Criminals in 'Jeopardy'

Alex Trebek ran down a burglar, suffering a tendon injury in the process. I like my game show hosts robust and ready for action.
Image: Imagesshack

Breaker Burn Out

But it was withheld by burned out breakers leading from the meter to my unit. A deadline loomed yesterday with intermittent to zero electricity starting early in the morning and followed by a carnival of fun contacting and/or coordinating my Home Owners Association, an electrician, and the city Public Services.

Through God's mercy and sheer persistence, I had new breakers by 5:00 PM. Only then was I able to resume writing, typing on until the street outside was actually quiet—very unnerving. (You suspect something.)

Off to the shoulder doctor this morning then back home for more writing. Ah, but I'll have power, sweet power.

Busy Shoulder Pre-Op

'Perchance to Dream' said the Bard and I'm down with that. The last two and a half weeks have been a series of marketing deadlines, animation pitch meetings, and overall preparation for this operation on Wednesday—such as getting all the bills paid while I'm still able to type with both hands. I've worked every day and still need time to complete the last few marketing/animation projects.

But Wednesday—sleep, then football-sized pain pills. And it will all seem very dream-like.

Reunion

After 28 years, my friend Ash and I met at a Denny's with a big windmill on the roof. The staff were neither Dutch nor dressed as traditional Dutch people. Inside were no Dutch decorations, no rows of tulips, no dikes holding back syrup, no Mexican waitresses clopping about in wooden shoes. It was a Denny's and someone thought a windmill on the roof would be shit hot. It kinda was.

Today Denny's offered a number of breakfast dishes rich with hickory-flavored bacon. They called it "Baconalia." I went all in. Ash got fish and chips in which the fish arrived looking very much like a breaded boomerang.

Back in the early 80s we worked together at a security guard company. Ash was a supervisor and I was employed monitoring burglar alarms and making sure guards arrived on-time at our various accounts.

Often the guards were drinking and didn't want to be bothered showing up to their posts. This pissed off the clients, who then called me to yell about the missing guards. I could send the patrol supervisor to cover the post until I located someone to fill in. But the patrol supervisor was moonlighting from his city day job and usually slept in his patrol car—deep rem sleep, impervious to summoning radio. This led to vexing nights but everything usually worked out. Plus I smoked a lot back then and that helped mitigate the tension.

Our company had alarm systems all across LA and parts of Orange County in shops, private homes, studios and factories. In the 18 months I worked there, I phoned in hundreds of burglar alarms to the police. All but one was false. Rats set off a fair number of the motion detector alarms while earthquakes could trigger every bell alarm, causing more racket than a lunatic brigade with pots and spoons. If you wanted to break into a warehouse or a factory 30 years ago, the best time was during a Santa Ana wind. (Alarm signals traveled through phones lines. Wind whipped the phone lines agitating the signals which showed up on our monitoring equipment as multiple break-ins everywhere at once.

We had former movie stars working as undercover employees at various companies to find out who was pilfering what. (Actors and actresses excelled at these masquerades.) Our crack after-hours service department consisted of a 21-year old guy who didn't care to have his pot smoking interrupted by things like fixing busted alarm systems. We worked with people who wanted to be movie directors and comedy writers (me) and others who were happy with dispatching guards and monitoring burglar alarms but had other problems.

Ash and I met at 1:00 and parted at 6:00. My Baconalia was long since digested. But we're getting together in a few months. Hopefully next time we'll locate a Denny's with a sphinx on top. In Los Angeles anything is possible.
(Image: legends.com)

Unhappy Days for Ralph Malph

CBS gyps Ralph Malph and others out of merchandising. Hollywood hasn't done something this seedy since Harry Cohn rooked the Three Stooges out of TV royalties. Actually, Hollywood has done something seedier since then, but one is overwhelmed by choices.

Making Counter-attack

Rugg says this. My reply, when it comes, shall be like the CRACKING OF WORLDS!!

Paul Rugg and I Clash over Making

Paul Rugg is using every little verbal trick and twist in his bag—a bag he did not "make" by the way—in his attempt to force free form making on those least-equipped to handle it. No one who isn't IN THE PAY OF BIG MAKE would even adopt, let alone urge, such a policy. Twisting and squirming like a great blonde eel he lays out his mangled logic and slapdash analogies for all to see in the manner of a crazed merchant selling pastry covered in crickets. I await his next salvo. WITH THUNDEROUS LOGIC, I will bend his words back upon him. WITH THUNDEROUS LOGIC, I will make him keen like an old Chinese ox cleaner. WITH THUNDEROUS LOGIC, I will respond in a THUNDEROUS MANNER!!!

Hi

Hi everyone! What's up? Are you happy? I am. Ha, ha, ha, oh, ha. See? How happy are you?

Reasonable? You Decide!

Anyone following the debate over making may have noticed Paul Rugg's sinister slide toward a form of making that would be nothing less than free-fall—and a danger to people most at risk under 5'10. How did a responsible man arrive at such a conclusion? And at WHO'S BEHEST? HOW MUCH IS HE BEING PAID? For now, let's suspend these questions and await Paul's latest response. I hope it will herald a much needed return to sanity.

This Gives New Meaning to 'homo erectus'

Scientists believe they may have discovered the first gay caveman, citing the neatest of his dwelling and the fact that cave art matched the rock floor.

Fem-a-Geek

Via Geek O System, all women needed were a chance to launch their own Geek site. I salute them for their desire to serve a neglected niche. ('Neglected Niche' would, I think, also be a good name for a blog.)

80 Years of Shatner

That's what we have as of today. The Rocket Man himself has cracked eight zero. Screen Rant has a look back at the History of Bill.
(Image: last.fm)

AI Extra

On the subject of impending rule by pitiless robot overlords, here's a revealing look at how the clankers hope to hijack our fish. Hopefully, Starkist will discover this method first and lead fish to their proper destination—the tummies of Mankind.

Hats of the Super Bowl Losers

Super Bowl XLV - perhaps the last event in the world where Roman numerals are still used. A good contest this year with proper ebb and flow. Perhaps the biggest fumble of the night was Christina Aquilera's muff of the National Anthem. Ozzy Osbourne might've done better.

But what fate is in store for all the "Pittsburgh Steeler Superbowl Champs" ball caps kept under the bench in case of victory? Marred by a scarlet L for "loser," the caps might find their way to eBay for purchase by collectors of loser memorabilia. Or maybe there is a Loser Museum filled with Chicago Cub 2003 collectibles, Mondale-Ferraro buttons, earth shoes, and Window's Vista.

Snow Belongs on TV

For those who must deal with it in person, my condolences.

Link to Great Gift

This could be yours.

Rats and My Security Guard Job

Over the years, I've worked a few midnight-to-eight jobs in downtown LA. This article comes as no surprise. Like fishing tales, rat sizes grow larger with the retelling but I will nonetheless affirm that downtown LA rats are fecund and large. A jewelry factory where I worked as a security guard had trash cans overflowing with discarded lunches. You'd hear the metal cans rattling all night as the rats chowed down. I'd make my rounds and flash a light, catching sight of a long, scaly tale disappearing snake-like down the side of a barrel. Once a bold rat paused atop the trash and eyed me as I passed. I wanted to shoot the defiant vermin, but only carried a .38 and feared aggravating it.

Back at my desk, I'd type up jokes and short stories and glance at the monitors until my next round. Once an outside monitor displayed a rat with ruler- straight tail trotting across the street toward our building. In this pre-digital age, our grainy, black-and-white monitors barely registered the outdoors. For a rat to show up, it had to be trophy-sized.

Around 6 AM, the morning security shift would clock in. I worked with really fascinating guys. Jerry my boss was a former Air Force military policeman who'd been stationed on remote Johnston Atoll out in the Pacific. He guarded the launch sites used in Operation Dominic, the last of the outer space thermonuclear tests back in the early sixties. Treeless and barren, the atoll provided little recreation. Jerry said the garrison split roughly into two categories: physical fitness fanatics and drinkers. (I think he leaned toward the healthy side.) In any case, Jerry watched as hydrogen bombs were fired up into space and detonated, blossoming in the pitch-black sky like eerie buds.

At the factory, Jerry had an assistant named Ski. Ski was a former LA cop, fired for pulling some prank on a supervisor. He had a lawsuit going, claiming unlawful termination. I couldn't comment on the "unlawful" part, but Ski did have a very droll sense-of-humor. He'd served in the 26th Marines at Khe Sanh and had his own adventures with large rodents.

During Khe Sanh, Ski and the other Marines were pinned down by heavy North Vietnamese rocket and artillery fire. No al fresco dining there. Living in bunkers, they ate and dumped their trash on the floor. This bonanza drew in large rats from the surrounding forest who disturbed the men's meager sleep and occasionally nestled between their legs for warmth. (Charming.) One day, the troops had enough. Someone squirted lighter fluid on a rat, while someone else lit the critter on fire with a Zippo cigarette lighter. Other bunkers joined in. Soon the perimeter was alive with flaming rats, falling rockets and laughing men.

It made my rat woes seem weakish by comparison.

Years later, I spotted a small article in the LA Times. Ski was mentioned along with the words "settlement" and "estimated million dollars." Whatever the amount, I'll bet it could buy a tanker truck of lighter fluid. (Image: hotrodswag.com)

So long, Gerry Rafferty

In an age before iTunes and craft-your-own-playlists, songs played on the radio. Some played more than others. Sting and The Police "I'll Be Watching You" dominated the 1983 airwaves. Rod Stewart's "Forever Young" ruled in 1988. And ten years earlier, Gerry Rafferty's "Baker Street," with its jazzy sax lick, defined that summer. In 1978, I was working days on a Post Office loading dock and nights as a stand-up comic in and around the Windy City. I'd get off work, stop at the local tavern, quench a beer or five, and usually hear some part of "Baker Street"—starting or ending. Rush home, shower and eat then scoot to my first gig, often way south down in Lyons. "Baker Street" would accompany me on the toll road regardless of what pop station I settled on. After Lyons, I'd drive north to Rosemont or into Chicago to the northwest side, performing my set at this club or that. (The club in Chicago had a stage above the bar—it used to be a strip joint—and the drink mixer just below the stage. You were guaranteed to have a high-pitched whirring sound obliterate at least one of your punch lines...more if the bartender didn't like you...or liked you personally but didn't care for your act.) In between my sundry rounds of mirth, I'd be catching Gerry Rafferty. Today I heard he died of alcoholism. (I consider myself fortunate not to have trod a similar path.) May he rest in peace as I recall mail sacks, Old Style draft, hot nights driving, laughs and drink blenders. (Image: Pop Dose)

via Jaspierrr