later, Martin Short invited me to his house. It was Canadian Thanksgiving. (Martin Short is Canadian.) I never knew when Canadian Thanksgiving was, but apparently he did. (Now I know too. It’s the same day as Columbus Day. Canada can’t wait till the fourth Thursday in November to celebrate Thanksgiving. By then, the only thing you’re thankful for is the arrival of the snow plough.)
I guess I’d been notified ahead of time, but I was still surprised when Catherine O’Hara (also Canadian) showed up, interrupting her own preparations for Canadian Thanksgiving. (Apparently, everyone knew when it was but me. I don’t even understand Canadian Thanksgiving. We didn’t have pilgrims.)
We then went off to this little room, where Martin and Catherine sat down with their scripts, and provided me with a private reading of Meet The Millers.
As the script was performed, I could see the mistakes I had made. To my relief and satisfaction, there were not a lot of them. And I was confident I could fix them.
The performances were sublime. Martin had remembered Meet The Millers from his youth. (He sang me the show’s theme song, which I’d forgotten but immediately recognized.) Martin got “Bill” immediately. And Catherine shone as “Mildred.”
When the reading ended, I thanked them both profusely for the “audience of one” demonstration of their prodigious talents. I was extremely excited by what I had witnessed. The script had passed the test, sparkling under Martin and Catherine’s knowing performances. If these two talented and name recognizable actors were willing to sign on, I was certain we could at least get a pilot made.
Unfortunately, they weren’t.
Martin, though clearly intrigued, chose instead to star as a show biz blowhard in a fat suit named “Jiminy Glick.” Catherine expressed a general disinterest in series television, proclaiming, “Who wants to play the same part over and over?”
Meet The Millers would never be made. Was I disappointed? Of course. Some series are cancelled after a couple of episodes. Meet The Millers bit the dust after one, unofficial reading.
But what a reading it was.
Hearing “Bill” and “Mildred” brought to life by two comedic virtuosos, what can I tell you?
I was enchanted.
And reading the script this morning, I realized a major contributor to that enchantment?
Was me.
Not all the time. Enchantment, in my work, reflects the achievement of something original and surprising, an accomplishment as exhilarating as it is rare. And “rare” is fine. I wouldn’t want to enchant myself all the time. Or even a lot.
“Ho hum. I’ve enchanted myself again. Yawn, yawn, yee-awn.”
Enchantment doesn’t happen that often. Just often enough to remind you it could.
Case in point.
I’ve got a development deal at Paramount. They’re paying me to create new series ideas for half-hour comedies. I mentioned one of them in “Story of a Writer – Part Twenty-Seven.” Company Man. I read that script in preparation for writing that post. It’s okay. Workmanlike. Funny in spots. Moments of originality. But it feels fundamentally formulaic, and it doesn’t really hold up.
This one does.
When I was a kid, there was this long-running afternoon local talk show that was broadcast out of Buffalo. (Toronto got all its American programming from Buffalo.) The only time I got to see it was when I was home sick from school. The show wasn’t really for kids. Still, I found it bizarrely mesmerizing.
It was called Meet The Millers.
Meet The Millers was co-hosted by a husband and wife couple, Bill and Mildred Miller. When you’re a kid, you’re not good at judging ages. I guessed the Millers to be in their mid-forties. Even if they were younger, they had an older feel about them. Bill had a military-short haircut, wore loafers with tassels, accessorized by a rotating series of cardigan sweaters. Mildred masked her spreading girth in large print dresses, and stuck knitting needles through her tightly wound bun.
Even as a kid, I sensed some gender-related role reversal going on. Bill covered the cooking segments and gave imaginative tips on making your own Christmas tree decorations. Mildred interviewed suspected members of the Mob. If there’s such a thing as a Gender Demarcation Line, Bill and Mildred seemed to have slipped over in opposite directions.
Bill was fussy. Mildred was stern. Bill was emotional. Mildred was a rock. Bill was passive aggressive. Mildred was brutally direct. But beyond their atypical personal traits, what made the show irresistible was the subtext of their interactions, which subtly but clearly exposed the nature of their relationship. Nothing was ever expressed directly, but there were definitely moments when even a boy watching at home with a fever could receive the message that…
These people hate each other.
And sooner or later,
They’re going to explode.
The purported concept for Meet The Millers may have been straightforward – a long-married couple hosting a local talk show
But underneath, it was Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Taking that riveting relationship as a starting point, I wrote my version of Meet The Millers, as a pilot for a half-hour situation comedy.
I didn’t pitch it anywhere. The show was too one-of-a-kind. I had to demonstrate what I wanted to do. So I wrote the whole script. “On spec”, as they say.
At this point, I would normally quote extended excerpts from the script, to give you a sense of what it was like. But with this one, I can’t. Meet The Millers is cut from one extended piece of cloth. You can’t extract hunks of it out of context and have them mean anything.
Meet The Millers is different in fundamental ways. For example, the fifty-page pilot script concerns a grievance Bill is harboring, which seriously affects his behavior, but we don’t discover what’s eating him until Page 42. Professional “script doctors” would frown mightily at that. But in this case, the extended buildup and its belated resolution is what Meet The Millers is all about.
The naturalistic dialogue is designed to appear improvised, rather than structured in the set-up, punch line tradition. With “Bill” and “Mildred’s” voices clearly in my head, I wrote down what I thought – what I was pretty certain – they’d say. The situation was fabricated by me, but their responses to it were uniquely their own.
A couple of months after finishing the script, I met Martin Short in an airport VIP Lounge. (I was commuting to a show in New York at the time, and everything was First Class.) I knew Martin to say hello to, but not well enough to call him Marty. I said hello. I also, very uncharacteristically, asked if I could send him a script I had written.
It was Meet The Millers. I thought he’d be perfect for Bill.
A few weeks later, Martin Short invited me to his house. It was Canadian Thanksgiving. (Martin Short is Canadian.) I never knew when Canadian Thanksgiving was, but apparently he did. (Now I know too. It’s the same day as Columbus Day. Canada can’t wait till the fourth Thursday in November to celebrate Thanksgiving. By then, the only thing you’re thankful for is the arrival of the snow plough.)
I guess I’d been notified ahead of time, but I was still surprised when Catherine O’Hara (also Canadian) showed up, interrupting her own preparations for Canadian Thanksgiving. (Apparently, everyone knew when it was but me. I don’t even understand Canadian Thanksgiving. We didn’t have pilgrims.)
We then went off to this little room, where Martin and Catherine sat down with their scripts, and provided me with a private reading of Meet The Millers.
As the script was performed, I could see the mistakes I had made. To my relief and satisfaction, there were not a lot of them. And I was confident I could fix them.
The performances were sublime. Martin had remembered Meet The Millers from his youth. (He sang me the show’s theme song, which I’d forgotten but immediately recognized.) Martin got “Bill” immediately. And Catherine shone as “Mildred.”
When the reading ended, I thanked them both profusely for the “audience of one” demonstration of their prodigious talents. I was extremely excited by what I had witnessed. The script had passed the test, sparkling under Martin and Catherine’s knowing performances. If these two talented and name recognizable actors were willing to sign on, I was certain we could at least get a pilot made.
Unfortunately, they weren’t.
Martin, though clearly intrigued, chose instead to star as a show biz blowhard in a fat suit named “Jiminy Glick.” Catherine expressed a general disinterest in series television, proclaiming, “Who wants to play the same part over and over?”
Meet The Millers would never be made. Was I disappointed? Of course. Some series are cancelled after a couple of episodes. Meet The Millers bit the dust after one, unofficial reading.
But what a reading it was.
Hearing “Bill” and “Mildred” brought to life by two comedic virtuosos, what can I tell you?
I was enchanted.
And reading the script this morning, I realized a major contributor to that enchantment?
Was me.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
"Surgeon Search - The Decision"
It’s not a murder mystery. It’s not Clue.
“Mr. Boom in the place with the thing.”
But in a way, it is structured like one. As with murder mysteries, there are multiple suspects, each with incriminating possibilities of being “The One”:
“He was always jealous of Nigel.”
As well as evidence ruling them out:
“At the time of the murder, she was seen buying a cumquat.”
My report on our interviews with the three surgeons under consideration to perform my heart upcoming surgery was intended to be objective. But I fear this may not have been the case.
No writer is ever totally objective. Distorting biases inevitably seep in. Even with history, whose intention, at least, is to be objective, you just never know for sure.
I was taught that in the Battle of Hastings in 1066, the Normans defeated the Anglo-Saxons, and that during that battle, the defeated King Harold was shot in the eye.
This little tidbit has always stayed with me. I have a visceral reaction to people being shot in the eye. I’ve had vision problems my whole life, but nothing to equal an arrow in the eye. Of course, it’s possible this eye-maiming incident never took actually place. History is written by the winners. They can say whatever they want. Embellishing to their hearts content.
“Who’s going to stop us?”
“The people who know the truth.”
“We killed them all.”
“No, we didn’t. You see? You’re embellishing already.”
“History is ours to write. The vanquished have been forbidden to own pens.”
And so we get “Harold was shot in the eye.” Which is entirely unverifiable. Maybe Harold was in reality shot “near the eye”, but they said “in the eye”, because it made a more colorful story. Writers do that all the time.
“So what if it0 wasn’t raining. We’ll say it was raining. No! ‘It was coming down in buckets. ’ If we’re lying, we may as well go all the way.”
There’s also the possibility of deliberate bias. Maybe the Battle of Hastings’ “Official Historian” was a relative of the archer.
“My cousin shot King Harold in the eye.”
“In the eye, or near the eye.”
“In the eye. It’s here in the history book.”
“You wrote the history book.”
“So?”
“You embellished the moment so your cousin will look good.”
“My cousin is a wonderful archer. You know the most amazing part of it? My cousin called the eye!”
“That’s over the top.”
“Okay, I’ll leave that out.”
We don’t really know what’s true. I sit in on three surgeon interviews, and, out of fear, or wishful thinking, or whatever, I hear what I want to hear (robotic surgery is less invasive), and I filter out what I don’t (the robotic technique is not reliable in handling emergencies). Later, when I write about it on my blog, the filtered-out information is inevitably dis-included. The Robot Guy seems the obvious choice. And lo and behold, with only my prejudiced reporting to go by, my readers tell me – in overwhelming numbers – to “Go with the Robot Guy.”
Which leaves me concerned that my one-sided reporting drove them to that conclusion.
If this is the case, then I can say with total confidence: I would not make much of a mystery writer.
“The Finger of Guilt points in many directions. But you, sir, are covered in the victim’s blood, you are still holding the murder weapon, and you’re wearing the deceased person’s hat!”
“But it could have been somebody else.”
“Correct.”
We’re going with Surgeon Number Three. We believe he is capable, experienced, and his robotic technique promises a shorter (and easier) recovery period.
Our concern, or more precisely my concern, is that this decision may possibly be the product, may well be the product, is unquestionably the product – pick your favorite – of selective evidence.
Well, maybe, maybe not. But, whatever the reason, it’s Surgeon Number Three.
I feel like the “Cowardly Lion” after making a bold pronouncement in The Wizard of Oz.
“Talk me out of it.”
--------------------------------
My surgery is scheduled for October 27th. I could be out for a while. I know there are readers who have hopped onto this juggernaut along the way, and have therefore not had the opportunity of enjoying all my posts. You could catch up while I’m gone. Read every single one. But that decision may say more about the condition of your life than about your enthusiasm for my work.
Another option is for longer-time readers to contact me with suggestions concerning your favorite “Posts of the Past.” With my newfound ability to hyperlink, I could then re-publish those stories and present them as The Best of Earl. I’ll throw in some “favorites” of my own, and between us, we could fill it up with gems until my return. (Unless my hiatus is extended, or there aren’t enough gems.)
Sometimes, the titles I choose for my posts are so ingenious, they provide little indication of what they’re about. This makes it harder to find stuff. But I’ll give it my all if you’re interested.
Please let me know.
Thank you, as always, for being there.
“Mr. Boom in the place with the thing.”
But in a way, it is structured like one. As with murder mysteries, there are multiple suspects, each with incriminating possibilities of being “The One”:
“He was always jealous of Nigel.”
As well as evidence ruling them out:
“At the time of the murder, she was seen buying a cumquat.”
My report on our interviews with the three surgeons under consideration to perform my heart upcoming surgery was intended to be objective. But I fear this may not have been the case.
No writer is ever totally objective. Distorting biases inevitably seep in. Even with history, whose intention, at least, is to be objective, you just never know for sure.
I was taught that in the Battle of Hastings in 1066, the Normans defeated the Anglo-Saxons, and that during that battle, the defeated King Harold was shot in the eye.
This little tidbit has always stayed with me. I have a visceral reaction to people being shot in the eye. I’ve had vision problems my whole life, but nothing to equal an arrow in the eye. Of course, it’s possible this eye-maiming incident never took actually place. History is written by the winners. They can say whatever they want. Embellishing to their hearts content.
“Who’s going to stop us?”
“The people who know the truth.”
“We killed them all.”
“No, we didn’t. You see? You’re embellishing already.”
“History is ours to write. The vanquished have been forbidden to own pens.”
And so we get “Harold was shot in the eye.” Which is entirely unverifiable. Maybe Harold was in reality shot “near the eye”, but they said “in the eye”, because it made a more colorful story. Writers do that all the time.
“So what if it0 wasn’t raining. We’ll say it was raining. No! ‘It was coming down in buckets. ’ If we’re lying, we may as well go all the way.”
There’s also the possibility of deliberate bias. Maybe the Battle of Hastings’ “Official Historian” was a relative of the archer.
“My cousin shot King Harold in the eye.”
“In the eye, or near the eye.”
“In the eye. It’s here in the history book.”
“You wrote the history book.”
“So?”
“You embellished the moment so your cousin will look good.”
“My cousin is a wonderful archer. You know the most amazing part of it? My cousin called the eye!”
“That’s over the top.”
“Okay, I’ll leave that out.”
We don’t really know what’s true. I sit in on three surgeon interviews, and, out of fear, or wishful thinking, or whatever, I hear what I want to hear (robotic surgery is less invasive), and I filter out what I don’t (the robotic technique is not reliable in handling emergencies). Later, when I write about it on my blog, the filtered-out information is inevitably dis-included. The Robot Guy seems the obvious choice. And lo and behold, with only my prejudiced reporting to go by, my readers tell me – in overwhelming numbers – to “Go with the Robot Guy.”
Which leaves me concerned that my one-sided reporting drove them to that conclusion.
If this is the case, then I can say with total confidence: I would not make much of a mystery writer.
“The Finger of Guilt points in many directions. But you, sir, are covered in the victim’s blood, you are still holding the murder weapon, and you’re wearing the deceased person’s hat!”
“But it could have been somebody else.”
“Correct.”
We’re going with Surgeon Number Three. We believe he is capable, experienced, and his robotic technique promises a shorter (and easier) recovery period.
Our concern, or more precisely my concern, is that this decision may possibly be the product, may well be the product, is unquestionably the product – pick your favorite – of selective evidence.
Well, maybe, maybe not. But, whatever the reason, it’s Surgeon Number Three.
I feel like the “Cowardly Lion” after making a bold pronouncement in The Wizard of Oz.
“Talk me out of it.”
--------------------------------
My surgery is scheduled for October 27th. I could be out for a while. I know there are readers who have hopped onto this juggernaut along the way, and have therefore not had the opportunity of enjoying all my posts. You could catch up while I’m gone. Read every single one. But that decision may say more about the condition of your life than about your enthusiasm for my work.
Another option is for longer-time readers to contact me with suggestions concerning your favorite “Posts of the Past.” With my newfound ability to hyperlink, I could then re-publish those stories and present them as The Best of Earl. I’ll throw in some “favorites” of my own, and between us, we could fill it up with gems until my return. (Unless my hiatus is extended, or there aren’t enough gems.)
Sometimes, the titles I choose for my posts are so ingenious, they provide little indication of what they’re about. This makes it harder to find stuff. But I’ll give it my all if you’re interested.
Please let me know.
Thank you, as always, for being there.
Monday, October 5, 2009
"Inspirational Music"
This one’s a little embarrassing. But if you’ve walked through hospital corridors wearing a gown that doesn’t close in the back, and had strangers shave you in unusual places, “embarrassing” loses a lot of its meaning.
I was reminded of this when I was writing about watching the opening of a touring company’s production of Carnival when I was a teenager, and going all “aglow.” My mother originally turned me on to musicals. And I was grateful. The good ones seemed to have magic in them.
I was in need of magical assistance at that time. You may have noticed my posts are conspicuously light on The Teenage Years. I think I missed them. It’s like I fell asleep when I was twelve and woke up when I graduated from college.
My pre-teen buddies, bopping hormonally through their maturity agenda, had casually left me behind. I felt abandoned, confused and painfully unclear about my future. I was pretty much in a fog. That’s why I don’t write about those times. No standout memories. Except that the Leafs won the Stanley Cup four times. (And not once since.)
I was aware of my aptitude for comedy. (I said things and people laughed.) So I knew I had something. But from a career standpoint, I had no idea how to get from “here” to “there”, “there” being somewhere where “funny” was viewed as a well-paying medium for personal advancement.
I had no connections. I had no “game plan.” My gifts for self-promotion were (and remain today) woefully inadequate. I saw myself wanting to be something my talents clearly suited me for, but for the lack of other attributes, settling for something else. Something considerably less satisfying.
No confidence. No clarity of purpose. No – in the sense of Someone lovingly guiding me towards my destiny – faith.
What did I have?
I had songs.
I called them my “Brave Songs.” Energizing anthems, gathered from musicals, which, when I played them on records, or sang them at the top of my lungs, filled my limping spirits with much-needed infusions of hope. It’s all corny goo. I know it. If you hate corny goo – like on Space Mountain – there’s the “Escape Door.” You can cut out now, and not get any of it on you.
All I can say is these songs got to me when nothing else could. And for that, I’m eternally grateful. The following is a representative sampling. Some lyrics elude my memory. I haven’t thought of these songs in quite some time.
Okay.
Inspiring songs from musicals. They may be corny. But they got me to my twenties.
FROM HALLELUJAH, BABY!
WA-ATCH OUT!
I’M BUSTIN’ OUT!
I GOTTA SHOUT
I JUST FOUND OUT
WHAT LIFE’S A-BOU-OU-OU-OU-OU-OUT…
(SINGING, SINGING, SINGING. THEN)
TO REACH THE GOAL I’VE GOT MY EYE ON
NEED NOBODY TO RELY ON
I BELIEVE
I BELIEVE IN ME-EE!!!…
FROM THE ROAR OF THE GREASEPAINT – THE SMELL OF THE CROWD
STAND WELL BACK I’M COMIN' THROUGH
NOTHING CAN STOP ME NOW…
WATCH OUT WORLD I’M WARNIN' YOU
NOTHING CAN STOP ME NOW…
FROM FUNNY GIRL
I’M THE GREATEST STAR
I AM BY FAR
BUT NO ONE KNOWS IT
THAT’S WHY I WAS BORN
I’LL BLOW MY HORN
TILL SOMEONE BLOWS IT…
FROM WEST SIDE STORY
SOME-THIN’S CO-MIN’
I DON’T KNOW
WHAT IT IS
BUT IT IS
GONNA BE GREAT…
FROM CARNIVAL
I’VE GOT TO FIND A REASON
FOR LIVING ON THIS EARTH
SOMETHING TO WANT
SOMETHING TO BE
SO I CAN SAY
I AM ME.
FROM MAN OF LA MANCHA
AND THE WORLD WILL BE BETTER FOR THIS
THAT ONE MAN, SCORNED AND COVERED WITH SCARS,
STILL STROVE, WITH HIS LAST OUNCE OF COURAGE,
TO REACH
THE UN-REACH-A-BLE STAR.
FROM CAROUSEL
WHEN YOU WALK THROUGH A STORM
HOLD YOUR HEAD UP HIGH
AND DON’T BE AFRAID OF THE DARK
AT THE END OF THE STORM IS A GOLDEN SKY
AND THE SWEET SILVER SONG OF THE LARK
WALK ON THROUGH THE WIND
WALK ON THROUGH THE RAIN
THOUGH YOUR DREAMS BE TOSSED AND BLOWN
WALK ON, WALK ON, WITH HOPE IN YOUR HEART
AND YOU’LL NEVER WALK ALONE
YOU’LL NEVER WALK ALONE.
Thank you “Brave Songs.” You were always there when I needed you.
And I may just need you again.
I was reminded of this when I was writing about watching the opening of a touring company’s production of Carnival when I was a teenager, and going all “aglow.” My mother originally turned me on to musicals. And I was grateful. The good ones seemed to have magic in them.
I was in need of magical assistance at that time. You may have noticed my posts are conspicuously light on The Teenage Years. I think I missed them. It’s like I fell asleep when I was twelve and woke up when I graduated from college.
My pre-teen buddies, bopping hormonally through their maturity agenda, had casually left me behind. I felt abandoned, confused and painfully unclear about my future. I was pretty much in a fog. That’s why I don’t write about those times. No standout memories. Except that the Leafs won the Stanley Cup four times. (And not once since.)
I was aware of my aptitude for comedy. (I said things and people laughed.) So I knew I had something. But from a career standpoint, I had no idea how to get from “here” to “there”, “there” being somewhere where “funny” was viewed as a well-paying medium for personal advancement.
I had no connections. I had no “game plan.” My gifts for self-promotion were (and remain today) woefully inadequate. I saw myself wanting to be something my talents clearly suited me for, but for the lack of other attributes, settling for something else. Something considerably less satisfying.
No confidence. No clarity of purpose. No – in the sense of Someone lovingly guiding me towards my destiny – faith.
What did I have?
I had songs.
I called them my “Brave Songs.” Energizing anthems, gathered from musicals, which, when I played them on records, or sang them at the top of my lungs, filled my limping spirits with much-needed infusions of hope. It’s all corny goo. I know it. If you hate corny goo – like on Space Mountain – there’s the “Escape Door.” You can cut out now, and not get any of it on you.
All I can say is these songs got to me when nothing else could. And for that, I’m eternally grateful. The following is a representative sampling. Some lyrics elude my memory. I haven’t thought of these songs in quite some time.
Okay.
Inspiring songs from musicals. They may be corny. But they got me to my twenties.
FROM HALLELUJAH, BABY!
WA-ATCH OUT!
I’M BUSTIN’ OUT!
I GOTTA SHOUT
I JUST FOUND OUT
WHAT LIFE’S A-BOU-OU-OU-OU-OU-OUT…
(SINGING, SINGING, SINGING. THEN)
TO REACH THE GOAL I’VE GOT MY EYE ON
NEED NOBODY TO RELY ON
I BELIEVE
I BELIEVE IN ME-EE!!!…
FROM THE ROAR OF THE GREASEPAINT – THE SMELL OF THE CROWD
STAND WELL BACK I’M COMIN' THROUGH
NOTHING CAN STOP ME NOW…
WATCH OUT WORLD I’M WARNIN' YOU
NOTHING CAN STOP ME NOW…
FROM FUNNY GIRL
I’M THE GREATEST STAR
I AM BY FAR
BUT NO ONE KNOWS IT
THAT’S WHY I WAS BORN
I’LL BLOW MY HORN
TILL SOMEONE BLOWS IT…
FROM WEST SIDE STORY
SOME-THIN’S CO-MIN’
I DON’T KNOW
WHAT IT IS
BUT IT IS
GONNA BE GREAT…
FROM CARNIVAL
I’VE GOT TO FIND A REASON
FOR LIVING ON THIS EARTH
SOMETHING TO WANT
SOMETHING TO BE
SO I CAN SAY
I AM ME.
FROM MAN OF LA MANCHA
AND THE WORLD WILL BE BETTER FOR THIS
THAT ONE MAN, SCORNED AND COVERED WITH SCARS,
STILL STROVE, WITH HIS LAST OUNCE OF COURAGE,
TO REACH
THE UN-REACH-A-BLE STAR.
FROM CAROUSEL
WHEN YOU WALK THROUGH A STORM
HOLD YOUR HEAD UP HIGH
AND DON’T BE AFRAID OF THE DARK
AT THE END OF THE STORM IS A GOLDEN SKY
AND THE SWEET SILVER SONG OF THE LARK
WALK ON THROUGH THE WIND
WALK ON THROUGH THE RAIN
THOUGH YOUR DREAMS BE TOSSED AND BLOWN
WALK ON, WALK ON, WITH HOPE IN YOUR HEART
AND YOU’LL NEVER WALK ALONE
YOU’LL NEVER WALK ALONE.
Thank you “Brave Songs.” You were always there when I needed you.
And I may just need you again.
Friday, October 2, 2009
"Surgeon Search - Chapter Three" (I was going to call it "The Final Chapter", but it sounded too creepy.)
The parking lot was a zoo. Jammed lanes, narrow parking spaces, abandoned cars sitting everywhichway. It’s like the people dashed out of their cars and raced to their appointments, like it’s a sold-out football game, and they don’t want to miss the opening “kick-off.” Confused cars are looking at each other, going, “They just ran out.”
This is hardly a conducive atmosphere when you’re shopping for a heart surgeon. The first two hospitals we visited (heart surgeons’ offices are located in hospitals) offered valet parking. The chaos here suggested the “Fall of Saigon” parking lot, where the Vietnamese dumped their cars before climbing onto the helicopters.
Recapping for new readers, Dr. M and I are making a grand tour of heart surgeons, to determine which one we’ll select to repair my leaky valve. Surgeon Number Three is our final candidate. (The “Rule of Threes” does not just apply in comedy.) We interview him, and then we decide.
The Waiting Area, once again, is nondescript and borderline shabby, especially around the carpeting, but with one minor difference. The smallish room includes two flat screen TVs, one broadcasting a series of nature shows – when we arrived, a school of multi-colored fish were swimming in formation, generating a calming influence on the entire room.
The other screen, set up by the seats, featured a selection of games – Checkers, Solitaire, Battleship, interspersed with a continuous loop of smiling photos of the office’s doctors and support staff. If you’re judging surgeons by “Waiting Areas Designed To Make You Forget Why You’re There”, this place was the hands-down winner.
Also a plus – our appointment started precisely on time. We were shocked. There was no time to play checkers.
A final Waiting Area observation. A woman sitting next to me revealed that her husband, who’d had a “triple by-pass” performed by the surgeon we were about to meet, had been released from the hospital two weeks earlier and was already feeling great. As if on cue, her relaxed husband stepped into the room, looking as if he’d recently had a massage rather than open-heart surgery. It almost felt like they were “plants”, like the doctor had offered them a reduced rate for the surgery rate if, afterwards, they would hang out in the Waiting Area and look like “It’s nothing!”
After a brief pre-interview, we were ushered into the surgeon’s office – medium-sized, with a magnificent view of the Hollywood hills. This is, ultimately, not a big factor in our decision-making since, as a patient, it’s unlikely I’ll be recovering in the guy’s office. I’m just saying it was a truly remarkable view.
Surgeon Number Three was tall, gray-haired, reserved (either by temperament or professional distance) and a bit shaggy in an Alsatian dog kind of a way. He spoke in an indeterminate accent; you couldn’t tell where he was from, possibly Spain or Italy. His first and last names both ended with an “o.”
Surgeon Number Three reviewed CD’s of my angiogram and my TEE test, where they put a camera down your throat, thankfully a small camera. I am grateful for these technological advances. In the old days, they put a painter down your throat.
Oh, yeahhhh!!!
All three surgeons we met with agreed. I had a mitral valve in need of repair. We found no “different drummer” dissenters who studied my case and proclaimed, “They’re all crazy. You’re fine!” No. Three surgeons – same diagnosis.
Here’s the difference.
Surgeon Number Three was a robot guy.
To put it kindly, the surgeons we interviewed earlier were not fans of the robotic option. One surgeon reported, that as an expert witness, he testified against robot surgeons in court. The second surgeon characterized his competitors as cosmetic surgeons of the heart. Their only value was for people seeking smaller scars.
Surgeon Number Three made the case for his experience (150 valve repairs, all performed robotically). He had few kinds words for traditional surgeons who “go in the front” (meaning they crack your chest open), accusing them of an unwillingness to consider a new approach.
Robotic surgery is not without risk. Nor is it without post-operative unpleasantness. (I’d say “pain” but why scare myself? I read this too.) And yet, the technique does have an undeniable appeal. Using the House Hunters analogy, the House and Garden network show on which Surgeon Search is based (a couple looks at three properties, and at the end, they choose one to buy), this third interview was like being shown a property with intriguing possibilities, and then being told, “Oh by the way, this house comes with an indoor swimming pool.”
On the other hand, two highly respected surgeons had assured us that robotic surgery is crap.
Plus, the parking at that place was atrocious.
Plus, my daughter Anna alerted me to the possibility of “evil” robots.
They look reliable.
And then,
They turn.
Okay. Our tour is over. It is now time to evaluate the pluses and the minuses and make our decision. Our options: Three knowledgeable experienced and highly respected surgeons. The question is:
Which one will we choose?
The tension is mounting.
Weigh in with your choice, if you wish. Our decision will be announced on Tuesday.
To assist in your decision-making, I will attempt to hyperlink once again. Mr. Drum Roll? If you please.
Surgeon Search – Chapter One
Surgeon Search – Chapter Two
------------------------------------
I seem to have my "scheduling" function back. Yay. It is my habit to schedule my posts so that, East Coast or West, the post will be available at 7:00 AM. Six o'clock Central Time. Seven-thirty in Newfoundland.
Thank you for your patronage.
This is hardly a conducive atmosphere when you’re shopping for a heart surgeon. The first two hospitals we visited (heart surgeons’ offices are located in hospitals) offered valet parking. The chaos here suggested the “Fall of Saigon” parking lot, where the Vietnamese dumped their cars before climbing onto the helicopters.
Recapping for new readers, Dr. M and I are making a grand tour of heart surgeons, to determine which one we’ll select to repair my leaky valve. Surgeon Number Three is our final candidate. (The “Rule of Threes” does not just apply in comedy.) We interview him, and then we decide.
The Waiting Area, once again, is nondescript and borderline shabby, especially around the carpeting, but with one minor difference. The smallish room includes two flat screen TVs, one broadcasting a series of nature shows – when we arrived, a school of multi-colored fish were swimming in formation, generating a calming influence on the entire room.
The other screen, set up by the seats, featured a selection of games – Checkers, Solitaire, Battleship, interspersed with a continuous loop of smiling photos of the office’s doctors and support staff. If you’re judging surgeons by “Waiting Areas Designed To Make You Forget Why You’re There”, this place was the hands-down winner.
Also a plus – our appointment started precisely on time. We were shocked. There was no time to play checkers.
A final Waiting Area observation. A woman sitting next to me revealed that her husband, who’d had a “triple by-pass” performed by the surgeon we were about to meet, had been released from the hospital two weeks earlier and was already feeling great. As if on cue, her relaxed husband stepped into the room, looking as if he’d recently had a massage rather than open-heart surgery. It almost felt like they were “plants”, like the doctor had offered them a reduced rate for the surgery rate if, afterwards, they would hang out in the Waiting Area and look like “It’s nothing!”
After a brief pre-interview, we were ushered into the surgeon’s office – medium-sized, with a magnificent view of the Hollywood hills. This is, ultimately, not a big factor in our decision-making since, as a patient, it’s unlikely I’ll be recovering in the guy’s office. I’m just saying it was a truly remarkable view.
Surgeon Number Three was tall, gray-haired, reserved (either by temperament or professional distance) and a bit shaggy in an Alsatian dog kind of a way. He spoke in an indeterminate accent; you couldn’t tell where he was from, possibly Spain or Italy. His first and last names both ended with an “o.”
Surgeon Number Three reviewed CD’s of my angiogram and my TEE test, where they put a camera down your throat, thankfully a small camera. I am grateful for these technological advances. In the old days, they put a painter down your throat.
Oh, yeahhhh!!!
All three surgeons we met with agreed. I had a mitral valve in need of repair. We found no “different drummer” dissenters who studied my case and proclaimed, “They’re all crazy. You’re fine!” No. Three surgeons – same diagnosis.
Here’s the difference.
Surgeon Number Three was a robot guy.
To put it kindly, the surgeons we interviewed earlier were not fans of the robotic option. One surgeon reported, that as an expert witness, he testified against robot surgeons in court. The second surgeon characterized his competitors as cosmetic surgeons of the heart. Their only value was for people seeking smaller scars.
Surgeon Number Three made the case for his experience (150 valve repairs, all performed robotically). He had few kinds words for traditional surgeons who “go in the front” (meaning they crack your chest open), accusing them of an unwillingness to consider a new approach.
Robotic surgery is not without risk. Nor is it without post-operative unpleasantness. (I’d say “pain” but why scare myself? I read this too.) And yet, the technique does have an undeniable appeal. Using the House Hunters analogy, the House and Garden network show on which Surgeon Search is based (a couple looks at three properties, and at the end, they choose one to buy), this third interview was like being shown a property with intriguing possibilities, and then being told, “Oh by the way, this house comes with an indoor swimming pool.”
On the other hand, two highly respected surgeons had assured us that robotic surgery is crap.
Plus, the parking at that place was atrocious.
Plus, my daughter Anna alerted me to the possibility of “evil” robots.
They look reliable.
And then,
They turn.
Okay. Our tour is over. It is now time to evaluate the pluses and the minuses and make our decision. Our options: Three knowledgeable experienced and highly respected surgeons. The question is:
Which one will we choose?
The tension is mounting.
Weigh in with your choice, if you wish. Our decision will be announced on Tuesday.
To assist in your decision-making, I will attempt to hyperlink once again. Mr. Drum Roll? If you please.
Surgeon Search – Chapter One
Surgeon Search – Chapter Two
------------------------------------
I seem to have my "scheduling" function back. Yay. It is my habit to schedule my posts so that, East Coast or West, the post will be available at 7:00 AM. Six o'clock Central Time. Seven-thirty in Newfoundland.
Thank you for your patronage.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
"Saddle Up! - Part Twelve"
Actors who played classic roles in westerns great and not so great remember their experiences for posterity, as imagined by me because I never met any of them and the best I can do is make it up.
Today:
THE “GOOD GUY” WHO USED A WHIP
“During World War II, Hollywood was strapped for bullets. They were needed on the battlefield.
“There were rumors production on westerns would have to shut down, because, you know, how do you make cowboy pictures without bullets? The issue was debated at the highest levels. It was said the president himself weighed in, F.D.R. being a particular fan of Hoot Gibson. Finally, the decision came down that, like baseball, westerns were a national institution, essential to home-front morale. The studios were ordered to keep crankin’ ‘em out. And as good patriots, they did.
“The caveat was that the ‘bullets problem’ had to be worked out. Westerns needed to be ammunition-free, or the genre was dead for the “duration.”
“It’s not like westerns ever used actual bullets. It was more how it appeared. For example, those little loops ‘round the back of your holster where you kept your replacement ammunition? There had to be something in there. Otherwise, the audience is wondering, ‘What’ll they use to reload?’
“Someone thought of the idea of paper bullets, which were foil-wrapped pieces of cardboard shaped like bullets. The things looked like bullets, at least from a distance. But what happens when you have to, at least, pretend to reload? You can’t slip cardboard bullets into your six-gun. The bullets would bend. Wooden bullets were also considered, but they had a hard time making them shiny.
“Then they wondered, ‘What if they keep shooting and never reload?’ Truth be told, they didn’t reload that much before. Still, it looked pretty phony, shooting forever without putting in new bullets. But, you know, there was a war on, and everyone had to do their part. Our part was looking like dumbasses by never reloading.
“Unfortunately, moviecraft being what it is – the power of illusion and all – everyone thought we were using bullets even when we weren’t. Westerns fans started boycotting the pictures, complaining that we should be saving those bullets for the Nazis and the Japanese, instead of wasting them on owlhoots and Indians. I tried reassuring people that we weren’t using bullets anymore, but they didn’t believe me. They’d hear the “Pow! Pow!” – which the studio inserted later – and believed we were squandering ammo.
“Producers started brainstorming about ways of bringing bad guys to justice besides shooting them. Finally, someone suggested the bullwhip. Whoever he was, the man deserves a medal. He single-handedly saved the wartime western.
“The whip was the perfect alternative. It was made of rawhide, which wasn’t rationed, so it didn’t hurt the war effort. Whips also struck terror into the hearts of the bad guys. Outlaws had no problem being shot, apparently, but they wanted no part of the sting of the lash.
“It was the time of my big break. When the war started, a lot of the stars joined up to fight. Gable, Jimmy Stewart, Gene Autry. I couldn’t enlist ‘cause I only had one kidney. This made me ‘available’ for pictures. It’s a funny thing. Before the war, I couldn’t get arrested in the movie business. In a way, ‘Pearl Harbor’ was the luckiest day of my life.
“Being a big, strapping fellah, they, naturally, put me in westerns. At the time, it seemed like a dicey career move – starting in westerns when they were moving away from bullets – but as is often the case, it turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
“It was down to three of us for the lead role in Whip Crack in Laredo! The studio issued us bullwhips and we were sent home to practice. The winner would be the one showing the greatest aptitude. Three days later, one fella had taken his eye out. The other fella injured his cat. All I did was bring down our dining room chandelier – before my wife told me to practice outside. I got the job as the least terrible of the three.
“The actors playing the bad guys made a fuss about working with me, because my whip cracks were supposed to miss them, but sometimes they didn’t. The first day of shooting, I flicked off a fella’s earlobe. Don’t think the Actors Guild didn’t make a stink about that! I had to pay all his doctor bills. Good thing it was a person, though. If I’d nicked up some animal, they’d have probably kicked me out of the business.
“After a while, though, I became pretty skillful. I got so good, the Sound Department didn’t have to put in those whip-cracking sounds anymore; I could make them myself. From then on, I just kept improving. I’d go out on promotional tours – I remember once, this kid in the front row was really heckling me. ‘You’re a fake! You couldn’t whip cream!’ I didn’t say a word. I just carried my whip to the front of the stage, and I flicked the popcorn out of his bag.
“One kernel at a time.”
“When the war ended, the old Good Guys came back, packing loaded six-guns. Realizing my heyday was ending, I left show business and went into real estate. I own a big chunk of the San Fernando Valley.
“The down payment on my first property?
“Bullwhip money.”
Today:
THE “GOOD GUY” WHO USED A WHIP
“During World War II, Hollywood was strapped for bullets. They were needed on the battlefield.
“There were rumors production on westerns would have to shut down, because, you know, how do you make cowboy pictures without bullets? The issue was debated at the highest levels. It was said the president himself weighed in, F.D.R. being a particular fan of Hoot Gibson. Finally, the decision came down that, like baseball, westerns were a national institution, essential to home-front morale. The studios were ordered to keep crankin’ ‘em out. And as good patriots, they did.
“The caveat was that the ‘bullets problem’ had to be worked out. Westerns needed to be ammunition-free, or the genre was dead for the “duration.”
“It’s not like westerns ever used actual bullets. It was more how it appeared. For example, those little loops ‘round the back of your holster where you kept your replacement ammunition? There had to be something in there. Otherwise, the audience is wondering, ‘What’ll they use to reload?’
“Someone thought of the idea of paper bullets, which were foil-wrapped pieces of cardboard shaped like bullets. The things looked like bullets, at least from a distance. But what happens when you have to, at least, pretend to reload? You can’t slip cardboard bullets into your six-gun. The bullets would bend. Wooden bullets were also considered, but they had a hard time making them shiny.
“Then they wondered, ‘What if they keep shooting and never reload?’ Truth be told, they didn’t reload that much before. Still, it looked pretty phony, shooting forever without putting in new bullets. But, you know, there was a war on, and everyone had to do their part. Our part was looking like dumbasses by never reloading.
“Unfortunately, moviecraft being what it is – the power of illusion and all – everyone thought we were using bullets even when we weren’t. Westerns fans started boycotting the pictures, complaining that we should be saving those bullets for the Nazis and the Japanese, instead of wasting them on owlhoots and Indians. I tried reassuring people that we weren’t using bullets anymore, but they didn’t believe me. They’d hear the “Pow! Pow!” – which the studio inserted later – and believed we were squandering ammo.
“Producers started brainstorming about ways of bringing bad guys to justice besides shooting them. Finally, someone suggested the bullwhip. Whoever he was, the man deserves a medal. He single-handedly saved the wartime western.
“The whip was the perfect alternative. It was made of rawhide, which wasn’t rationed, so it didn’t hurt the war effort. Whips also struck terror into the hearts of the bad guys. Outlaws had no problem being shot, apparently, but they wanted no part of the sting of the lash.
“It was the time of my big break. When the war started, a lot of the stars joined up to fight. Gable, Jimmy Stewart, Gene Autry. I couldn’t enlist ‘cause I only had one kidney. This made me ‘available’ for pictures. It’s a funny thing. Before the war, I couldn’t get arrested in the movie business. In a way, ‘Pearl Harbor’ was the luckiest day of my life.
“Being a big, strapping fellah, they, naturally, put me in westerns. At the time, it seemed like a dicey career move – starting in westerns when they were moving away from bullets – but as is often the case, it turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
“It was down to three of us for the lead role in Whip Crack in Laredo! The studio issued us bullwhips and we were sent home to practice. The winner would be the one showing the greatest aptitude. Three days later, one fella had taken his eye out. The other fella injured his cat. All I did was bring down our dining room chandelier – before my wife told me to practice outside. I got the job as the least terrible of the three.
“The actors playing the bad guys made a fuss about working with me, because my whip cracks were supposed to miss them, but sometimes they didn’t. The first day of shooting, I flicked off a fella’s earlobe. Don’t think the Actors Guild didn’t make a stink about that! I had to pay all his doctor bills. Good thing it was a person, though. If I’d nicked up some animal, they’d have probably kicked me out of the business.
“After a while, though, I became pretty skillful. I got so good, the Sound Department didn’t have to put in those whip-cracking sounds anymore; I could make them myself. From then on, I just kept improving. I’d go out on promotional tours – I remember once, this kid in the front row was really heckling me. ‘You’re a fake! You couldn’t whip cream!’ I didn’t say a word. I just carried my whip to the front of the stage, and I flicked the popcorn out of his bag.
“One kernel at a time.”
“When the war ended, the old Good Guys came back, packing loaded six-guns. Realizing my heyday was ending, I left show business and went into real estate. I own a big chunk of the San Fernando Valley.
“The down payment on my first property?
“Bullwhip money.”
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