Halloween In The Early 1980s Just South Of Melrose Avenue

Two drunk men in their fifties
Unsteady on their feet
With liquor on their breath
Are here to trick or treat.

It was rapidly established
They were on the skids.
I calmly said, “C’mon guys:
This holiday’s for kids.”

“I got a costume! I’m John
Ireland in 'Red River'
Said the man with a clock
Ticking on his liver.

(This fellow had no costume and lying
Would be an essential factor
If I were to say he even slightly looked
Like that aforementioned actor.)

I politely nodded. “Ireland was
Also terrific when
He portrayed that reporter in
'All The King’s Men.'”

“To hell with that,” he said
With a grin obscene.
“John nailed Tuesday Weld
When she was 16!”

I’d had enough by now and
Said, “Don’t get sore:
I have no candy --- however,
They do next door.”

I sent them off in that direction
Knowing they’d soon quiver:
The dog there was meaner than
Ireland was in "Red River."

All they got out was “Trick or --- ”
Ballistic went the mastiff.
They took off down the street
So incredibly fast if

Anyone saw them fleeing, they all would
In a sudden flash have sensed
That Los Angeles’ first evening marathon
Had improbably commenced.

I bet they ran for blocks, as outdated as
Archy and Mehitabel
Looking for a bar or another world that
Was more hospitable.

 

Lee Harvey Oswald & Me

                                                                                 
In February of 1981, I was working late one night in
my tiny office in the funky Writers & Artists Building
in Beverly Hills. I was leaning out my window when
traffic that was zipping by on Santa Monica Blvd. all

of a sudden stopped zipping. Police cars and ominous
sedans blocked off streets left and right. Newly inau-
gurated President Reagan was in town. When the pres-
idential motorcade came into view, I realized I was look-
ing kind of Oswald-y. My old office building must have
seemed like the Texas Book Depository and there I was
suspiciously leaning out my second story window in the
building’s only illuminated office. My first response was to
yank my head out of the window but that might look like I
was reaching for my 6.5 millimeter Italian carbine with a
four-power scope. As the motorcade was now only a few
hundred or so feet away, my only option was to stay put.
I thought of waving in a friendly manner but feared in the
dim light, it might look like one of my hands was packing
heat. Like a possum cornered on some backyard wall by a
household pet, I did the next best thing: I froze. The motor-
cade swooshed by but it wasn’t until at least five minutes
later that I unfroze, pulled myself back into my office and
slammed the window shut.

*

A month later, John Hinckley Jr. tried to kill our 40th president
to impress an actress who at that time was living two doors
away from me in Hollywood on tree-lined Sycamore Avenue.
Even before the shooting, Jodie Foster was not what any
rational observer would call “friendly.” I would have advised
Hinckley to instead stalk Helen Hunt, who back then appeared
to be a bit more approachable.

The Gropes Of Wrath

In the 1920s, there was a thief in New Jersey who deployed an especially nasty weapon --- a tuxedo. He was attractive and wore it when he went to tony parties all over the Garden State. He fit in because he looked the part of an upscale guest. He’d often shake hands with his hosts at the end of an evening with just pilfered jewelry in his coat pockets. He was eventually caught because a criminal event so large forced the cops to widen their nets in search of suspects. (FYI, that “event” was the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby.)

I was reminded of this gentleman thief recently as fallout persists from the Harvey Weinstein sexual harassment scandals. I do hope (as Tony Soprano used to so lovingly say) this fat fuck spends years in courtrooms before many more behind bars. And while the tabulations now are of accusers, let’s also look at who else has been recently drawn into this maelstrom.

Roy Price (a Hollywood rich kid whose dad ran Columbia and Universal) was head of Amazon Studios until he told one of the producers of “The Man In The High Castle” that she would “love his dick.” For those of you keeping score, Isa Dick Hackett is a daughter of Philip K. Dick who’s married, has kids and is (wait for it) a lesbian. Roy, you are a special kind of sexual aggressor: a really dumb one. You're like a drunk who staggers to the cash register and offers to buy everyone a drink --- in a hardware store.

At last count, writer-director James Toback has had over 200 women come forward to say he lured them to his office or hotel rooms with promises of acting possibilities only to grope them, dry hump them and-or masturbate in front of them. What a jerk-off. Literally. Overweight, balding and wearing a mannered beard usually seen on bad guys on “Murder, She Wrote, Toback's career is ancient history and he's as far from being a hottie as Steve Bannon is from getting a modeling contract.

All of the above allegations also apply to bloated Steven Seagal who in addition to sexual predation is a bestie of Putin who can’t take “nyet” for an answer.

Masturbatory rumors have been heard for ages about Louis C.K. which isn’t going to help his new movie --- “I Love You, Daddy” --- which has an old man lusting after a very young woman. I gather this familiar pervy plot device is also in play in an upcoming untitled Woody Allen movie with Jude Law and Elle Fanning. But, to be fair, Woody has been a pioneer doing these kinds of unsavory things for decades now, dating all the way back to “Manhattan.” And my wife just emailed me an article which may make many of you love David O. Russell a bit less:
https://www.thedailybeast.com/hollywood-terror-director-dav…

Outside of show biz, top chef John Besh stepped down from his own company over sexually aggressive allegations. And Terry Richardson, fashion photographer and video director bad boy, is (finally) being blacklisted after many, many years of many, many claims that he’s made sexual targets out of young women.

This may well be the year that sexual predators get their comeuppance. Oh, and a quick shout-out to Casey Affleck, who’s been accused of harassment on sets for a while now: make an effort to be off on a distant location during next year’s Oscars when you’re supposed to hand out the Best Actress award. You really don’t want to be there. Unless, of course, being booed by the biggest stars in Hollywood sounds appealing.

Thoughts On "Morongate"

In 1993 on the BBC’s “Jeeves and Wooster,” Bertie Wooster meets an old

chum, Ginger, who’s running for political office.

Stunned, Bertie blurts out, “But … Ginger … you’re an absolute … idiot!”

Ginger grins and replies, “I know!”

It was a highlight of the entire series.

*

Mr. President, if you are what someone suspects, what's the problem?

Your only interests are money, pussy and golf.

Or golf, money and pussy.

Or pussy, golf and money.

Pick one. (They all work.)


*

You don’t read books, go to the movies, listen to music, see plays or visit

museums.

Your papers in college were written by others.

You are a moron, a dim bulb, the dullest knife in the drawer, etc.

No need to take offense at what Secretary Tillerson said and fire him.

He was just stating something that’s common knowledge.

Like your having strange hair.

Or having put on a lot of weight since the election.

Or are horrified at the thought of germs and press conferences.

Embrace who you are and we will, too.

You nincompoop.