Almost 4:00 PM and Still No Jackson Coverage

For me. I just don't get it. Elvis didn't swing this kind of media saturation and neither did John Lennon. Both were higher up the music food chain than Michael Jackson. This was a very troubled man. Pills spilled out of his tummy at the autopsy. (Not that Elvis couldn't swallow a pharmacy in his day.) He built a pretend village and used real people as set dressing. He had sleep overs with little boys and employed a porn director as personal videographer. Yeah, he could sing and dance and was a huge hit back in the early Reagan years. R.I.P.

Let's leave air time for a good police chase, or hill fire or invasion by Nazi dinosaurs.

Rewrite

A long one today on my paying gig. Certainly this rewrite was more akin to assembling IKEA furniture—a meticulous following of directions. But now it's finished and in and I can relax, perhaps with Tropic Thunder.

Running News

Congratulations to Emil for another successful marathon. My running life consists of reading Emil's race reports and thinking of better times ahead. Kiley battles a twisted ankle preparing for another 50-miler — in addition to coaching the San Gabriel Valley TNT fall marathon team. A determined man, Kiley will defeat injury, race like a champ, get all his team across the finish line, while composing light opera and inventing a device that knows when you want pizza and calls ahead. He's that versatile. Yesterday, I aqua ran for thirty-five minutes, taking it easy. I actually felt stiffness in my legs this morning. From aqua running, of all things! But that's the closest I'll get to real running for at least three months. Back to work, complaining about my neighbor's party last night where they cooked steaks, meaty scent drifting all over the building, and didn't invite us. Tonight we're barbecuing a bicycle tire and inviting them. If they can't make it, we'll leave "dinner" by their front door. Chow.

Go Strykers!

A happy 4th of July to the 5th Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division, Stryker Brigade, 4th Battalion, (23 Infantry Regiment), known as the Tomahawks.

What does all this Army jabbery talk mean?

Let's start with Strykers. Strykers are a relatively new Infantry Carrier Vehicle (ICV) with eight-wheels and more firepower than a South Central LA gang. The Tomahawks ride them into battle. After the troops dismount and deploy, the ICVs provide fire support as the unit manuvers. One of those manuvering will be machine gunner Colin Wells, son of Deanna Oliver, an old Anamaniacs chum.

At 27, Colin is the "old man" of his unit. Deanna used to plunk him down in her office at Warner Brothers where he'd do his homework. He sat with us at our first Emmy Award dinner. (The one in 1994 where the wrong episodes were delivered for consideration.) Colin and his comrades will be in Afghanistan this month, fighting alongside the Marines near the Pakistan border.

So to Colin and the Strykers, thank you for your sacrifice so that I may sleep late, and barbecue and complain about the animation industry and my loud neighbors. Because you choose to give up your freedom and face danger, I have mine. Thank you very much.

I still think we were robbed in '94.

Farewell, Karl Malden

Tom Ruegger sent around more vulture pics and another celebrity passed on.

I really liked Karl Malden in Nevada Smith. He played a ruthless crook who supervised the skinning of Steve McQueen's mom. (Not for real, that was Lee J. Cobb. The legal case drags on.) McQueen hunts Malden all over the west, becoming as callous and hardened as his prey. Malden knows he's being stalked and grows paranoid and jittery, unable to stand the strain of impending retribution. Malden's pleading taunt of "yer yellow, ya haven't got the guts," became a high school catch-phrase we'd fling at each other as a way of pushing someone to do something that would get him in trouble. It usually worked. (SPOILER ALERT!! plus SCANDINAVIAN SUBTITLE ALERT!!)

ht/: frank5400

Exit Jacko

Jacko, we hardly knew ye. Actually, we knew ye all too well. Especially after four-wall coverage by the MSM, bumped cap-and-trade, Iranian demonstrators and other boring non-celebrity stuff from the public eye. As CBS William S. Paley once remarked, "Revolutions come and go, but file footage costs nothing."

PODM wraps it up nicely.

Tom Ruegger and the Vulture Project

Awoke this morning and shuffled to the kitchen minus crutches, moving at the pace of a very healthy 106-year-old. I look forward to greater adventures in the days to come.

Worked all last week on my animated script, then jumped into editing the short story. I finished Monday night, sending it out at almost 8k words. That comes out to 43 pages in New Courier font. A very exhausting process as I had to expand, add clarifying information and erase material simultaneously to stay under the word limit. Once again, a big thanks to the readers. An altered ending proved, I think, more satisfying and truer to what had been set-up. Electronic high-fives to all.

Which led me to yesterday morning. Paul Rugg, Sherri Stoner, Deanna Oliver, Tom Ruegger and myself gathered at a local studio for vulture recordings. Forging a long improvised story proved challenging, but Tom hauled us forward to a resolution. He seemed quite happy with the day's catch, and I have no reason to doubt we hooked more than we released. I felt weary and torpid the whole session. More sleep should improve my perspective. Meanwhile, Tom will add a lick of animatic and a dash of music to today's work and produce something to shop around.

And the studio was free of bees. I really liked that.

Hospital Cafe

While it appears I'm in a hospital, this is actually a station at the Hospital Cafe, a Hollywood eatery that aims to simulate a medical dining experience. You lie in bed with an IV pumping you full of drugs, and eat Jello-o and dried chicken while watching Hawaii 5-0 reruns. Ginger ale is served in a short plastic cup. For an additional fee, your waitress-practitioner will speak English, though at the level of a Saigon bar girl. ("You likee pillow, G.I.?") Actual minor surgery is available, but must be booked in advance as the doctors fly up from Trinidad. You leave the Hospital Cafe drained in fluids and cash, but ultimately feeling less than when you entered. The Hospital Cafe. Institutional food at a Five Star price.

Farewell to Bees

Sometimes I think of the house I sold last year, home to us for twelve years - longer than anywhere I'd ever lived. I miss watching the San Gabriel Mountains, especially at dusk, as the sun flung out massive shadows, burning a bright red as it dipped into the Pacific.

But I don't miss the stinking bees. (Or rabbits, or coyotes, but they have their separate tales.)

The bees didn't actually smell as in insects that stung and stunk up the place. But this time of year they'd swarm, and a swarm would descend on my house, and it would cost a hundred bucks to de-bee. Scouts arrived first, whistling, six hands in their pockets, pretending to pollinate a flower, but really casing the place. Next day I'd hear a loud buzzing from under the house or under an eave and once inside a gardening box on the balcony, indicating they'd successfully immigrated. You've heard the expression, "Busy as a bee?"Well they are brutally industrious. First they build a comb for the queen. If unmolested,  that modest little comb cottage will become a bee high-rise. After one of my Southeast Asia journeys, I returned after three weeks to find a massive bee sub-division. The structure they'd built on the underside of my split level was intricate and astounding, and heavy with honey. Even the exterminator was impressed, admitting later he'd used up all the poison in his canister just to whack this one mega colony. Stuck with clean-up, I had to climb a tall ladder and knock down the sub-division with a rake, ducking chunks of honey-filled wax dropping past my head to splat on the dirt.  This new mess had to be policed at once because various animals would be drawn to the scent of honey and die from bee poison. Hollywood is so much like that and it thrives on buzz. 

Anyway, today I finished my animated script, sent it in, invoiced and napped, and didn't have to bee wrangle. That's got me feeling pretty darn good. 

NOTE: I tried explaining all the above to the new owner, but he and his wife laughed merrily. "We love bees. My father wants to put a hive in the backyard." Clearly, this was a man who fancied bees, in a family of bee fanciers. I hope they still do.  

Another Ruegger Vulture Pic

Three vulture posts and three dead celebs over the last week: Ed, Farrah, Michael.

Those three in a road picture...

It would've been something.

Ruegger Vultures

More vultures from Tom Ruegger, who drew upon extensive meetings with mid-level animation executives.