Monday, April 30, 2018

"Peripheral 'Witness'"

I’d have never have written about this if it weren’t for the phone calls.

The first one, a year or so back, came from Access Hollywood, asking me, after the startling story broke, if had any suspicions about Bill Cosby while I was working on his TV show.  

Before I go there – and believe me, there are no “blockbuster revelations” – let me preamblingly say this.

It is my studied opinion that, when Sixty Minutes demonstrated that the networks’ news divisions, formerly delivering “loss leader” broadcasts as a public service, could be profitable, from then on, they hadto be.

After that, reporters raced around frantically like a dog chasing a bone on a string, where, most recently – and how brilliant he isat it – the “Master Manipulator” in the White House tantalizingly jiggles the stick.

When the reporter from Access Hollywoodcalled, I kept the conversation relatively brief.  Although, deep down, in the shameful cellar of my soul, I felt flutteringly flattered at being included.  Not that it involved much reportorial “legwork.”  (Cosby Showepisode) “‘Goodbye, Mister Fish’, written by Earl Pomerantz – Let’s call Earl Pomerantz” hardly rises to the Woodward and Bernstein level of “uncovering a source.”

I told the Access Hollywoodemployee assigned to calling people on a list that I was clueless about activities connected with the Cosby “Sexual Assault” allegations, later imagining a sarcastic explanation for being entirely in the dark.  

“It wasn’t like Bill Cosby said, ‘Hey, Earl.  I’m going to drug a woman and have non-consensual sex with her.  You wanna watch?’”

Secret stuff is conducted in secret.  I offered my unilluminating “No cents worth” to the Access Hollywoodproceedings, and that would be that.

The second call came after the recently announced “Guilty” verdict at the Cosby retrial.  (The original trial ending in a “hung jury.”)

This time, it was a reporter from Newsday (with – I just looked it up – a circulation of 377,500, the eleventh highest in the country.)   

The reporter who called me was a veteran of thirty years covering the entertainment industry and probably using the same Access Hollywood“Call List” – where, if my name was not dead last it was because the list of names had been alphabetized.  He was interested in hearing my reaction to the surprise outcome of the Cosby retrial.

You have to be scrupulously careful about these things.  Journalists don’t care about their sources.  They just want a good story.  Anything you reveal will therefore be skillfully “adjusted” towards that intended objective.

Another thing to be careful about… how do I put this? 

In an imagined “zero sum” calculation, any wisp of acknowledgement in the direction of the perpetrator will be adjudged by many as imperfect support for the victim.

That second phone call took longer and was more casually conversational.  It’s a way of loosening people up.  Answering the question, “What was it like working with Bill Cosby?” I pulled out my truthful – and practiced – reaction:

“It was like being asked to ‘sit in’ with a magnificent jazz band.”

I explained my demonstrable value during my brief tenure on the show – you will not be surprised to hear – with a story.   

“Once a writer from TV Guidesat in on a post-“Table Reading” notessession, at which Cosby held forth opaquely and circuitously on the deficiencies of the script for more than two-and-a-half hours.  Later that day, the writer called to ask,

“Did you understand anything he said?”

To which I candidly replied,

“I am working on this show because I understood halfof what he said.”

I told the Newsdayreporter that I wished to remain in “deep background” on this story, which to me meant, “Say you heard it, but not where.”  I was hoping interviewed celebrities would “bump” me extraneously from the copy, and that my reaction would remain where it naturally belonged:


In the end, he returned to his original question.  How did I feel about the verdict?  To which I spontaneously replied, 


I should probably have said nothing.

But how often do you get called by the paper with the eleventh highest circulation in the country?

Friday, April 27, 2018

"Catching Up With 'Coco'"

Somehow, via Dr. M’s psychological connections, we were invited to attend a screening of last year’s Disneyanimation hit Coco, after which medical professionals and the film’s director would discuss the film from a clinical perspective. 

Before it started, director Lee Unkrich announced that Cocohad just passed the eight hundred million dollar mark in box office ticket sales.

Then they showed us the movie.

And it was terrific.

I like animated features. They’re hopeful.  Unlike (most) real life movies, which, to me, are dark and/or depressing and/or excessively violent and/or dangerously too close for comfort (“No one is safe!”), purveying precisely the troubling elements I go to movies to escape.

Cocois confident and colorful and imaginative and credible – for a movie about “The Land of the Dead.” It is also courageously scripted – a major story point exposes the “down side” of that fairy tale “staple”:  “Seizing Your Moment.”  In addition, the carefully crafted narrative mines “psychological realities” – we were subsequently informed – such as the awakening consequence of music on minds that appear to have permanently gone away.

Oh, and the song.

(I am singing this but you’ll have to settle for just words on a screen.)

“Remember me…”

(You should have heard that. I just tore my heart out.)

This haunting soon-to-be classic actually inspired us to restructure our Passover Seder– which itselfis about remembering – to include time for telling special stories about departed relatives.

So we could all remember them.

A Pomerantzian Quibble:

Coco, although a definite bull’s eye, is just a hair off “dead center.” And me being me, the guy who was once asked, when I announced I’d gotten a ninety-six on a Grade School examination,

“Where’s the other four?”

and sadly internalized that punishing perspective,

I am unable to allow this blemishing moment to pass.

A “Perfect Game”, spoiled by a piddling infield single.

That obsessively sticks in my craw.

Following the film’s most surprising plot twist… nah, I won’t give it away… but anyway, when the “Bad Guy’s” standing on stage – after just having been “outed” (by a cribbed A Face In The Crowdplot device) – 

he is hit in the chest by a tomato.

That was a mistake.

They went for a laugh and they sacrificed the reality.

I mean, where the heck did that tomatocome from?  

Instead – I rarely critique without offering an ameliorating alternative – the detestable “Bad Guy” could have been bombarded by a blizzard of rolled-up programs.  (In the Broadway stageversion, the villain can be mercilessly pelted by an irate orchestra.) 

But that’s it.

One miniscule misstep. 

(Spotted by a lingering casualty for whom getting a ninety-six was “not quite enough.”)

After hearing interesting comments by the assembled experts, we headed up the aisle, during the standard but inevitably excruciating “Q & A.”

As we neared the exit, a professionally sincere-sounding practitioner asked the director,

“What was the best thing you took away from this experience?”

To which a voice in the darkness replied,

“Eight hundred million dollars.”

Okay, it was me.

I still loved the movie.

But I could not help myself.

Thursday, April 26, 2018

"the (Proposed) Underlying 'Why'?"

Finishing a thought so I can move on to other things…

I have explored – for my personal interest but hopefully others’ as well – the issue of how it feels when your opinions are diminished, derided or dismissed.

All together now…

“And those are just the “D’s.”

Thank you. 

thencontributed my invaluable “Two cents worth” to how the people whose opinions we personally decry – sorry, I had one left – genuinely believe – and more importantly, feel – that their opinions are correct.  

There is a remaining area I wish to pursue before tying this up in a ribbon, indicating nota finalizing conclusion, but, like the scientific community asserts, “The answer for now.” (Replacement Answer:  “To Come.”)  (Pending further examination.)

Before I proceed to this, for me, previously untraveled terrain, allow me to momentarily pause for an alternate scenario: a situation fraught with dangerous provocation where peace and harmony thankfully prevail.  

The story concerns bread. 

You might at this juncture be scratching your head, proclaiming

“What’s ‘situationally provocative’ about bread?

Let me just tell you… 

With the appropriate psychological underpinning, you can get into a fight about anything.  I once nearly lost a good friend when we went at it hammer and tongs about who was the funniest Marx Brother.  (Correct Answer: Chico.  And shut up.)

Okay, so bread.

I am having an enjoyable dinner with a friend – who still believes Groucho’s the funniest Marx Brother but we have agreed to disagree about that – and there is a basket of bread sitting on the table. 

Potential “Inciting Predicament”:  

My friend eats bread.

I am trying my best notto.

Which is tough because this is really good bread – hard and crusty on the outside; meltingly soft on the interior.  

I love that bread!

But I am rigorously determined to abstain.

We could easily “get into it” about that.

HIM:  (REACHING FOR THE BASKET)  “You want some bread?”

ME:  “No thanks. I’m trying to lay off.”

“I’m going to have some.”

“Be my guest.”

“I know I shouldn’t…”

“It’s terrific bread. Go for it.”


“You don’t have to make excuses.  Enjoy the bread.”

(EATING THE BREAD)  “I know what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

‘’You’re thinking ‘The guy can’t control himself.  He’s just stuffing himself with bread!’”

“I don’t care if you’re stuffing yourself with bread.”

“But you believe I am stuffing myself.  You just said it.”

“I just said it because you said it.”

“Man, I hate that.”


“You think you’re better than I am.”

And we’re off to the races.

The illustrative point – by exemplifying contrast – is…

That didn’t happen. My friend ate the bread and I didn’t. And there was no confrontational muss and fuss.  

I could add “And I deliberately held me tongue” in this story, making methe superior person.  But the truth is, the issue of unequal bread consumption never came up.  Not even just in my mind.  Proving that there are situations that can– because they all can – but do not provoke fireworks.

Although a guy calling me “judgmental”…

Never mind.  It’s over.  And more importantly, 

It was a fictional conversation.  

Still, under alternate circumstances – the infamous Marx Brothers kerfuffle for one– things could have seriously gone haywire.

And the (theoretical) question is,


By which I mean “Why?” beyond yesterday’s exploration of the dueling disputants both believing – and more importantly, feeling they’re right.

Today’squestion – belatedly arrived at – is:

“Why does it matter so much?”  Chico?  Groucho? Who cares?  (Though it’s unquestionably Chico.)

My mind drifts parallelingly to thoughts of adult people whom we have experienced suddenly “go off” at the seeming – though not for them– smallest provocation, triggering the – generally unmentioned though not always– reaction of 

“Who didn’t hug you?”

(Spoken sarcastically or sincerely, subject to your emotional temperament and level of personal empathy.)

Similarly, we have encountered people, arguing with a bludgeoning urgency far beyond their stated enthusiasm for the issue or its relative importance in the overall scheme of things, leaving you wondering,

“Who – in your personal background – didn’t hear you?

That’s all I’ve got.

Hopefully, this critical exploration will help me.  So that if the situation arises where I am defending “Kukla’s” being inherently funnier than “Ollie”, I will have the presence of mind to escape that incendiary conflict to ask myself the salvaging question:

“How would I respond if I were somebody else?”

(And you can forget “the nuanced hilarity of ‘Fran.’”) 

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

"Indisputably Correct"

“There is no happier delight

Than someone telling you you’re right.”


(Although not by choice.)

That was my firstopening for this post.  Here comes the second one.  (Because I am unable to decide on just one.)

There is this sequence in Fiddler on the Roofin which Perchik, a student from the university, arriving at the pious and insulated town of Anatevka gets intoit with the local inhabitants, as a peace-loving Tevye attempts gamely to mediate.

PERCHIK:  “You should know what’s going on in the outside world.”

MORDECHA:  “Why should I break my head about the outside world?  Let them break their own heads.”

TEVYE:  “He’s right. If you spit in the air, it lands in your face.”

PERCHIK:  “That’s nonsense.  You can’t close your eyes to what’s happening in the world.”

TEVYE:  “He’s right.”

AVRAM:  “He’s right and he’s right?  How can they both be right?”

TEVYE:  “You know. You’re also right.”

(Note:  This exchange is constructed like a sitcom-style joke, and is traditionally “played” like one – a conflict-averse Tevye, adamantly refusing to take sides.  To me, what is here islessa joke masquerading as wisdom as it is wisdom masquerading as a joke.)

ThirdOpening  (As I am nothing if not waveringly indecisive.  It’s no wonder we stayed till two in the morning when I was a show runner.  “ Okay, guys.  ‘A’ or ‘the’ – what do you think?”) 

And then there is this.

Out to dinner with an amiable couple, I heard myself aggressively asserting the two main reasons people voted for Donald Trump.  

Here’s the thing about that experience.

My secondreason was greeted with a corroborating “That’s true.” 

(Neatly delineated in a New York Times“Opinion Headline” on evangelical support for the stink bomb in the White House; to wit,  “Evangelicals Would Not Vote For Jesus If He Were A Democrat.”)

By diametrical contrast, the response to my firstreason they voted for Trump was a challenging, “That’snot right.”

Pay heed to this interesting phenomenon.  

I remember the secondreason – the one receiving the validating “That’s true.”  But the firstreason, the one inexplicably greeted with “That’s not right”?  

Hard as I try, I cannot for the life of me recall what that was.

Apparently, you cannot emotionally “hit the roof” and remember stuff at the same time

Okay, so frequently in this venue, I extrapolate from the general to the specific, the “specific” invariably being me.  Today, however, I proceed in the opposite direction.

Recognizing how being contradicted turned me into a white-hot poker of righteous indignation – I was going to say “red-hot poker” but that sounded like a poker reminiscent of a hotdog – it occurred to me that others who I, or people of my ideological ilk, insist are sorely mistaken, might well feel equally incensed. 

Leading to the tentative hypothesis.

“Everyone feels right.”

Followed by its incendiary corollary:

“And when you tell them they’re not – Look out!”

An Essential Clarification:  (Written in red for eye-catching emphasis.)

I am not saying, as did the non-confrontational Tevye, that everyone is equally correct.  Or even that they’re correct from their own perspective.  I am speaking specifically about feelings where I suspect, when it comes to their personal opinions, everyone has an emotionally invested commitment to their position.  And when you try to awaken these, in yourview, misguided people to the error of their ways…


They don’t care for it.

Think about it.  You don’t have to agree, just think about it. (And give careful thought before informing me I’m wrong.)

Consider the most outrageous decision…

Okay, I won’t go there. 


Think, for a moment, about the Trump voters, specifically their expressed reasons for voting for him. Not the racistvoters, because those people are messed up.  But the reasons the otherTrump voters believe their decision was rationally arrived at:

“He is not a ‘sold out’ politician.”

“The man speaks to our issues.”

“He really ‘sticks it’ to the ‘Establishment Elites’.”

“He’s a successful businessman.”

“The electoral alternative is unacceptable.”

“Why not try something different?”

I know how these voters feel when their considered positions are discounted or dismissed.  

Because I feel exactly the same way when mineare.

A guy during my beach walk, accessing “hip-hop” on his iPhone, and I reflexively take irritated offense.  “What, songs from old musicals aren’t goodenough for you?”  

Hey, the guy’s enjoying his music.  What happened to live and let live?

It would be nice if that tolerant sentiment came back.  But if that’s something we collectively think is worthwhile, the first procedural step, I think…

Is to put down our dukes.

Tuesday, April 24, 2018

"If They'd Only Listen"

I have been playing “Peek-A-Boo” with a serious thought lately, which I cannot quite reel in. The idea momentarily materializes. Then, in a slippery flash – if there issuch a thing – it frustratingly darts away. 

Today’s offering is a peripheral relative to the conceptual “Moby-Dick” that elusively escapes capture, and which I am therefore unable to deliver, hewing to the dictum:

“There shall be no blog post before its time.”

In a recent post written by Ken Levine (bykenlevine), Ken mentioned the vituperative flak he received when he announced that he would not be watching the newly resuscitated Roseanneshow.  And I thought, as I have thought of equally trivial matters before,

“Why make a big fuss about that?”

That’s the general arena I’ve been struggling with.  What is it that leads people to explode when somebody else disagrees with them?  There is no definitive “right and wrong” about an opinion.  Why blow a damn fuse about it?  Why not simply… and peacefully… disagree?

And then I thought about how I react when myopinions are opposed.

As you may have noticed, I have many opinions, some of them powerfully held.  For example, I currently believe that all “certainty” is wrong.

And I am absolutely certain about that.

(Do you see the logical difficulty there?  But that’s for anotherblog post.)

I have examined my emotions when my opinions are confronted. And not just about the big stuff.”  

“Is this shirt blue or is it gray?”  

THEM:  “Gray.” 

ME:  “Blue.”  

And before you know it, inside me, it’s an Armageddonish ” RED ALERT!”  

“How dare you, sir (or madam)”, I can sense myself feeling, an eye-blink away from producing a face-slapping white glove and challenging them to a duel.

And that’sjust about shirt colors.

Plucking a single example from my stack of accumulated grumps and grievances, I have assembled a list concerning, I don’t know, cultural “labeling” issues, my compiled list delineating ones I believe they conspicuously did wrong.  

This is not about conflicting ideology; we are in perfect agreement on these matters.  It is significantly about CLARITY!  (Sorry about the capitalization.  I am susceptible to Strangelovianoutbursts.)

My imaginary opponents in this dispute wish these labels to be memorably “catchy.”   

And I– though there is no more scrupulous scanner than myself – more importantly, want them to be accurate.

My View on the Matter:  Careless labeling leads to unnecessary conflicts accuratelabeling would avoid.

I have chronicled this example before – a frequently trotted-out quote by the late Daniel Patrick Moynihan:

“You are entitled to your own opinions.  But you are notentitled to your own facts.” 

I understand the inherent sentiment of that statement.

But it’s wrong.

What’s right

“You are entitled to your own opinions.  But you are not entitled to your own fabricated facts.”  

(“Your own facts” is just a competing selection of supporting evidence.) 

My version’s more accurate.  

Theirs is more quotable.

“You didn’t build that.”

Rather than

“You didn’t build that alone.”


“Black lives matter.”

Rather than

“Black lives matter as well.”

I readily concede that from a purely rhythmicperspective, 

My quotes are less “snappy.”

But I believe my lumpy “bump-in-the-beat” makes a meaningful difference.

And when I am scoffingly dismissed – or at least feel “scoffingly dismissed” – which may just simply mean "dismissed" – or I am "aggressively contradicted" – which may just simply mean "contradicted" – 

I do not care for it one bit!

I have, embarrassingly, fantasized standing up to President Obama at a meeting in the White House, where, after trying desperately to hold my tongue, I impulsively blurt out,

“Mr. President. Though it may cost me my job, I really believe it should be ‘You didn’t build that alone!’

That’s how insistently adamant I was.  I was willing to sacrifice my lofty position.  Only later to remember that I had never met President Obama, and I did nothave a lofty position.

But if I did, I’d have definitely sp… 

Yeah, maybe I wouldn’t have.

But you can be darn sure I’d have feltit.

Truth be told, although we undoubted live in adversarial times, I must confess that I have alwaysbeen this way.

Although in quieter moments I secretly wonder…

What the heck’s the big deal?

Monday, April 23, 2018

"Stranger In A Strange Land"

I shall talk about one play.

Runners on first and third in a close contest late in the game.

The pitcher toes the rubber.

The runner steps out of the box, disrupting the pitcher’s delicate timing.

The batter digs in.

The pitcher steps off the rubber.

Tit for tat.

Pitcher and batter return to position, tensely locked their adversarial "chess match."

The catcher calls for a fastball, the speedy delivery buying him time should the runner on first attempt to steal.

The first baseman nudges the bag, shortening the baserunner’s lead, in defense of a possible “Pick-off.”

The third base coach surreptitiously signals both the batter – “hit” or “take” – and the baserunners – ordering a predesigned play.

The runner on third stretches his lead, raising concerns of a possible “double-steal.”

With his glove shrouding his mouth, the shortstop relays instructions to the second baseman, determining responsibility for covering the bag.

The third baseman "cheating" in, anticipating a possible “Suicide Squeeze.”

The outfielders position themselves consistent with the habitual hitting proclivities of the batter.

The runner on third gauges his chances of scoring on a sacrifice fly., including in his calculation the traveling distance of the fly ball, the direction it takes the pursuing outfielder, their evaluated “arm strength”, their own foot speed, and the outfielder’s ability to accurately throw the ball home.

The pitcher receives the signal, his gripping the baseball determining its velocity and its spin.

The pitcher goes into his windup.

Sending the ball towards the home plate.

And that’s all on one play. 

There is actually a lot more.

But that’s all I personally understand.

By frustrating contrast…

The symphony concert I am attending is concluding.

The audience roars in delirious approval.

And I have no idea why.

Friday, April 20, 2018

"Answering Yekimi's Question About Working On 'Amazing Stories'"

I have probably written about this before.  But since I have this annoying habit of giving my posts titles that are so incomprehensibly opaque – I have no idea why I do that – it is easier to write it again than to plunge into a protracted and likely futile blogatorial search.  

Wow.  The computer did not underline “blogatorial” in red this time. I guess it finally gave up.

“He makes up words. Why bother?”

Anyway… let’s see.

My first recollection concerning my experience working on Steven Spielberg’s Amazing Stories– to my mind, a mistakenly revelatory title compared to more carefully branded but similarly themed Alfred Hitchcock Presentsand The Twilight Zone – was that, while driving to my first story meeting, my 1978 PeugeotDiesel was rear-ended by Joan Collins. Notthe famous DynastyJoan Collins.  The vehicularly negligent Joan Collins who rear-ended my car. 

A distraught Ms. Collins explained that she was distracted because she had just learned she was pregnant. I replied, “Congratulations.  My back hurts.”

Thatwas my introduction to Amazing Stories– an unfortunate mishap that “totaled” my Peugeot.

Numerous weeks and trips to the chiropractor later, I drove my new Saabto Universal Studios for my rescheduled story meeting.  How did I acquire this coveted assignment?  I and the show’s producers – working directly under Spielberg – had the same agent.  Plus, I later discovered though I no longer recall how, Spielberg had asked Jim Brooks, whom I had worked with on the MTMseries and Taxifor a recommendation of a capable comedy writer and Jim Brooks had proffered my name.  (Which he may nothave had he known I employ unfunny words like “proffered”, a guaranteed instant disqualifier.) 

Steven Spielberg’s production compound looked like the Alamo.  As I entered the building, I felt as nervous as its historical counterpart’s threatened inhabitants.  Not that it was surrounded by the Mexican army, but its “Generalissimo” (JawsE.T. – Spielberg’sscreen credits, notSanta Anna’s – was equally daunting.

I met the show’s producer’s – whose subsequent claim to fame was creating Northern Exposure – who pitched me a story called… Oh, man.  I gotta look it up… hold on a second, will ya?



“Fining Tuning.”

(That took a while but you’re worth it.)

(Note:  Almost all the episode story ideas derived from Spielberg himself, though unlike any previousseries I had worked on, where producers regularly provided freelance writers with story ideas but allowed them to receive a combined “Story” and “Teleplay” credit, Steven Spielberg appropriated “Story” credit for himself. Along with the accompanying “Story” payment. I guess it was a matter of,

“I need a few more thousand to make it a billion and this “Story” money will really help.”    


“Fine Tuning” involved teenage boys who, for a High School science experiment, rejigger a television so it can receive programming from outer space.  (Discovering in the process that faraway galaxies “pirated” The George Burns and Gracie Allen Program and I Love Lucy, only the performers were robots.)

Here’s the thing.

I had never written a “single-camera” episode before – my experiential forte being writing “multi-camera” shows filmed before live studio audiences – and I was fearful of handling the transition to the more “visual” comedic format.

My imaginatorial “high point” occurred when I wrote this scene where the “Producer-Aliens” land in Hollywood for some show biz “reconnaissance” – and the ultimate kidnapping of comedian Milton Berle back to their planet.  

The visiting extraterrestrials, decked out in loud, “Vacation-Issue” Hawaiian shirts, are on this “Bus Tour of the Movie Stars’ Homes.  And here’s the “good part” I made up.  For them, “taking a picture” involves blinking their eyes, followed by a hanical whirring sound, followed by the developed snapshot emerging “Polaroid-Style” out of their mouths.

Look at me, doing “Visual Comedy”!  (The exclamation point denoting my continuing sense of personal satisfaction.)  Which Spielberg perfectly produced.
“Fine Tuning’s” positive reception led to anotherassignment for an episode entitled “Mummy Daddy.”  (“Story by Steven Spielberg.”  “Teleplay by Earl Pomerantz.”)  Thatone seems more frequently remembered, although my preferential favorite is “Fine Tuning.”

“Mummy Daddy” involves an actor, playing the lead role in a “Monster Picture” filmed in a rural Southern location, racing to the hospital – still in costume – when his visiting pregnant wife suddenly goes into labor, all to the unnerving consternation of the terrified “locals”, finding a “Mummy” running amok in their veritable backyards.

When handing in the “Second Draft” of “Mummy Daddy”, I was asked, “Do you want
to meet Steven?”, which I misheard as, “Do you want to meet Jesus?” 

The man walked into the room, shaking my hand and praising me effusively for “cracking’” the story, a feat they were unable to accomplish “in-house.”

I replied, “We do that in ‘half-hours’ every week.”

(Though I am not sure I said “Thank you.”)

With the exception of a “downer” denouement I will not bother to go into, thatwas my experience on Amazing Stories.  I was not directly involved in the production.  I wrote two scripts at home, I handed they in and they made them.  I met Steven Spielberg one time, and he was nice to me.  

Thank you Yekimi for asking about that.

It reminded me of that “Polaroid” bit from “Fine Tuning”, proving, adopting a theater critic’s review of iconic composer Richard Rodgers’ only foray into also supplying the words (for the musical No Strings)– 

“Amazing Stories does not definitively prove that Earl Pomerantz cannot write movies.” 

High praise indeed.

Who knows?

Maybe it will inspire me to try again.

Nah.  Probably not.