Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘The Word Hopi Means Peace’

by Larry Brody

NOTE FROM LB

The Navajo Dog and I had many years’ worth of adventure together. We went places where we experienced things so powerful that they punched through the armor I had developed to defend my Asperger’s soul. Yet somehow my friend and I survived to tell true tales like the one that follows, a memory of something I wish had never had to happen…yet will hold onto even when my body is dust.


The Word Hopi Means Peace

The word Hopi means “peace,” but

A war rages there. I found out about it

During a visit with the Navajo dog. The Hopi

Elder was about to go to a meeting with—

Get this—a member of the U.N. The Hopi

Wanted the U.N. to investigate Indian

Life, and force changes. While we were

Getting ready for the trek up Big Mountain,

Where the meeting was to be held, the elder

Got a phone call. His son had just been

Arrested by rangers from the Bureau of

Indian Affairs. The charge was driving while

Drunk. Since the youth had left us only

Moments earlier, completely sober, this

Didn’t make sense, and the Hopi

Elder, the Navajo dog, and I piled into my

Truck to see what was going on.

We got to the gas station where the rangers

And the young Hopi were, and he was in

Handcuffs, struggling and cursing, while

A small crowd looked on.

He stank of whiskey also, if he’d been doused

Like in a bad movie. The rangers

Were both Indians, one Hopi, one Navajo.

They apologized to the Hopi elder for

Having to bring in his son. Unfortunately,

They added, they would also have to bring

In his truck.

Now this truck was the elder’s only transportation,

His only way to get to the meeting if I hadn’t been

There. The Navajo dog and I exchanged glances,

And she nodded. “I saw this picture,” she said.

“Hell,” I said, “I wrote it.”

“Hush,” said the elder. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”

“All you know is peace,” said the Navajo dog.

“For four hundred years your people have

Thought all would be fine.

My people know different,” she said, and:

“Listen, I have some connections. Let me see

What I can do.

It all depends,” she added, “on if I can find a

Way to get through.”

And with that the Navajo dog began chanting.

She danced, and howled, and moaned. Her

Paws were like beaters, and she gave a

Steady heartbeat to the earth. The rangers

Stared at this crazy animal, and so did the

Others looking on. Some offered advice

About how to stop fits. One of the rangers

Actually reached for his gun.

Then the sky clouded over, thunder

Clapped, and lightning exploded!

And new voices joined in from the sky.

We stared upward, and saw the Kachinas,

Hopi ancestors, gods, helmeted,

Horned, and feathered, and they were all

Staring down. Huge, they were, like

Children who played with human-sized dolls.

The spirits looked at the rangers, and at the

Hopi elder’s son. They looked at the

Dancing Navajo dog.

Then they spoke together, in a chorus

That made the mesas shake. Buttes

Quivered, trees bent, people threw

Themselves to the ground. I didn’t speak

The language, but I felt its meaning

Drive through me, lightning flashing old

Images in my soul.

I saw birth. I saw growing things.

I saw endings.

A people gathered in prayer.

Sky cities merging all into one.

And I knew the Kachinas were speaking of

The Unity they saw as life under this sun.

More thunder resounded. More lightning

Crashed down. Then, just as they had appeared,

The spirits were gone. The Navajo dog

Sat calmly, looked around as though

Everyone else was crazier than she.

The rangers backed to their horses, spoke

Quietly, then came forward again.

One of them unlocked their prisoner’s cuffs.

The other handed the Hopi elder the keys

To his truck. “Take the boy home,

Sober him up, we’re sorry,” they said,

And the Navajo dog blew out a

Noseful of dust.

“Take him home, we’re sorry,”

They said again,

And the dog yipped in quiet approval this time.

The rangers climbed into their saddles,

Rode off, and the Hopi elder turned to the

Navajo dog. “Thank you,” he said.

“They didn’t do it for me,” said the Navajo

Dog. “Nor did they do it for you, or your

Son.”

The Hopi elder nodded. His eagle’s eyes

Glinted. He said I word I didn’t know, but

I knew what it meant: “For all.”

We went to the meeting in two vehicles,

His truck and mine. It was a rough ride,

And along the way we stopped at a hogun

And picked up a Navajo farmer, an old

Lady in turquoise, who immediately

Recognized the Navajo dog.

They talked about other wars they had

Been in together, and rejoiced at

Being able to fight again.

When we got to the meeting place,

It was like a festival, with food, drink, and

A rock ‘n’ roll band.

But the U.N. representative must have gotten

Lost somewhere,

Or sidetracked,

Or arrested for drunk driving,

For he never even showed his face.


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.

Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘Kid Hollywood Had A Mighty Fine Deal’

Who sez only H’wood wimmins can have great closets?

by Larry Brody

NOTE FROM LB

Time now for a few words about Kid Hollywood. Words I never thought I would want anyone to hear or read. So here we go with another true story about life in the Big Bad City. Maybe I should subtitle this “A Cautionary Tale But With Redemption.” Happy endings, gang! Give us a big hand!

Oh, yeah. This one’s kind of long. Not Faery Queen long, but still….


Kid Hollywood Had A Mighty Fine Deal

So how did Kid Hollywood finally shuffle off to

Buffalo? What made him stop that Rodeo to

Sunset to Gower Gulch drive?

Well, believe it or not, it was personal.

That’s right. No creative differences here.

No protesting silly changes, or stars’ ad libs.

It was love caused the big

Fade Out.

Or was it that old-time ambition?

Kid Hollywood had long since gone beyond

Needing,

But was still into

I want,

So I won’t lie to my new self about my old.

It was ambition, after all, sent Kid Hollywood

Running higgledy piggledy

Hither and yon,

Ambition (not love) betrayed.

What happened was, as successful as the Kid grew,

He never felt he was really getting his due. Others

Got better projects, or bigger salaries, or more

Wondrous reviews.

Others got laid more, and named more in

Columns and stories and interviews.

Others made bolder advances

Along creative frontiers.

Kid Hollywood grew envious, even

Bitter. But, God! he had fine clothes,

And that fabulous art collection,

And cars,

And oh what a house!

Not enough.

Never, as has been said,

Enough.

Until the last script.

Kid Hollywood’s last script began with a

Mighty fine deal.

Mighty fine, yessir. Lots of guarantees, pay or

Plays, royalties, and buy-outs, and back ends.

Millions involved.

And a chance to do something great.

“You have a unique talent,” the Monster

Of Film Land said. “You can do things

Other writers cannot. I have no talent at all.

But I love talent. I want to help talent.

If I’d been there, Mozart would have died

Old, fat, and rich. Van Gogh would have

Had his pick of patrons, and at least

Three ears. I missed out on them.

I’m here for you.

Anything you want to create, I want to see created.

You write. I’ll produce it. I’ll sell.

Anything.

Anything.

Unique…”

I signed, and I created. I wrote, and he sold,

And it went up on the screen.

Money for Kid Hollywood,

And approval.

And more chances for more of the same.

Two things did Kid Hollywood live for,

Ambition,

And love.

He learned to love whatever helped his

Ambition, loved the Monster,

Thought he saw past the mask

To the soul.

So did the Kid love?

Or just want?

Or was there, beyond everything,

A genuine need?

Well, anyway, so far so good. Nothing here

for a Hollywood adieu. Success! Top of the

Mountain! Everything as promised.

We had a very happy Kid Hollywood here,

Only then, guess what happened?

No, no, no, try again.

This is about betrayal, remember?

And in Hollywood, what’s the ultimate way?

Close, very close,

But no, it isn’t that the checks started to bounce.

It’s that they—

Just stopped.

No more payments. No more money.

No more midnight meetings,

Or plans for new shows.

No more—Oh, for God’s sake, I admit it—

No more dreaming.

No more.

Love?

Ambition?

With millions withheld.

The Monster had played the true

Monster game, parlayed his investment

Into a Jamaican account.

Better than Switzerland!

Safer than the Antilles!

Gone in sixty seconds! went the deal.

Why?

Planned?

A reaction to some threat?

Unknown. Unknown to this day.

What’s known is that the Kid was

Caught high and dry, pants down

And dreams in the sky.

Caught needing.

Oh, Kid Hollywood had a mighty fine deal.

Mighty fine deal, yessir. Lots of guarantees, pay or

Plays, royalties, and buy-outs, and back ends.

Millions involved.

And a chance to do something great.

But:

Kid Hollywood went broke,

Financially and creatively.

Grew silent.

Spoke to no one.

And to his wonder,

Grew to understand his pain.

After all, it was there, it was real, it was

A Sign.

So the Kid

Learned the dance,

Tapped up a storm,

And exited stage right.

It wasn’t death, not really.

More like taking off a disguise.

Shamen are shape-changers.

They become else in order to be.

Sometimes they become trapped in their

New forms, the animal brain taking over,

And they forget who they’ve been.

What they are.

Kid Hollywood was the ultimate shaman,

Trapped in a shape untrue.

Now that he’s gone, I am free

To want,

And to need,

And to dream.

Ambition?

Hell, just let me love!


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.

LB: WGAW & WGAE Ask Members for Strike Authorization Vote

by Larry Brody

As usual (don’t trust us, google Writers Guild of America AMPTP negotiations over the past two decades and see for yourself), the AMPTP is stonewalling the Writers Guild on all fronts during the early negotiations.

It’s a thing they do because, well, because they think it shows the contempt they feel for our oh-so-unnecessary-selves. (“We don’t really need writers because any one of us could do what they do if we just had the time” has been a mantra since the early days of silent films.)

To me, what they’re demonstrating is just the opposite. Not contempt but fear because only we writers can do what they can’t. I can’t prove it, but I don’t believe there’s a single studio, network, or production company who hasn’t at some time tried to write a script…and failed miserably.

So they try to bully us into “submission” by blowing off our proposals and calling for cutbacks in the current pension and health plans.

The result of their tactics was inevitable. Here’s the latest email on the subject from the WGAW and WGAE:

March 24, 2017

Dear Colleague,

The initial two-week bargaining period agreed to by your Guild and the AMPTP concludes at the end of the day today.  We do not yet have a deal. We will continue to bargain in good faith to make such a deal.  But, at this point, we want to let you know where we stand.

We began the negotiations with two truths about the current state of the business at the heart of our proposals:

First, that these have been very profitable years for the companies.  This past year they earned $51 billion in profits, a record.

Second, that the economic position of writers has declined sharply in the last five or so years.  Screenwriters have been struggling for a long time. They are now joined by television writers, for whom short seasons are at the core of the problem.  In the last two years alone, the average salary of TV writer-producers fell by 23%.  Those declines have not been offset by compensation in other areas. In Basic Cable and new media, our script fees and residual formulas continue to trail far behind those in broadcast – even though these new platforms are every bit as profitable as the old model.

In light of all this, we sought to tackle a number of issues that directly affect the livelihoods of all writers.

–We asked for modest gains for screenwriters, most particularly a guaranteed second-step for writers earning below a certain compensation level.

–We asked for a rational policy on family leave.

–We sought to address chronically low pay for Comedy Variety writers.

–We asked for 3% increases in minimums – and increases in the residual formula for High Budget SVOD programs commensurate with industry standards.

–We made a comprehensive proposal to deal with the pernicious effects of short seasons. This included a limit on the amortization of episodic fees to two weeks, a proposal that sought to replicate the standard that had been accepted in the business for decades.  It addressed, as well, the continued problems with Options and Exclusivity. And it sought to address the MBA’s outdated schedule of weekly minimums, which no longer adequately compensates writers for short terms of work.

–Finally, we sought to address script fee issues – in basic cable and streaming – but also in the case of Staff Writers. Unconscionably, our lowest paid members are now often held at the staff level for multiple seasons, with no compensation for the scripts they write.

What was the companies’ response to these proposals?

No, in virtually every case.

–Nothing for screenwriters. Nothing for Staff Writers.  Nothing on diversity.

–On Family Leave they rejected our proposal and simply pledged to obey all applicable State and Federal laws – as if breaking the law were ever an option.

–On short seasons, they offered a counter-proposal that addressed the issue in name only – thus helping no one.

–They have yet to offer anything on minimums, or on HBSVOD.

–They have made some small moves on Options & Exclusivity – some small moves for Comedy Variety writers in Pay TV.  But that is all.

On the last day of these two weeks, the companies’ proposal has barely a single hard-dollar gain for writers.

$51 billion in profits and barely a penny for those of us who make the product that makes the companies rich. But that’s not all.

In response to our proposal to protect our Pension and Health Plans, this has been their answer:

Nothing on Pension.

And on our Health Plan, two big rollbacks.

First, they have demanded that we make cuts to the plan – $10 million in the first year alone.  In return, they will allow us to fund the plan with money diverted from our own salaries.

More, they’ve demanded the adoption of a draconian measure in which any future shortfalls to the plan would be made up by automatic cuts in benefits – and never by increases in employer contributions.

This, too, is unacceptable. The package, taken as a whole, is unacceptable – and we would be derelict in our duty if we accepted it.

Therefore, your Negotiating Committee has voted unanimously to recommend that the WGAW Board of Directors and WGAE Council conduct a strike authorization vote by the membership.

Once again, we are committed to continue negotiating with the companies in good faith to get you the deal we all deserve.  We will continue to update you as things progress.

Respectfully,

The Negotiating Committee Members of the WGA West and WGA East

Chip Johannessen, Co-Chair
Chris Keyser, Co-Chair
Billy Ray, Co-Chair

Alfredo Barrios, Jr.
Adam Brooks
Zoanne Clack
Marjorie David
Kate Erickson
Jonathan Fernandez
Travon Free
Howard Michael Gould
Susannah Grant
Erich Hoeber
Richard Keith
Warren Leight
Alison McDonald
Luvh Rakhe
Shawn Ryan
Stephen Schiff
David Shore
Meredith Stiehm
Patric M. Verrone
Eric Wallace
Beau Willimon
Nicole Yorkin

Howard A. Rodman, WGAW President, ex-officio
Michael Winship, WGAE President, ex-officio
David A. Goodman, WGAW Vice President, ex-officio
Jeremy Pikser, WGAE Vice President, ex-officio
Aaron Mendelsohn, WGAW Secretary-Treasurer, ex-officio
Bob Schneider, WGAE Secretary-Treasurer, ex-officio

Here’s another, more detailed analysis of the situation than my intro, from Facebook friend Micah Ian Wright:

And just like that, Hollywood’s TV Distributors slit their own throats. They survived a strike in 2007-8 by airing lame gameshows and reality shows. Audiences put up with that because there were few other options for viewers. Today, however, there’s Netflix, Amazon Prime, and Hulu, where viewers can go to watch a bunch of new (and old, and British, and Swedish and Israeli, etc.) TV shows, many of them far better than what ABC/NBC/etc. are putting on the air.

Worse for the AMPTP, today’s business market is massively different. Global TV licensing has grown 320% since 2008. Today 40% of the AMPTP’s profit comes from global licensing of scripted entertainment. No one in Germany wants to watch “The Real Housewives of Atlanta” or “The Weakest Link” — they can produce domestic versions of that kind of low-budget dreck themselves. They can’t make “House of Cards” or “Game of Thrones” themselves, however, so the AMPTP is playing a very dangerous game by egging us toward a strike.

I know this is the Era Of Trump where rich corporations imagine they have the freedom to crush unions and steal all the cash for themselves, but they’re forgetting that he actually lost the popular vote by quite a wide margin and that he’s more unpopular than ever. These companies GAVE Trump $4 Billion in free airtime and helped elect him president. We haven’t forgotten that, and we aren’t inclined to cut them any breaks for helping foist this dictator upon us, hoping he’d make it easier for them to scalp their employees and loot their pension funds.

They have unprecedented profits built on our labor. They can share that money or feel our pain.


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. Learn more about him HERE

Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘The Navajo Dog Walks Her Talk

by Larry Brody

NOTE FROM LB:

The Navajo Dog is back today, and while I don’t think anyone could be as happy about that as I am, she definitely is worth keeping company with. Oh, and yes, this is a true story, every word. To let it be otherwise would betray everything she has lived for.


The Navajo Dog Walks Her Talk

The Navajo dog walks her talk, has been for at least

A thousand years. Lost items are a specialty. She

Has found a hidden concho belt, the skull of a vanished

Cat, and several renewed friends. Money she isn’t

That good at, but opportunities abound at her call.

The problem is, she drives me crazy, demanding a

Quid pro quo. “What have you done for me?” she

Will say. “You trade with the medicine men. What

Will you give your medicine dog?”

For awhile, rides in the truck were enough, her

Nomadic origins satisfied by the bumping of

The bed. Locking up the Navajo dog was impossible

Anyway. I would close the garage door on her,

Turn around, and there she would be, laughing.

Food as a thank you is hopeless. Anything she wants

She can take for herself. Once, I buried a sack of

Dog food beneath half a ton of oil drums, just as a

Test. The Navajo dog didn’t flinch, just waited until

I turned away. Then—wham!—a rumble, a crash, and

A dog munching contentedly, while the drums shivered

And swayed.

One of the skills the Navajo dog has taught me

Is the making of spirit staffs. It began when I

Wanted a stick to guide me over some rough

Paths. She told me where to find a good strong one,

Then guided me to some turkey feathers, and corn.

I stained the kernels with vegetable dye,

Strung them as beads, and attached them to

Both the feathers and the wood. Still, the

Navajo dog felt it wasn’t

Enough, took me out again. This time, we found

The skeleton of a cow, and the dog went directly to the

Spine. “Pick a backbone, any backbone,” she said

In stage patter. “You need a reminder to be brave.”

“I am brave,” I said.

“Sometimes,” she said, “you forget.

I attached the vertebra to the staff, using the

Corn beads. Still, the Navajo dog felt it wasn’t

Enough, took me out once more. This time, we

Made a fire, and kept the ashes, and at her

Instruction I used them to paint a black spiral

The length of the wood. “Black is a sacred

Color,” she said. “Where I come from,” I told her,

“Black means death.”

“Where I come from,” she told me, “everything

Means death.

And life as well.

With the black, and the corn,” she said,

“And the feathers, and the bone,

Your new staff will carry you

Straight to heaven, or maybe hell.”

I have walked many miles with my spirit staff,

And climbed the steepest slopes. I have fallen,

And gotten up,

And fallen again,

But never has the staff failed. It carries turquoise

Now, set into the wood. “So you can fly freely

Where you need to,” said the Navajo dog,

And I’ve flown fast and free. Now, though, she

Wants a staff of her own, with no instructions,

No hints, no clues of what it should be. I figure

To pull out all the stops, and give her what she

Deserves.

After all, in a realm

Where all things mean death

And life

I’ll never be able to find what she needs.


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.

LB: 3 Shows I Just Can’t Watch Anymore

by Larry Brody

I  don’t watch a lot of TV these days, but when I do watch, I become very committed. I don’t watch anything twice, but that one time…ah! I savor every minute, giving each episode 100% of my current attention span. When Larry Brody watched TV he’s definitely in the moment.

This week, I’ve dropped three shows from my commitment list. Instead of soaring as they once did, they’ve been flailing around for weeks, and I can stand the agony of their dying spirits no more.

Here they are, three TV series that for all I know will continue to go on for decades to come, but which for me have lost all vitality. They are existences without essences. Zombies walking all over without their souls.

LEGION: I loved the first 3 episodes of Legion for the same reason so many critics and fans (including my #1 Favorite Writer John Ostrander as he expressed his thoughts HERE), the fantastic look of the series and the mindfuck it gave not only the heroes (and villains, as it’s turned out) but the audience as well.

However, the last few episodes have just been more and more of what’s become the show’s same-old-same-old, and instead of feeling more intrigued, or even as intrigued as I was at the beginning, I’m getting bored at the limited bag o’writing and cinematography tricks.

Besides, the damn show keeps giving me nightmares! And at my age I’ve got enough bad real memories to terrify me and sure don’t need to be overwhelmed by fake ones.

(See, if you’ve been watching Legion you know what I just did there…the whole fake memories thing, I mean. If not, well, that’s not nearly as spoilery as it might sound. We know by the end of the pilot that the fakery is afoot. Which is why now the whole business is just a drag to me.)

SHADES OF BLUE: I was all gung-ho about this series its first season. Loved the less-than-perfect (to say the  least) lead characters. Loved hating the even more less-than-perfect villain who thought he was so much better than they were.

But now that we’re into Season 2, everyone’s total lack of comprehension of even the most basic ethical values of human behavior, combined with the way the characters’ limited intelligence seems to have slopped over onto the writers, creating an overall storyline that lacks the slightest bit of credibility or sense of even “TV reality” has finally gotten to be too much for me.

It’s with great sorrow that I say avoir to Jennifer Lopez, who is always so wonderful to look at, but saying good-bye is much better than her character probably would do to me. No, Shades isn’t giving me nightmares, but it has reminded me of my longtime aversion to being shot by beautiful women and then – no, I’ll stop here before I do get too spoilery.

NCIS:

Buh-bye Legion and Shades of Blue. Maybe your makers can take comfort in the fact that I’ve also decided to abandon my formerly favorite bad, bad, bad-but-so-what? TV series ever. That’s right, I’ve had it with NCIS at last, after 13 1/2 seasons, of which that last half feels, well, it feels like it’s been going on even longer than all thirteen years that preceded it combined.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs walking around smiling? WTF?

Larry Brody’s Poetry: ‘The Actor’s Wife’

by Larry Brody

NOTE FROM LB:

No Navajo Dog today, just good old-fashioned showbiz, circa 1990. The following soliloquy came from my head, but it’s made up of bits and pieces from all too many women I knew back in the day.

Actors’ wives! Not all that unlike doctors’ wives now that I think about it.

So it goes.


The Actor’s Wife

Happiness to me? A series for my husband,

A firm commitment, twenty-two on the air. I

Came from nothing, but now that we’re here

I’ve learned you’ve got to spend. Everything

Is appearances, which means a good house,

A good car, clothes to kill. That way, they

Think you’re successful, and they want you

In on the deal. My husband’s been acting

For fifteen years. He’s had the lead in two

Series and half a dozen feature films. A

Million dollars safely in the bank, although

That doesn’t give much interest. He wanted

To inspire kids the way the stars of his day

Inspired him. “See?” they seemed to say. “You

Can rise above your beginnings. You can be more

Than your parents and your neighbors believe.

Life can be good. It’s okay not to fit in.”

I didn’t fit in either, but I had no talent,

And no real looks before the surgery I’m

Not admitting I’ve had. So I had to latch onto

Someone who could take me away from

Restaurant hostessing, and executive fantasies.

Love? I love my husband, sure. When I see him

On the screen I get all wiggly inside. When the

Photographers close in on us at a premiere, and

I turn on my smile I can even pretend they’re

Interested in me. Some people really do like

Me too. For myself, I mean. There was that

Aging star at the benefit last night, couldn’t

Take his eyes off my breasts. And he’s seen a

Lot of them, believe me. I gave him that same

Photographers’ smile, and you should’ve seen

His grin. No, he didn’t talk to me. Didn’t need to.

We’d had all the communication we could

Without touching. All that was left was his hands

On me, mine on him, lips, tongues, and grinding.

And, to tell you the truth, that really isn’t my thing.

The men need it so much more than we, and

I’m content with the power the promise of it
Brings. If my husband was hornier,
We’d probably be doing much better,

Because he’d have to listen to me.

What did I want, when I was a kid? Not to be the

Consort, that’s for sure. Not to stand next to the

Star, and be cut out of the picture when it’s published.

I wanted to be famous. I wanted to show up at,

Say, a ballpark—Dodger Stadium, why not?

And have every eye turn to watch me. To hear my

Name whispered by fifty thousand lips, so they

Missed the batter’s home run.

My husband wanted to encourage, to give. Me,

I just wanted to get out. Sometimes I wonder why

We’re together. He gives me the house, and the

Fantasy that I’m no longer in real life. But what do

I give him? An illusion to sit beside? Or is it the

Way I mother, and make his failures all right?

If he had a series, I could respect him again,

But ’til then I’ve got my job. No, no, not one with a

Salary. I make friends with the wives

Of the power, so they’ll tell their husbands

What a good couple we are. Nobody buys an

Actor they—or their wives— don’t like.

Tonight’s Thanksgiving, and I’m real excited.

We’re going over to a producer’s house. Last

Year there was no reason to talk to him, but

Now he’s got a series on the air, and maybe

We can swing a guest shot.

It’ll be a nice family Thanksgiving, too bad we

Can’t bring the kids. Oh no, they’d mess up

everything. They’ve just plain gotten too wild.

I remember when I could be wild.

Do I ever wish I could be about something?

No, no, I don’t think so. Leave that for my husband.

Leave that for the fool with a dream.


Larry Brody is the head dood at TVWriter™. He is posting at least one poem a week here at TVWriter™ because, as the Navajo Dog herself once pointed out, “Art has to be free. If you create it for money, you lose your vision, and yourself.” She said it shorter, though, with just a snort.

Have You Seen this Trailer for ‘Duck Tails’ Return to TV?

Art from the upcoming DUCK TALES TV series

by Larry Brody

Phooey!

Donald Duck’s Uncle Scrooge McDuck has been one of my favorite comic book characters since, well, since I first saw him in a comic book when I was 5 or 6 years old. (What? You expected me to give you the year that was? No way.)

He was smart. He was flawed. He was, of course, rich. Most importantly, he was perfectly – yes, I said perfectly – drawn and written by Carl Barks, a true genius of comic art. And, fortunately for all concerned, especially fans of the fantastic everywhere, Barks’ comic book successors have kept the level of Uncle Scrooge’s adventures almost as high. Even today’s versions are beautiful enough to frame.

Art from current Uncle Scrooge comics by IDW

Because of the above, I was as excited as a kid myself when I heard that Duck Tales, a Disney TV series about the adventures of Scrooge, Donald, Huey, Dewey, and Louie, and the rest of the WD gang that I’d watched with my children was coming back.

I assumed that the reboot would be as good as the original and that I could share the new show with my youngest grandkids.

But, from the look of the new trail for the new show, I’m now assuming I’m in for a disappointment. Ain’t nothing here that’s even close to the glory that is the real Uncle Scrooge:

Did you watch? Am I right, or am I right?

Where’s the glory? Where’s the travel? The treasure? The glorious greed that made Scrooge…Scrooge?

Maybe I’ll be proven wrong when the show starts this summer. Maybe there will be something magical there. I sure hope so. But until then, all I can say, once more screwing my mouth up into a spit-soaked version of Donald Duck’s voice is “Phooey!”

Oh, mighty god of TV, why must thou promiseth us so much and then delivereth so…little?