Monthly Archives: July 2015

I don’t know what you’d call this: a music video idea, a film short, a daydream. What it is is:

The Seals have been opened, the plagues unleashed. All works of humanity lie in ruins; the bloody seas sit dry. The End is come.

Gabriel Archangel, having already blown the Last Trump and called up all the dead, tucks his instrument under his arm and announces

“Children of Earth, your Judgement awaits in the morn. Until then, as you will.”

Despite the sun and moon having toppled from the sky, night falls. This once and for all establishes that day and night are metaphysical conditions and not dependent on the earth’s rotation around a star, but at this point, no one really cares. Everyone who has ever lived is alive. They stare at each other, unsure at first what to say.

Children are innocent
Teenagers are fucked in the head
Adults are even more fucked up
And elderlies are like children

Those that died in the Tribulation are hugged by those that survived. Parents find children, spouses reunite, friends embrace each other. A constellation of campfires appears somehow, without need of lighting. People talk.

Will there be another race
To come along and take over for us?
Maybe Martians could do
Better than we’ve done

Odd as it might seem, no one dwells on the coming morning. Maybe there’s an unspoken consensus that there’s nothing to be done about it, or maybe there’s just too much past to discuss. “Why did we do that? Or that?” By the light of the last fires, much of what was one time deemed majestic now seems a bit silly.

We’ll make great pets
(we’ll make great pets)
We’ll make great pets
(we’ll make great pets!)

Secrets are admitted and scandals revealed. Nobody cares anymore. Anger flares, but soon fades. Since everyone knows that perfect justice is hours away, why argue? The truth will out soon enough. Better to enjoy the company while you can.

My friend says we’re like the dinosaurs
Only we are doing ourselves in
Much faster than they
Ever did

As the hours pass, the talk dwindles. Flank by flank, leaning on shoulders, the people watch the fire and simply are, next to each other, there at the end of all things.

We’ll make great pets
(we’ll make great pets)
We’ll make great pets,
(we’ll make great pets)

“It is just me, or is it brighter than it was a moment ago?”


With no sun, there is no dawn. Beat by beat, the sky lightens. The Children of Earth rise from their seats around the dying fires, brush off their tuchuses. Angels muster above them.

Last embraces, last kisses. “Good luck.” “You too.”

They stand next to each other, spontaneously linking hands. The sky is bright now, far brighter than any daylight. All that is old is passed away. The Children of Earth brace themselves for the revelation of justice and mercy.

We’ll make great pets,
(we’ll make great pets)

Today saw the recent MCU film “Ant Man” with J, who enjoyed it. I liked it, although the MCU has definitely settled into a formula. More to the point, it reminded me that I wrote a filk about Ant-Man a few years ago. This was the original Hank Pym AM, not the Scott Lang of the movie, and was set to the tune of the Beatles’ “Taxman.”


(Ultron-1, Ultron-2, Ultron-3, Ultron-4, Ultron-10, Ultron-12…)

Let me tell you how it will be
I’ll use some bugs as infantry

‘Cause I’m the Ant-Man
Yeah, I’m the Ant-Man

Should Dr Pym appear too small
As Giant-Man I’ll get real tall

But I’m the Ant-Man
Yeah, I’m the Ant-Man

If we fight with Doom, I’ll get some fleas
If we fight with Kang, I’ll get some bees
Loose bedbug swarms against Loki
I’m King of Entomology

‘Cause I’m the Ant-Man
Yeah, I’m the Ant-Man

Don’t scorn to put me in your plan
(Ah-ah, Captain Rogers!)
I’ll kick your ass with my wife Jan
(Ah-ah, Mister Stark!)

‘Cause I’m the Ant-Man
Yeah, I’m the Ant-Man

Now my advice for all my foes
You’d do well to defend your toes
‘Cause I’m the Ant-Man
Yeah, I’m the Ant-Man
And the ants swarm for no one but me


Years before I was born, Grandma T (that Grandma) would sometimes invite her parents, the Eissmans, up to our family lake cottages in New Hampshire. The lake and sky agreed with my great-grandfather Kurt, transporting him back to the days of his boyhood in Germany, when he was ein Jüngling mit lockigem Haar etc, and he announced:

“I am going to hunt mushrooms!”


Vociferously did everyone point out to Great-grandpa that the mushrooms of New Hampshire are not the mushrooms of Europe, and that it had been quite a while since he had engaged in this activity and perhaps his ability to distinguish between certain types would not be as keen as it had been. He ignored them, and spent the day blissfully tramping around the woods, recreating memories of youth.

Come dinnertime, there was Great-grandpa Kurt with a big plate of mushrooms in front of him.

“Would any of you like to try some?” he would say, offering the plate around. Everybody skooshed back like it was made of plutonium. So he ate all of them himself, savoring every last bite. The rest of the family could do nothing, but watch, and wait for him to die.

But he never did (well, not from the mushrooms). With a mortal risk, he got a tiny bit of his childhood back, across decades of time and an ocean of distance.

Every day, around the world, some thousands of people are experiencing the best day of their lives, the day that will define joy for them, the day on which the entire universe seems tilted in their favor. Simultaneously, some thousands of people are experiencing the worst day of their lives, the nadir of all horror and despair, the day on which they cannot cry out because no sound could express the wrongness.

These exist together. They don’t usually meet. Though it’s tempting to say the existence of either group nullifies the existence of the other, I think that’s the wrong direction in which to judge. They just are.

Yes, another Thin Man idea from years ago. This one’s a lot shorter, though. It’s a crossover.


“I never knew the old Vienna before the war with its Strauss music, its glamour and easy charm. I really got to know it in–why, as I live and breathe: Nick and Nora Charles!”

On a lonely railway platform in postwar Vienna, novelist Holly Martins encounters his old pals, the Charleses.

“What are you doing here?”

Nora: “We’re in town to see Herr Von Castorp, the famous dog trainer. He’s teaching Asta to play the zither.”

Holly: “Is that so?”

(Cut to Asta with zither. The dog plays the “Theme from ‘The Third Man‘”)

Holly asks Nick to find a missing friend of his, Harry Lime. Nick tries to beg off, but soon finds himself running through the bombed-out streets of the city and making lone, late-night visits to the sewers. Along with British policeman Major Calloway (who is not the grimly competent figure from the original picture, but a bumbling foil as cops tend to be in the Thin Man movies), Nick & Nora unravel a bizarre black market scheme and a feigned death, with Harry at the center of it.

Eventually Nick tracks Lime down to a compartment in the immense Ferris wheel that hangs over Vienna.

“Like the fella says, in Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love – they had 500 years of democracy and peace,–”

Nick silences Harry with a right to the jaw, knocking him out of the compartment.

“Sorry about that,” Nick says as he rubs his knuckles, “but you can only expect a man to listen to that tripe for so long.”

The last scene is a long, long shot of Nick, Nora & Asta jauntily walking down the street towards home.

(Idea behind Graveyard of Ideas is here)

The other day something reminded me of an idea which spontaneously
rose to mind many years ago, and has never really gone away. It’s a generational sequel to The Thin Man, both the novel by Dashiell Hammett and the subsequent film franchise starring William Powell and Myrna Loy. I would never actually write this because: it would be a great deal of work towards an uncertain goal (Who would ever publish this? How many people read Thin Man fanfic?) and a heavy load of research (I don’t particularly want to know how to write an accurate Joey Bishop voice). But I did think it was a neat idea, so here is the gravestone to:


Summer 1964. The Sixties are still a Playboy Age, not a Hippie Age, and tonight there is a black-tie party at the fabulous Playboy Mansion in swingin’ Chicago. A deluxe Cadillac pulls into the driveway and disgorges Nicholas Charalambides, heir & head of the Charles industrial conglomerate, and his elderly mother, Nora Charles, widow of the late Nick Sr (who died from cirrhosis of the liver in 1959).

Hef greets them in his bathrobe, pipe & Pepsi in his hands, and points them to the dining room. There they find themselves at a table with other nationally known figures: Young financier Robert Vesco, promising young auto exec John De Lorean, champion boxer Cassius Clay, Governor Nelson Rockefeller, Kennedy brother-in-law Peter Lawford, and up-and-coming young comedian & actor Bill Cosby.

Nick is not intimidated by the company. He is a hip, hip swinger. He reads Evergreen Review, he’s seen 8 ½, he knows Miles personally. His voice in the conversation is an authority, his wit a scalpel–

“Oh, Nicky, you say the funniest things,” says Nora.

“Nicholas, Mother. We agreed you would call me Nicholas,” he says out of the corner of his mouth.

“Nicky’s father used to say all sorts of clever things. But he’s gone now, gone, gone forever.”

There’s an awkward moment in the face of the widow’s grief. Cosby breaks it:

“So, Mr Charalambides, are you keeping up with the detectivising and the private-eyzivising, like your old man used to do?”

“No! My father was dogged to the end of his life by people who expected him to still be a detective, and I’ll be damned if I get roped into it. I’ve never solved a crime in my life, and I want to keep it that way.”

A silver-skinned, auburn-haired bunny brings the entrees. Nick notes the ease with which she carries dinner for eight, despite her slender and toned frame.

“What’s your name, baby?” Lawford asks.

“Trixie, Mr Lawford.”

Lawford slips a hand into the back end of her Bunny uniform and squeezes her butt. “Soft as a cushion,” he says.

She glances significantly at his crotch and says “Looks like we have something in common.”

Nick stifles a guffaw. Lawford yanks his hand back and gulps his whiskey. Trixie completes her delivery of the coq au vin and goes back for more drinks.

“I should complain to Hef about her,” Cosby says. “I don’t like it when the girls get smart mouths like that. They should be easygoing and adaptable, like my wife, Camille.”

“It was excellent service, Bill,” says Nora. “Peter wanted to feel an ass, and she obliged.”

It seems to Nick that his mother’s statement could be taken several ways, but he doesn’t say anything.

Nora dominates the conversation as they eat. “I miss Asta, too. You never saw a more loyal dog, and so protective! Why, once he thought Nicky was threatening me with his prize air rifle, and he went and chewed the thing to bits!”

“I hated that dog,” Nick snarls under his breath.

“But we never quite got him housebroken, and the cost of replacing those rugs–”

A scream erupts nearby. Nick is on his feet in an instant, running towards the trouble. By Hef’s table, a body sprawls. Hef, frantic, calls for one of the many doctors in the house, who confirms the worst: Rat Pack funnyman Joey Bishop has rattled off his last one-liner.

Nick grabs Bishop’s drained martini glass and sniffs. Behind the pungent smell of gin, he can detect hints of bitter almonds, the odor his dad taught him meant…

“Cyanide,” Nick says. “Somebody dosed the drink.”

Hef seizes the situation. “Folks, I’m going to have to ask everyone not to leave until we get this sorted out.” He pulls Nick aside. “Nick, I need your help. I can’t call the police yet.”

“Why not?”

“Many of the guests have…uh…” Hef mimes someone taking a long drag off a thin cigarette.

Ah, the dread weed marihuana. “Well, what do you want me to do about it?”

“You’ve got some experience with this kind of thing. Can’t you figure out who did it? If we can present the police with a murderer, they won’t have to search everybody.”

“That was my father, not me. I’ve never–”

“Please, Nick.”

Nick surveys the room. Were the cops let loose on the star power present, no gossip columnist in the country would have to do real work for the next year. Friends of his, many of them.

“All right. Let me ask around.”

“Thank you, Nick! Is there anything you need?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Nick turns around to find Trixie, the Bunny waitress, standing behind him.

“Hey, Trixie. Can you do me a favor?”

She leans forward, pressing her the front of her bunny costume firmly against his shoulder. “What did you have in mind, Mr Charlambides?”

“I have to ask some people a few questions. Can you watch my mother? Keep her out of my hair?”

Trixie straightens back up and readjusts her bunny costume. “The dame with the pearls? Sure, it’ll be a hoot.”

Nick starts asking people quite a few questions, except Trixie can’t keep Nora away at all, and pretty soon she isn’t even trying, so both of them are tagging along while he tries to figure out what the hell happened. Which turns out to be a real plus, because Trixie knows an awful lot about the Mansion’s regulars. They treat the Bunnys like furniture, she says, and don’t seem to notice a few in the room—so they don’t censor themselves when they talk.

Nick & Trixie find themselves in some dark corners of the place, following some unsavory people. On one occasion, they’re about to be caught—until Trixie grabs Nick and crams his mouth against hers. Seeing what seems like just a couple in a normal Playboy-style tete-a-tete, the person they’re following moves on. They break the embrace, stare at each other for a moment.

“Nicky! Nelson Rockefeller told me the most amazing—am I interrupting something?”

“Um, no, Mother. What did you find?”

After sifting through rumor, accusation, and hearsay, the murder seems to be the work of Governor Rockefeller, Hef himself, or Frank Sinatra. None of the possibilities quite fit. Some turn out to be red herrings. Finally Nick gets a lead that something might be down in the Grotto (thus requiring a macabre, dangerous trip into a dark area, a standard of these movies). He tells the women to stay behind, but they refuse.

Down into the grotto Nick descends, a flashlight in one hand, a bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild held by the neck in the other. Nora & Trixie are right behind him. Eerie shadows play around the vault.

A figure rises up from the dark, coming at them, brandishing above his head…

…a guitar?

It’s Shel Silverstein.

“What are you doing here?” Nick demands.

“I was scared,” Shel whimpers. “I came here down here to write a little song about being scared, for kids to sing.”

Under close interrogation, Shel remembers a crucial fact, something no one else noticed at dinner. Nick tells Hef to gather all the guests and staff together in the dining room.

In front of the crowd, Nick pieces together the crime, step-by-step, eliminating the other suspects until the only possible murderer is: BILL COSBY! Yes! In the Thin Man movies, it’s always the most innocent, harmless-seeming character who turns out be THE EVILEST GUY IN THE ROOM. (As exemplified in Jimmy Stewart’s memorable freakout in “After the Thin Man”)

Cosby whips out a hidden pistol. “Yeah, he had to die! He knew too much! About me, and the ladies and the girlies and the oh-so-sweeties! He was gonna talk, and ruin my career, and my marriage to my wife, Camille!”

A horrified silence reigns as Cosby whips the pistol back and forth in a rage.

Nora says “Oh, Nicky! You solved the mystery. Your father would be so proud!” She begins to weep copiously. “But he’s not here! He’s GONE! GONE FOREVER! HE’LL NEVER BE BACK! NEVER! NEVER! NEVER!”

“Shut up! Somebody shut her up!” shouts Cosby.

Nora swoons into the crowd. In all the mishegos, Cosby never sees Trixie emerging from a bank of potted palms behind him.

BAM! A empty magnum of Chateau Lafite Rothschild shatters over Cosby’s head. He slumps to the floor.

“Neat work, Trixie,” says Nora, recovering from her fake swoon.

“Thanks, Mrs Charles,” says Trixie.

Cosby is hauled away shouting that he did nothing wrong. Hef thanks Nick for his help. Nora kisses her son’s cheek and whispers that his father really would be proud, then leaves with Governor Rockefeller.

Nick and Trixie end up on a veranda, watching the sun come up over Lake Michigan in the distance.

“Can I ask a question?” she says.

“Sure, baby.”

“What was with that big production in the dining room? Why didn’t you just get Hef’s security to tackle Cosby when he was alone?”

Nick smiles. “That was my father’s advice. ‘Junior, always leave ’em with a big finish,’ he used to say.” He leans over the rail toward the rising sun. “My dad taught me that. He taught me to always look very closely at things. He taught me to keep my eye on the mousey guy.”

Suddenly it’s like he’s not there anymore, like he’s seeing something beyond the horizon.

“He taught me how to die. We were at the hospital. He was asleep. It was only Mother and I in the room. All of a sudden, he sat bolt upright and looked at her and said ‘Goodbye, sugar.’ Then he was gone.”

He shakes his head a bit, comes back to the place and time.

“That wasn’t very hip, was it?”

“No,” Trixie says, a note of amused sympathy in her voice.

He thinks for a moment, finally says:

“Say, why don’t we go get hitched? The JP in the next county owes me a favor. We could wake him up.”

“That isn’t every hip either. There’s easier ways to get a girl into bed around here than that, you know.”

“I’m serious. I think we could have some laughs.”

She searches his face, trying to see if it’s a joke. Then:

“All right.”

He fetches the big red Cadillac, opens the passenger door for her.

“In you go, sugar.”

“Why, thank you, Nicky.”


Her laugh follows the car down the long driveway, into the new Chicago day.

From certain upper vantage points in Boston’s Museum of Science, you get an excellent view of the Back Bay skyline. One time I was up there, surveying the towers, and it hit me: money is blood for buildings.

Every office in all those vast assemblages of square footage needs an occupant. If unoccupied, they start to go to seed; if a building starts to lose tenants, it loses the ability to attract tenants. Money is blood. Every office in every skyscraper needs a supply of money to support it, just as every part of every body needs a stream of blood to sustain it. An office without that lifegiving stream starts to rot. If enough buildings rot, the town starts to rot. I’ve seen rotting towns. They’re not pretty.

But for now at least, Back Bay in Boston has all the life-giving money it needs. Somehow.

The sage, states both religion & philosophy, disdains worldly pleasures and honors.

But is it that the sage, having proven they can attain worldly pleasures and honors, is disdaining them? Or is it that the sage is really a schmuck turning up their nose at what they could never have in the first place?

I love Marcus Aurelius, really I do. But it’s easy to talk about how the emperor and the beggar arrive at the same end when you’re the one who gets to be emperor.

People think too much of ideas. The archetypal question to an author is “Where do you get your ideas?”, but writers learn early on that ideas are easy, it’s execution that’s hard. Truth is, most writers I know get constant streams of ideas, so many that the real trick is, while trying to make something of Idea A, getting Ideas B-Z to shut the hell up.

So, like most writers, I have mental filing cabinets full of old, never-used ideas, stuffed so full that drawers won’t close, mouldering manila folders springing out in all directions. I’d like to use this blog as an opportunity to get out some of those ideas, in order to make peace with the fact that they’re never going to be used, and to be a memorial of sorts to those poor story hooks whose time never came and now never will.

“The Graveyard of Ideas” shall be the header.