129 - Zombie Therapy

Dr. Randal looked up from his desk. He took in the sight of Jack calmly; Torn clothes, blood dripping from his right eye. Slightly decomposed skin.

"Good morning," Dr. Randal said politely.

"Morning, Doc. I'm Jack."

"Yes, of course. Have a seat, Jack."

Jack turned and slowly sat down on a very new looking couch. He sat slightly crooked, doing his best to keep stray blood from dripping onto the cushion.

Dr, Randal sat opposite him with a clip board in his lap, and a pen in his right hand. "How are you feeling today, Jack?" Dr. Randal asked, the perfect picture of professionalism.

"I'm...doing ok," Jack said haltingly. "I've been better."

"Let's catch up," Dr. Randal said calmly. "Start at the beginning. what's your story?"

"Well," Jack looked toward the ceiling, trying to decide just how complete a story he wanted to get into. "I was dead, you see."

"Mm hm."

"I was dead and buried, and, you know, I didn't know any better. Then I - well, several of us, it turns out - were re-animated because of, I don't know, some swamp gas or something."

"I imagine," Dr, Randal interjected, "that this came as something of a surprise."

"Oh, man, tell me about it. I mean, I was decomposing. Look at this shoulder." Jack pulled down the collar of his shirt to expose some badly decompose shoulder muscle. "I was dead and buried, being eaten by rats, you know, and suddenly a bunch of us are awake again, sticking hands up out of the ground, climbing back up here to the living world."

"Wow!" said Dr. Randal. "Then what happened?"

Jack dropped his head down slightly. He paused before lifting it and continuing. "I - we - ran into this group of people. They were scared of us. I was trying to reassure everyone that we meant no harm...then it happened."

"What happened?" Dr. Randal asked, jotting something down on his paper.

"This one guy," Jack said hesitatingly. "He seemed like a nice guy. He was willing to give us all a chance. But... then..."

Dr. Randal looked reassuringly toward Jack. "It's alright," he said. "This is a safe space. We don't pass judgement here. Tell me what happened."

"I - uh - I ate his brain."

Jack looked down and shook his head.

Dr. Randal noted something on his paper, then looked up. "Is this the only time?"

"No," Jack said. "That was just the first time. I don't understand it. I know it's wrong, but then I find myself face to face with some screaming human - uh, mean, living, normal living human, and it's the only thought in my head."

"What's the only thought in your head?:

"Brains! Eating brains."

"Let's start," Dr. Randal said soothingly, "with the good news. You're here. You're seeking help. You've come to the right place."

"Can you cure me?" Jack asked hopefully. "Can you cure me of eating brains?"

Twenty minutes later Dr. Randal was dead, his brain dripping in disgusting morsels from Jack's mouth.

Jack ran. He ran out the door and away, just away. Where to?

Only fate would know.

Poor Jack. Someday! Someday, zombies will find their way in society.

Someday...

Peter Wick

October 14, 2024

128 - The Entertainment Industrial Complex, Indie Artists, Kevin Costner's Horizon, and Coppola's Megalopolis

I spend a lot of time thinking about what I'm going to call, The Artist-Audience relationship.

It's a tricky thing to pin down, but you can easily recognize it at a live music concert. That direct connection between the Star on stage, and you in the audience. At a really good concert it elevates both parties, both the Artist, and the audience. Taylor Swift might not be my first choice personally, but someone I respect went to her Eras Tour concert here in L.A. and could only describe it as the best concert she'd ever seen. Taylor Swift has that Artist-Audience relationship.

It is more subtle when the event is not live; a director or movie star waiting months, up to a year, for their new movie to come out. 

Even trickier to pin down, is how to define this Artist-Audience dynamic when it is complicated; the classic Artist who barely has any (financial) success in his or her lifetime, but becomes influential to other artists, or maybe (Van Gogh, anyone?) becomes super famous AFTER passing away.

On the flip side are 'famous' people who feel trapped in their fame. Maybe they are an actor who broke through playing one particular type of character, a character audiences love, but then that actor struggles to express themselves through alternate, more diverse types of roles (Jim Carrey comes to mind).

Hollywood is not in the business of Art. I'm not new in saying this (Coppola's new film coming later). Hollywood is The Entertainment Industrial Complex. That's why so many superhero movies get made. They are a 'safe' choice to bring in many millions of dollars at the box office. This is not news. Many, both deep inside the industry and (maybe where I am) on the fringes of Hollywood, recognize this as simple truth.

I credit an old friend of mine for helping open my eyes to some alternate ways of viewing this whole world of fame, art, audiences, and The Entertainment Industrial Complex. That old friend of mine is Mark Arm, of the band Mudhoney. He doesn't know I'm writing this, so I hope he takes it as a compliment.

In the 1990s, 'Grunge' music seemed to come from nowhere and stamp itself on the public zeitgeist with no warning. Record executives were lost. They did not know what to do with this new movement. All they knew was that Nirvana and Pearl Jam were suddenly selling millions of albums, so, well, let's get some more of that!

Mudhoney signed with a major label, but they were always going to be the fly in the ointment. I know first hand that Mark did not care one bit about fame. He laughed at the very idea. Mudhoney was never going to do what a record executive wanted them to do. They were going be themselves, and make their own music, without regard to how 'famous' it made them. The result, predictably, was that it made them sort of moderately famous, exactly the amount of fame that was right for them. What a concept; wanting AN AUDIENCE, but not going after the big FAME.

You may or may not have heard of Mudhoney before reading this, but along with their old friends, Pearl Jam, they are just about the last two grunge bands standing. Mudhoney might not be as "Famous" as Pearl Jam, in the narrowest definition of the term, but they have an audience. I emailed Mark once when they were in Barcelona, Spain. People come to their shows. Mark sometimes refers to some their current audience with the amusing phrase 'Grunge curious.' I consider their level of 'fame' to be healthy. They are Artists, grungey, sometimes abrasive artists (Mark is the nicest guy you'll ever meet in person, though), so there it is. they have a healthy Artist-Audience relationship.

Now...let's talk about famous people and their egos. And, yes, this is where Kevin Costner comes into the conversation. For something like 35 years, Costner has been planning, developing, abandoning, and then re-surfacing this "epic" 4 part movie series, Horizon. I put "epic" in quotes, because that was supposed to be the idea. The entire project seems to have been an ego-driven folly from the start. We've seen this before from Costner (The Postman, back in the 90s); super expensive, self-indulgent epics, that land with a quiet thud at the box office. I have actually liked previous westerns from Costner. I really did like Dances With Wolves, but even more, I loved Open Range. When Horizon: Chapter One, flopped, and I had not seen it yet, I wanted to give it a chance. Maybe it's just misunderstood, I thought. But no, it is folly. It has nothing new to say. It tries to be 'epic' while rehashing all the old western tropes.

Kevin Costner, absurdly, may even consider himself an 'Indie" Artist, because he financed the film himself, without the involvement of the Hollywood studios. This is where the Artist-Audience relationship becomes twisted. It becomes a one-sided, mirror-staring love affair with oneself. Costner has probably convinced himself that he did it 'his way,' the 'right way.' This is a cautionary tale for any of us who have egos (yes, I said 'us').

And finally we come to Francis Ford Coppola. It is sometimes (remember that word 'sometimes') exciting when a great Artist does something ground-breaking. There is a very fine line between greatness, accompanied by soaring imagination and ground-breaking vision, one the one hand, and misguided ego-driven self-indulgence, on the other hand. As I write this, Coppola's Megalopolis has not yet been released to theaters. I write about it based the trailer that is now available, and all the write-ups and reactions from those screenings the film has had.

Francis Ford Coppola has made two - no, let's say three - films that rank among the greatest films of all time. The list might have to be expanded to top 30, top 40, maybe top 50 of all time, but in that group will be three films by Coppola, The Godfather, The Godfather II, and Apocalypse Now. 

Coppola believes in Art. I remember watching an interview he did several years ago. Someone asked him what advice he had for younger, up and coming filmmakers. "Change the world through Art," he said. 

He is a believer.

He also financed his film himself, and he knew exactly why he was financing it himself. Studios wouldn't touch this film. Too weird, too experimental, too 'Artsy.'

But I say all this with a sinking dread that Megalopolis might be the 85 year-old Coppola's own ego-driven folly. Again, I haven't seen it yet. 

I worry, though.

Keep in mind (and this is NOT a common Hollywood mind set) it's ok if it flops at the box office. A great work of art does not have to make its money back. It only has to find its audience, and find some consensus regarding its relevance.

So, the jury is out.

Has the richest indie filmmaker of them all done something visionary and ground-breaking? Or...has he given in to self indulgence, and paid for his project himself, because everyone else was right to stay miles away from it?

I am hopeful that he did the first thing. I have a sinking feeling, though, that he has done the second thing.

We will soon find out...

Peter Wick

September 9, 2024

Not an official blog post - comment on last month's LennyThe Rock post...

I have always thought that one of the smartest things I ever did with this blog was to turn off comments...a decade ago. I genuinely believe that everyone being able to comment on everything, is one of the internet's biggest flaws.

Even without comments, I get a pretty good sense of how people are responding to something, and it has dawned on me that this President Lenny The Rock post...well...confuses people.

It was written a week before Joe Biden dropped out of the race. Imagine that prehistoric time, when the choice was between a doddering too-old - but respectable - man, and the nonsense that is Donald Trump.

Then, a week after posting it, Biden dropped, Kamala Harris took over the top of the Democratic ticket, and suddenly my President Lenny The Rock idea became confusing.

I'm going to leave the post up. I support the Kamala Harris candidacy, but I still feel it was a funny, light-hearted bit of sarcasm to imagine a rock beating Donald Trump.

I still genuinely believe that a rock would be a better President than Trump.

Peter Wick

August 3, 2024

127 - President Lenny The Rock

January 20, 2025 - They finally did it! they elected a rock as President of the United States!

Everyone said it was only a bluff. People. were going around saying, "I would vote for a rock over Donald Trump, but Biden is too old"...so they did it. Last August the Democrats held their convention, finally convinced Biden to step down - for the good of the country - and in his place they nominated a rock.

President Lenny The Rock

...And the rock won. In a land slide. The only state Donald Trump won was Florida.

It's been a wild ride. The press doesn't get much from President Lenny The Rock. As you can see, he does have a mouth and eyes, but he doesn't say much. All the more mystery to admire.

At a recent press conference, reporters shouted questions at Lenny The Rock. "What is your plan for Social Security?" "What about the on-going war in Ukraine?" "How do you respond to Donald Trump's claims that you are a secret mastermind controlling all voters in America?"

He just stared at the reporters. He said nothing...because....you know...he's a rock.

"President Lenny The Rock coy regarding plans once he takes office," the headline said.

A CNN reporter stood breathlessly outside the White House and explained; "The new President - Lenny The Rock - refused to say exactly what his plans are as he takes office. He's keeping things under wraps. Some think this is a strategy designed to keep people guessing. Others suggest it is simply because, as a rock, the President cannot speak. The only thing we know for certain is that his super big round eyes never blink."

"He projects an aura of calm authority," one campaign staffer told a reporter. "He's in command. He's thoughtful. When you tell him something he looks you in the eye. He's like those pictures where the eyes seem to follow you wherever you are in the room. He doesn't say much, but, on the other hand, there are no outbursts. No emotional roller coaster ride, like you have with the other guy."

"How do you know what he wants?" The reporter asked. 

The staffer was quiet for a moment. "Um, well, that's something we try to keep in-house, you know. His process, how he makes decisions. that's just something we don't talk about."

In the end, we are a happy nation. Having a rock as President gives us a sense of calm, a sense of security that we never would have had under another Donald Trump term.

Maybe he is only a rock. Maybe he does not have a brain, or the ability to speak, but at least he is not Donald Trump.

Small victories!

Peter Wick

July 13, 2024

126 - Final Sneak Peek - Death and Saxophones -The Introduction

[Note: This will be the last Sneak Peek from the Deatn and Saxophones book. It is the Introduction from the published book. Enjoy! P.W.]

I have been pleasantly surprised, over the years, at how many readers my Simple Displeasures blog has found. Blogs, In general, are hardly at the center of the current zeitgeist the way, say, TikTok dance videos are. This blog, though, has played an important role in my own sense of well-being, and the fact that it finds a few thousand readers each month is a happy bonus. 

I have not included every post. The previous collection, Funny Sexy Nanobots – and other improvements, included posts through the end of 2016 (plus previously written short things, and a 20-page short story titled, The Salvador Deli – just in case you needed motivation to take a look at that book). In the six or seven years since, I admit that I have often used the blog to post ‘sneak peeks’ of other upcoming projects. But I always find that I have a desire to get back to writing pithy little humor pieces. I have not included any of the sneak peeks in this collection...only the pithy little humor pieces...

This book also includes one of my earliest comedy screenplays. 

In my 20s, while traveling around from my home base of Seattle, performing standup comedy at various comedy clubs around the country, I had this idea that I should eventually make movies. This is a very dangerous idea to get into your head. Movies are expensive to make. Standup comedy only requires that you show up and get the audience laughing. Books only require that you actually WRITE them. Movies – even low budget independent movies – require a nightmare-ish level of organizing, money, good collaborators, and luck.

The idea was in my head, though, and nothing was going to get it out of there. So I wrote a few screenplays. The one included here, Death and Saxophones, is from 1991, or is it 1992? I think I rewrote it in ’92. I sent it to a few Hollywood people at the time. I remember getting one response back from someone. The memory is vague. Anyway, as so often happens with Hollywood, even if there was ‘interest,’ it never went anywhere.

I lived in Hollywood from mid-1993 to mid-1995, but I was mostly there as an actor, and had moved on from Death and Saxophones. I had begun writing an early version of something else, something that did eventually turn into my ACTUAL first independent film (Long Strange Trip – Or The Writer, The Naked Girl, and The Guy with a Hole in His Head – yes, all of that is the title, and as of this writing, you can stream it on Amazon).

Why have I included Death and Saxophones in this collection? Well, maybe part of me plans to always use these once-every-half-dozen-years blog collections to un-earth something old and previously unseen (I have a lot of them). Maybe it is because I had nearly forgotten about the script, and when I re-discovered it recently, it made me laugh. Is it perfect? No. Maybe it even makes for a funnier screenplay than it would an actual movie.

It is important to remember, while reading it, that it is from the early 1990s. It has a reference to Ronald and Nancy Reagan. More than a reference, actually. Ron and Nancy actually show up at a Hollywood party. In 1991, Ronald Reagan was still alive as the recent ex-President. We did not know at the time that he was suffering from Alzheimer’s. After considerable thought, I have decided to leave the scene, rather than cut it. I trust you, the reader, to be able to navigate a 1991 sarcastic moment in its original context.

One last note about Death and Saxophones – A central joke in the story is that a standup comedian is booked by his agent to perform, not at a comedy club, not at any kind of actual comedy show, but at a funeral. It was purely a joke, a joke that allowed other absurd things to happen in the story. Many years later, this turned into a major irony in my life. My dear mother passed away in February 2020. As my siblings and I (there are five of us) emailed each other as a group preparing for the funeral, I shared an old college-newspaper humor column I had once written, about my mother being a master comedienne. The next thing I knew, my sister – who was planning for each of us to say something at the funeral – asked if I would read this funny little thing. I got up at the funeral, started reading, luckily found the right balance between humor and the solemness of the moment, and found myself playing the crowd a little bit. It got laughs. So...yes, many years after this script, I sort of did a little bit of standup comedy at my own mother’s funeral. Fortunately, thankfully, people appreciated it. It could have gone badly. It went well. Strange...but that is all true. That old college piece – A Great Comedienne’s Not So Great Son – is in this collection, because the day after the funeral was blog-post day, and I had nothing to write that day. I posted the old piece that I had read live at the funeral.

Thanks to you the reader, for checking out this collection. As I said, with everything else I do with my creative life, the blog, and the number of readers it has, is a happy bonus. Enjoy!

Peter Wick

June 14, 2024

125 - Death and Saxophones; sneak peek #2

Several months ago I put up the first sneak peek of Death and Saxophones. It's an old, unproduced absurdist comedy screenplay, that will live the rest of its life as the bonus section of my new book (the book, of course, is titled, "Death and Saxophones," and will be avaiable Tuesday, May 21). I am pretty sure it will never be put on camera. Hollywood certainly will never touch it. It doesn't follow Hollywood formula.

This time I'm giving you all a little peek at the opening:

EXT. BENSON ESTATE. BEVERLY HILLS. NIGHT

It is a peaceful, quiet moment in the middle of the night.

The house is big, Beverly Hills big.

 

INT. BEDROOM. NIGHT

 

Two people sleep next to each other in a large bed. Both are seventy-ish. They are Willie and Mitzi Benson.

 

Suddenly Willie sits bolt upright. He faces camera but is staring at nothing in particular. He looks shocked.

 

                                                WILLIE:

                Death!......Saxophones!

 

And he lurches to the floor, falling straight left, out of screen. We hear a loud thud as he hits.

 

Mitzi sits up in bed.

 

                                                MITZI:

                Willie?  Willie, what is it?

 

She switches on the light, sees his feet still on the bed, his head on the floor.

 

                                                MITZI:

Is this a new yoga thing? It’s the middle of the night, Willie.

 

She nudges his feet. They fall to the floor.

 

                                                MITZI:

Are you dead? Willie, if you’re dead tap the floor or something.

 

We hear a faint but undeniable tapping. Mitzi is a little taken aback.

 

                                                MITZI:

                Tap it three times.

 

Again the tapping, this time three distinct times.  She is getting perturbed at the joke now.

 

                                                MITZI:

Okay, if you’re dead sing “Be bop-a-loo-la She’s my baby,” in a silly voice.

 

He sings like Mickey Mouse.

 

                                                WILLIE:

Be bop-a-loo-la she’s my baby – huh – be bop-a-loo-la don’t mean maybe –

 

Mitzi goes around the bed, kneels down next to him, rolls him over, puts an ear to his chest.

 

                                                MITZI:

I don’t believe you for one second. I swear, if I hear your heart beating, I’m going to  - your heart’s not beating.

 

She grabs his wrist and feels for a pulse.

 

                                                MITZI:

But that’s impossible. You were singing. I need some sign. Oh, God, if he’s really dead give me a sign.

 

                                A BUNCH OF VOICES FROM HEAVEN:

He’s dead, Christ! What do we have to do? He’s not breathing. He’s finished! Done! Fried! Get a grip, for crying out loud.

 

Mitzi stands up in a huff.

 

                                                MITZI:

Fine, then, be dead! I find this very inconsiderate. I guess I better have Winfred do something about it.

 

She pushes a button on the wall, then lies back down, shuts off the light.

 

INT. THE BUTLER’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.

 

Winfred is waking up to the sound of the buzzer.

 

OPENING CREDITS

 

During credits we see Winfred, who is very old, stumbling, half asleep, from his downstairs bedroom, across the living room and entrance hall, into a wall or two along the way, and finally upstairs.

 

INT. MITZI’S BEDROOM. CONTINUOUS.

 

                                                WINFRED:

                Yes, sir?

 

                                                MITZI:

No, Winfred, it’s me. Willie died. Could you remove his body?

 

                                WINFRED:

Right away. Ma’am. Uh, Ma’am, could you tell me generally, where the body is?

 

A loud thud and crash.

                                               

                                                WINFRED:

                Never mind, Ma’am, I found him.

 

INT. HALLWAY. CONTINUOUS.

 

Winfred is backing out of Mitzi’s room, pulling Willie’s body by the feet. A door opens. Marsha, 40-ish, peeks out.

 

                                                MARSHA:

                Winfred, what’s all the noise?

 

                                                WINFRED:

                Your father has died, Miss Marsha.

 

                                                MARSHA:

                Oh, okay, say, Winfred, have you ever been to Fiji?

 

                                                WINFRED:

                Fiji?

 

                                                MARSHA:

It’s an island somewhere in the ocean, or something. I want to go there. Would you like to come?

 

                                WINFRED:

Certainly. I suppose I would.

 

                                MARSHA:

Great! Let’s pack.

 

                                WINFRED:

Now?

 

Another head pops out the door behind Marsha. He is Robert, also 40-ish.

 

                                                ROBERT:

Hey, Winfred, what’s going on?

 

                                                WINFRED:

Willie has died, sir.

 

                                                ROBERT:

                No kidding?

 

                                                MARSHA:

                Robert, Winfred said he wants to go to Fiji too.

 

                                                WINFRED:

                I didn’t really –

 

                                                ROBERT:

Marsha, I told you, I think we should wait until morning. I’m beat.

 

Another door opens, further down the hall. Alan, 35-ish, appears.

 

                                                ALAN:

                What’s going on out here?

 

                                                MARSHA:

I want to go to Fiji, and so does Winfred, but Robert’s being a real pinhead about it, but, you know, I just feel like going somewhere. Oh, and Daddy died.

 

                                ALAN:

What?

 

                                MARSHA:

I want to go to Fiji –

 

                                ALAN:

No, not that, the part about Daddy dying.

 

                                MARSHA:

Oh, Alan, leave it to you to dwell on the depressing stuff.

 

                                ALAN:

What are you guys doing!? Winfred, where are you taking him?

 

                                WINFRED:

Well…I wasn’t sure…into the kitchen?

 

                                ALAN:

He’s not hungry. He’s dead. Where’s Mom?

 

Alan comes out into the hallway to take over the situation.

 

 

                                                WINFRED:

                She’s resting.

 

INT. BEDROOM. CONTINUOUS.

 

Alan opens Mitzi’s door and turns on the light.

 

                                                ALAN:

Mom! Do you realize Daddy died?

 

                                                MITZI:

                Of course I do.

 

                                                ALAN:

Well, get up. Let’s do something. We’ve got to arrange a funeral.

 

                                MITZI:

A funeral! Willie hated funerals!

 

                                ALAN:

Well, he must have left some arrangements. Where’s his will?

 

                                MITZI:

Don’t we just put him on the front porch and call a delivery service to come get him?

 

                                ALAN:

Delivery service? I don’t think Dominoes deals in this area.

                               

                                MITZI:

But this is Beverly Hills. Surely there must be a service for dead people.

 

                                ALAN:

It’s called an ambulance. Have you called one?

 

                                MITZI:

An ambulance! Alan, I’m starting to wonder if you’re really my son. Let’s call a caterer.

 

                                                ALAN:

A caterer? A man’s dead, and all anyone can think about is food!

Peter Wick

May 14, 2024