Good afternoon, everyone.  I guess.  Who gives a shit, really?  If it sounds like I'm depressed, I am.  It's almost Labor Day and the office is a ghost town.  It's just me and Tomoko and we're doing Kamikaze shots.  I'll tell you why I'm depressed in just a minute.  First, as f'ing usual, I have to apologize for last week's remarks.  Like a mother-f'ing pussy.
 
I got calls from former Mannix and Carter Country staff writers, who apparently are still alive.  I also received vitriolic e-mails from them.  In the hopes of not receiving any more, I hereby retract my description of them as "hacks".  I sincerely apologize to TV viewers 55 and older for calling them "less than desirable" (my mom's entire trailer park shut down my voice mailbox).  My apologies go out to ABC, CBS, Disney, Fox, NBC Universal, Sony, and Warner Bros., all of whom vociferously admonished me for referring to them as "age-ist sons-of-bitches".  Rah-rah old writers.  Woo-hoo.  You f'ing win.
 
I've been in a funk since hearing the news that Kara DioGuardi would be added as a fourth judge on American Idol.  My concern is twofold: from a financial standpoint and on a personal level.  First of all, it's no secret that the Idol juggernaut has been destroying the competition on Tuesday nights.  Now they want to "young-ify" the show to increase their already monumental ratings.  The word is they seek a 20% increase in their market share.  If that transpires, it will virtually sound the death knell for MBS' Jesus, Mary and Joseph, which is already hanging by a thread with its 1.5 average rating.  The Wednesday night edition of Idol is also kicking the ass of MBS' Corporate Veal, which at least pulls a 60 share among viewers employed in the Macro-robotics industry.
 
Secondly... ok, deep breath here... c'mon, Kurt get it together... alright.  Kara and I used to be roommates/lovers.  (Wait, I have to do another Kamikaze... Tomoko's bringing it over now... yeah, that's good...)  We met while taking classes at a Hollywood songwriting academy in 1991.  I had an apartment, was low on cash and was looking for someone to share the rent, but it was just a one bedroom with a bunk bed.  Kara thought it would be fun, so she moved in.  We'd stay up late drinking wine coolers, then crawl into our respective bunk beds, where I would regale her with poignant stories from my youth.  About lost love, April rain and emotional black holes.  These stories touched her deeply.  So much so that one night she climbed down from the top bunk and threw herself at me.  We enjoyed unprecedented passion.  Over the next six weeks, she wrote 243 songs based on the things I told her.  She'd sing them to me like an angel.  We'd hold each other and weep, pledging to stay together forever.
 
Then one day she told me she'd run out of ideas for her songs.  I tried desperately to come up with more stories from my past, even fabricating a few.  But she saw through the artifice.  That night, as I lay in the bottom bunk, I could hear her in the bunk above, boning some guy who had the saddest f'ing love stories I'd ever heard.  I had to wrap the pillow tightly around my head.  Worst night of my life.  He didn't seem so sad the next morning when I was making them breakfast.  As a matter of fact, when Kara left the room, he winked at me, grinned and said, "Oh yeah, baby..."  Then he strutted out of the kitchen, stroking his crotch.
 
Thanks to Kara, I can't listen to pop radio.  I'd have a nervous breakdown.  No Jonas Brothers, no Ashley Tisdale, no Bo Bice, no Nick Lachey.  All of whom sing about the pain that I literally experienced.  Now I'm going to have to disconnect my TV, because every Tuesday night I would know she's there, she's right there.  On Fox.  Killing me softly.
 
Whoa, the Kamikazes have really kicked in.  Shit, Tomoko's gone.  I may need someone to drive me home.  Is Lloyd Grohl still on the lot?  Maybe he could drop me off in Van Nuys on his way to Bel Air...
 
Oh, nobody's f'ing here!  F you all!  F Paula and Randy and that gay limey judge!
 
But Kara, come back to me.... please... I'll give you more of my pain....

Huzzah, my wild blogs.  This week, it has been relegated to me to report to you some disturbing news:  A legal settlement agreement has just been reached between Manka Bros. Studios and TV writers age 40 and older in the age discrimination class action lawsuit filed in 2000 by the writers.  As the kids say these days, this news is hot off the presses.
 
The amount the defendants agreed to compensate old-timey writers: $4.5 million!  To hacks who used to write for Mannix and Carter Country!  According to the consent decree filed today, the settlement talks began in November 2007 after both parties reviewed and evaluated demographic data including television writer employment by age, earnings, and studio representation during the liability period.  And get this:  Manka Bros. must now provide training on a biannual basis to recognize and prevent age discrimination to all its personnel involved in screening potential TV writer clients.  We even have to take attendance at each training session!  Like traffic school!
 
The settled case, Edwards, et al v. Manka Bros. Studios, Inc. alleged that the more than 150 named plaintiffs and others like them - television writers who were aged 40 and older after October 22, 1996 - were victims of systematic age discrimination by Manka Bros. TV executives, who allegedly passed around blacklists, or "geezer meters", featuring the names of 63 writers whose "fucking endless stories about the good old days of TV would bring us the fuck down, so don't fucking hire them!"  The existence of this document clearly damaged our case.  Didn't shredders exist in the late 90s?
 
Everyone I've spoken with here at the studio is hopping mad about the settlement.  Most say we should have gone to trial and "mopped the floors with these typewriter-using, Metamucil-taking, bald-but-with-mullet headed bastards."  Now they need to represent 25% of our writing staffs!  Most feel that this will bring the quality of our primetime programming way down, and cause our viewer demographics to shift to the less-than-desirable 55+ age bracket.
 
Conor Teegan, age 24, staff writer on the upcoming MBS medical examiner drama, Severed Fingers, went on record as saying, "Old dudes can't write for our show.  They don't know dick about the latest in forensic technology.  They'd never be able to capture the essence of the blossoming love relationship between Dr. Patience Gordon and Vander Quince.  Would they use the word 'Yo' in their dialogue?  Or have one of the characters say, 'I'm down with that"?  No.  They'd write shit that Stephanie Powers might say.  Or Susan Saint James.  We'd be laughed off Sunday nights at 10!"
 
I spoke briefly with Scott Finkleberg, age 33, Executive Producer for MBS' sitcom Five Kids, Five Dads & One Mom, who had this to say:  "Writers over 40 just don't know funny.  They've lived too much life.  All the ones I've encountered are bitter pricks.  Our show needs writers who can make husbands funny, make kids funny, make dogs funny.  Old people don't remember those things.  Only young, white, Jewish males are truly tapped in to that sensibility."
 
A Key Grip on the reality show, Forensics, said this on the condition of anonymity:  "We've got nothing but hot babes running around our set.  We are constantly having sex with hot babes.  If old guys are gonna be hangin' around, we might all get less tail.  I see a significant decrease in chick banging."
 
Well, bottom line is, when it comes right down to the end of the day, we could be entering dark times for young, enthusiastic, fresh-from-cinema-school sparkplugs who, for my money, make this industry what it is.  Young writers write words that young viewers want to hear.  And that's music to the sponsors' ears.  Ask any one of them:  All young people really want to do these days is watch broadcast TV!  If I am asked to attend one of these "training sessions", I will boycott it.  I swear to Christ.  I'll call in sick, or lock myself in the Senior Exec washroom, or chain myself to Tomoko's desk.  I shall overcome.
 
ABC, CBS, Disney, Fox, NBC Universal, Sony, and Warner Bros. face pending class action suits.  I say, Fight on, you noble, ageist sons-of-bitches!

Salutations, Blog-heads.  First off, after I received a summons informing me I was being sued by "Space Chimps" director Kirk DeMicco for defamation of character, the legal department here at Manka Bros. advised me to address the misstatements I made in last week's entry.  Upon further investigation, I have discovered that my old girlfriend Tangie actually left me for a guy named Kirk DeMucci, a stage manager for the 1998 production of "Camelot" at the La Mirada Civic Light Opera.  She's now a lesbian living in Prague.  Kirk DeMicco is unmarried and there is every indication that "Space Chimps" is his own, original intellectual property.  My apologies go out to him, his family and the creative team behind the film.  Tomoko and I have dropped our plagiarism lawsuit.
 
Receiving a summons from a process server got me thinking about my own mortality.  What's the meaning of life?  Why are we here?  Why wasn't "ER's" final season six seasons ago?  And when I read about all the untimely celebrity deaths last week, I got very contemplative.  After industry legend Bernie Brillstein passed, then Bernie Mac died of pneumonia, the questions that came to my mind were, "Who's killing all the Bernies?" and "Are other celebrities named Bernie scared out of their minds?" 

So Monday morning I got on the horn and contacted every famous person named Bernie I could find (fortunately, I have access to Manka's database of private celebrity phone numbers).  And just this morning, I had a round table discussion with "The Love Boat's" Bernie Kopell, Grammy Award-winning lyricist Bernie Taupin, and former Yankee center-fielder Bernie Williams.  We met at the Hillcrest Country Club, and the following is a transcript of our discussion: 

KURT BARNET:  Thank you all for meeting me here on such short notice.  I'm sure there are lots of other things you could be doing.
 
BERNIE KOPELL:  Not really
 
BERNIE TAUPIN:  Me neither.
 
BERNIE WILLIAMS:  Not a whole lot going on with me.
 
KB:  So, it's been a rough week for Bernies.
 
BK:  I'll say.
 
KB:  When you see two prominent Bernies die within days of each other, what goes through a Bernie's mind?
 
BK:  Well, utter fear and abject terror.  I'm no spring chicken!  By the way, spring chickens don't have much of a life expectancy, what with all the nuggets kids eat these days.  My grandkids have got nuggets comin' out of their asses!  But, yeah, I was trembling with fear.  I could be the next to go...
 

BT:  I awoke in the morning with ambivalence, riddled with trepidation, like a bird who'd lost its way.  There's a path we travel called innocence, scarred by hesitation, like a word we cannot say...
 
KB:  Which means...
 
BT:  Someone saved my life tonight.

KB:  Who?

BT:  Sugar bear.

KB:  What about you, Bernie?
 
BW:  I was at a Baseball Card Convention in Tulsa when I heard Bernie Brillstein died.  My immediate thought was, "The guy who executive produced the Garry Shandling movie, 'What Planet Are You From?' is dead?  Man, I loved that movie!  I hit 30 home runs the year it came out."  So his death hit me hard.

BK:  I'll tell ya, after I heard about Bernie Mac, I got right on the phone and called my dear friend, Bernie Casey.  Poor guy was hiding in his poolhouse, half out of his wits.
 
KB:  I heard Isaac Hayes' nickname was Bernie.
 
BK:  Oooo... spooky...
 
BW:  I ran into Bernie from "Biggest Loser 5" at the airport.  He's put a lot of the weight back on.  I think he's the next to go.
 
BT:  Get this, I e-mailed Vermont Senator Bernie Sanders, whom I had met at a fundraiser last year, telling him to watch his back, that the grim reaper was on his tail.  Later in the day, the FBI showed up at my ranch.  Talk about seeing your life flash before your eyes.
 
BK:  (affecting German accent)  Ze Nazis showed up on dein porch?!  Du stumm songschreiber!!

KB:  But it's times like these that give you pause, you know, make you ponder.  Will you guys now be changing the way you approach your lives?

BW:  Well, I'm gonna go out there every day and give it 200%.  You drop the ball, don't worry, your friends will pick you up.  Life is 50% mental, and 50% physical, and 50% mental.  Just gotta step up to the plate.

BT:  I think I'll stop riding my horses, because it's only a matter of time before one of them Christopher Reeves me.  I think lyric-writing is giving me bone cancer, so perhaps I'll stop that as well.  All that really remains is to divorce and marry again.  It's what keeps me vital.
 
BK:  Well, I should probably stop playing so much racketball with Gavin McLeod.  That son-of-a-bitch cheats anyway.  Cut back on the corned beef.  No more guest starring on those fucking Zack and Cody shows, damnit.  (saluting, smiling)  That's what the ship's doctor orders!
 
KB:  Aye, aye, doc!  (we all laugh)  Thank you so much for meeting me today, guys.
 
BW:  Hey, Kurt.  What movie studio you work for again?
 
KB:  Manka Brothers.
 
BW:  Oh.  What movies you guys put out?
 
KB:  You see Spinners?
 
BW:  Uh-uh.
 
KB:  How about the Magpies movies?
 
BW:  Nope.
 
KB:  You need to get out more.
 
BW:  Can you get me that Garry Shandling movie on DVD?
 
KB:  I don't think so.  Thanks Bernies!

This week has been mind-bloggering!  I've been ripped off!  Ripped off, I tell you!  (More on that in a bit). 

First, I'd like to thank our temp Tomoko for rescuing me from my office after last week's earthquake toppled beams and left me trapped, screaming for help.  Tomoko is only 4'8" and 86 pounds, but she's Yao Ming to me!

Second, my gratitude to Carl Yang for taking over the blog last week, reporting his Comic-Con exploits very colorfully.  As a matter of fact, hats off to all the Asians on my floor.  Domo aregato, Mr. Roboto, you industrious sons of bitches!
 
This week's focus:  Theatrical Box Office Anomalies.  I had breakfast Monday with my counterparts Dustin Edwards from Disney and Jay Kaplan from Fox, and judging from their mass consumption of Bloody Mary's, their weekend cumes were clearly not through the roof.  We all found it ironic that Starz/Fox's "Space Chimps" may end up grossing more than Disney's "Swing Vote" and Fox's "X-Files: I Want to Believe" combined.  Combined!  Apparently, Americans hate Kevin Costner, have had enough of Kelsey Grammer and his heart, equate Nathan Lane with gay marriage, and are sick of presidential cam-PAINS, paranormal activity and Amanda Peet.  But monkeys in space?  Bring it on!  Not that "Chimps" is a blockbuster; we just found it curious that an innocuous monkey movie with virtually no marketing is outpacing star-driven vehicles with brand recognition.  But the presence of this film in the marketplace has a personal resonance for me, and after doing some research, I'm hopping mad!
 
As many of you know, I was once an aspiring screenwriter, and one of my unproduced screenplays from the 90s is called "Apollo: Primates!"  It won honorable mention in the 1998 ASPCA International Screenplay competition.  It chronicles a group of ragtag, flight-obsessed monkeys who soar toward the stratosphere in a cardboard box attached to helium balloons.  A team of resourceful orangutans on the ground do everything they can to save the chimps before they disintegrate. 

Back when I wrote this, I was living with a woman named Tangie (Angie with a T).  Tangie was a nurse with a foot fetish who worked for a podiatrist.  She had pale skin, flat, long red hair that covered one side of her face, and she dressed like a shopgirl from the Depression.  I would crack jokes and she would just stare at me, eyes at half-mast, slowly chewing gum.  I thought she hated me, but in bed she would completely devour my feet.  I mean, just gorge on them like a lost hiker on a chicken leg.  And loudly growl while she was doing it.  The growl became a howl.  The neighbors would pound on the walls, and more than once they called the cops on us.  It was a wild time.
 
Tangie read my "Primates" script and suggested I focus more on the monkeys' feet, gripping the cardboard box for dear life.  When I told her monkeys don't have feet, they actually have four hands, she turned ashen (if such a thing was possible) and locked herself in the bathroom, weeping, breaking glass objects in the tub, and shouting, "No, no, no, no, no...."  After that, our relationship was on thin ice.  When I got a raging case of athletes foot from the contra-dance class I was taking, she wouldn't come anywhere near me.  One day, she left me a letter saying she was moving in with a guy named Kirk who was writing the animated film "Quest for Camelot".  Apparently he didn't contra-dance and his feet were pristine.
 
Fade out, fade in.  2008.  I check the credits for "Space Chimps", and who wrote and directed it?  A guy named Kirk.  Kirk DeMicco.  ALSO the writer on "Quest for Fricking Camelot"!!!!  Clearly, Tangie told him my story and it stuck with him all these years.  Come to find out, Tangie is now Tangie DeMicco, and she's all miss Pacific Palisades.  Apparently, you can even see the other side of her face!
 
Well, don't think that Mr. Kurt Barnet is going to take this lying down.  Why, it's plagiarism, libelism... any kind of "ism" you can get your hands on.  I knew America was ready for monkeys in space before Starz/Fox did!  If Manka Bros. Films was smart, they would snap up the rights to "Apollo: Primates!" while the monkey-getting is good.  I see "Apollo Primates 2: Mars Mission!"  It's lucrative, I tell ya!
 
I've decided my lawyer in the plagiarism suit will be... Tomoko the temp.  If she can move a 200 pound beam, she can kick Kirk DeMicco's thieving ass.  I'll keep you all posted...
 

Hello out there.  My name is Carl Yang, Junior VP in the Foreign Acquisitions department here at Manka Bros.  Kurt asked me to write this week's blog, as he is too shaken up by the earthquake that struck the studio today and severely damaged his office. 

FYI - I was told that our Chino Hills-based archive facility sustained serious damage as well.  As you know, we no longer have possession of the negatives for most of our classic films.  The best copies we have are on VHS and Beta tapes stored in the Chino Hills shed.  Stu Mitchell, who runs security out there, reports that a pipe burst during the quake and most of the tapes are now smashed and submersed in water.  Stu was doing his best to piece together a VHS copy of 1940's Dr. Tindor's Amazing Bloont Of Fazur.  I'll update you as more information comes in.
 
Kurt thought it would be great for me to blog about my experiences this past weekend at Comic-Con.  Andrew Moulder from Mankanimation, Brian Spencer from MB Talent Relations and myself hitched a ride to San Diego aboard Hailstorm Entertainment's "Frostman Van", designed to promote their upcoming superhero TV show "Frostman".  The van was painted to look like an igloo, they served Arctic Margaritas and showed us a preview of the pilot.  Andrew decided to dress as the Manka Bros. animated character Pocket Hercules, which seemed like a foolish choice given the ice-cold conditions in the van.  I've never seen a man's nipples so erect.
 
In Hall H at the Convention Center, we set up the Manka Bros. booth.  Andrew was assigned the task of testing the waters to see if there was fan interest in a Pocket Hercules feature; Brian coordinated a signing area featuring two supporting actors from "Magpies and the Pervasive Evil"; and it was my job to sell territory rights to our recent acquisition of the Hungarian vampire TV series, "Fangs for the Mammaries".  We were thrilled at opening on Friday when conventiongoers swarmed our booth, then disappointed when they all realized we were Manka and not Manga.  Throughout the weekend, I'd say we gave 800 people directions to the Manga booth.
 
Highlights:  Actor Bill Nighy stopped by and told us he was a big fan of the animated teen rock music playing cartoon characters from "Super Draculas".  He said that he and his stage cronies used to get high and watch the show.  Then he wandered off mumbling.
 
A hot chick dressed as Wonder Woman agreed to sit on my lap for 20 minutes.  While she was there, I sold "Fangs" to Egypt, Nairobi and Argentina.
 
Right in front of our booth, Robert Rodriguez and Kevin Smith had a shouting match over which of them was less talented.
 
After our two Magpie actors bailed due to no one knowing who they were, Brian got drunk and threw up on Jabba-the Hut.  Fortunately, no one could see the vomit on the Jabba-the-Hut costume.
 
During a panel on "The Wolf Man", Rick Baker was asked (by Andrew, still in his P.H. regalia) if the special effects would be as good as those employed in the latest "Magpies" movie.  "I've seen advanced footage from 'Pervasive Evil'," he replied.  "There is no comparison."
 
An elderly man came by the booth claiming to be the creator of the 1924 Manka Bros. cartoon character Ollie Ostrich.  He said Manka changed it to Orange Ostrich when color came in, but he didn't authorize that change.  Nor has he been paid a nickel since the '30s.  I told him I don't think we did anything with that character after 1937.  After he threatened legal action, Brian chased him and his nurse away, saying something about "statute of limitations, old man".
 
Results for Manka Bros.:  Andrew came to the conclusion that a Pocket Hercules movie might not be "fiscally wise".  Brian is really good at forging actors autographs on 8x10s.  And since the Egyptian production company that bought "Fangs" signed an iron-clad contract featuring the phrase "maintaining content integrity", Egyptian TV is going to broadcast their very first shots of female cleavage.
 
Quake update:  Stu says "Bloont of Fazur" is a goner, but he might be able to save Sweet Tooth Clifford On The S.S. Ho Ho Ho.

Happy post-Bastille Day!  Sorry it took so long for me to post, but I had writer's blog.  (That joke makes me laugh soooo much).  Actually, it took me this long to digest the experiences I've had for the last 7 days.  I am a transformed man.
 
As I mentioned in my entry from 7/1/08, last week I attended the annual Entertainment Industry Profits & Participations Conference in Virginia City, Montana, home of the Huckleberry Buffalo Meat Pie.  P&P Junior Execs from the U.S. and Winnipeg, Canada gathered for a weeklong dissection of the financial aspects of our industry.  Each night, I made some notes in my journal and I'd like to share them with you now:
 
Day One.  Historic Fairweather Hotel is abuzz with numbers crunchers from all over the country.  Very exciting.  I meet Dave Halliwell from Pantene Productions in Des Moines.  They produce short films and hair care products.  Like Dave very much.  Makes Michael Jackson joke that puts me on floor.  Hoping he'll be my best buddy here.  Go to Community Center for conference.  Keynote speaker is Steve Guttenberg.  Tells us he hasn't seen any backend on TV movie "Meet the Santas" and wonders if we can do anything about that.  Dave produces flask of Malibu Rum and we sneak out.  We hike up Cornucopia and drop large rocks down closed mineshaft.  Cannot hear them hit bottom.  Freaks us out.  I pass out in my twin bed at the Fairweather.  Hear dead Road Agent moaning all night.
 
Day Two.  Attend breakfast panel called "Huge Profits from Internet Streaming", discussing the challenge of concealing massive online revenue from creative teams behind movies & TV shows.  Panelists include Yair Landau from Sony Digital, Martha Wheelock from Ishtar Films, Puck from "Real World" season three, Warren Christopher and Eva Marie Saint.  I go to bathroom.  When I return, Dave has placed whoopee cushion on my chair.  We laugh like little girls.  Get kicked out.  Get hammered on Huckleberry Beer at Pioneer Bar.  Meet cast members from Virginia City Players.  They demand we come see them perform their one-hour rendition of "The Decalogue" followed by old-timey skits.  When they begin to sing Jerry Herman songs, we slink out and take Ghost Walk tour.  Learn about how Road Agents were hanged by "Vigilantes" in 1860's.  In Hangman's Building, feel hand on shoulder.  Look to see no one there.  Pee pants.  Try to call therapist, but no cell reception.  Cower all night in corner of hotel room.
 
Day Three.  Hungover.  Have breakfast at V.C. Cafe with Alli Grover from Random Lake Productions.  She demands I buy glittery ring for her from vintage jewelry shop next door.  I do so.  Feel emasculated, yet empowered.  She sips Bloody Mary and stares at ring, wide-eyed, chanting "Little girl in white dress", freaking me out.  Yet I am bewitched by her.  Dave and I attend panel, "Minimizing Profits: How to Lose Your Shirt While Painting Rosey Picture for Investors".  Producer from "Speed Racer" weeps openly on dais.  Christopher Cross closes with theme from "Arthur".  Dave and I grab Alli and take road trip to Butte.  We go to "Berkeley Pit", most contaminated body of water on planet.  Dave vomits for 20 minutes straight.  We watch in horror as flock of doves lands on surface and disintegrates.  On road back, we swerve to avoid deer, crash into tree and spend night unconscious in Subaru Legacy.
 
Day Four.  Andy Dick moderates panel called "Queer Cinema: Saving the Specialty Divisions".  Andy suddenly licks Harvey Weinstein's face, they fight, a mass brawl ensues.  Junior Execs versus Analysts.  Ruth Vitale puts Todd Solondz in a headlock, pummeling his face.

Dave and I escape, heading over to see show at Brewery Follies.  Sit in front row, get loaded on Gilbert beer.  Performer named Mike, dressed as woman singing "Bitch is Back", straddles me with legs, sticks crotch on my face.  Audience howls.  I am traumatized.  "Carlos of Love" makes eyes at me.  Day has become way too gay.  Later at Pioneer, Alli agrees to hold me and stroke my hair.  Her ring gets stuck.  We are forced to cut it out.  Now have chunk of hair missing.  Local Indian man drives us out to Ruby Dam, takes us on Spirit Quest.  We drop peyote and stare at stars.  Image of Mae Questal appears to me.  She implores me to find good woman and settle down.  She tells me I'm too skinny and to eat more corned beef.  She morphs into most beautiful shooting star I've ever seen.  I am irrevocably altered.
 
Day Five.  Closing day speaker, Steve Guttenberg.  Huckleberry cheese rots on table.  Weinstein throws cell phone through antique window.  Bear hug Dave.  Mets have won nine straight.  I smile as van takes me to airport.  Then stench from Mike's crotch returns.  I grimace.

Happy July, my Blog-a-holics.  I'll be honest with you - it's been a difficult week for me.  I was informed by our HR department here at Manka Bros. that I was in violation of our ethics policy due to my night job as a stripper at Beefcakes in Panorama City.  As a result, I was forced sever ties with the club or lose my position as Junior V.P. in Profits and Participations.  Most unfortunate because I had grown addicted to the joy of disrobing in front of trailer park latinas and expressing myself artistically.  Today, I am but a child whose toy choo choo has been unceremoniously torn from his clutches.  But I perservere.
 

Friday night, I was asked by my superiors to check out an opening night showing of the Pixar film "Wall-E" and take notes about the demographic in attendance.  It was a fascinating experiment.  Despite its G rating, there were mostly adults standing in line with me.  In fact, 70% appeared to be 25 or older.  The people I interviewed said they would see anything Pixar released, even if the characters were talking office products.  They were tired of "Love Guru" and "Zohan" dick and fart jokes and were craving a romance between two synthetic organisms.  Scanning the crowd, I was surprised to see my neighbor Carina emerging from a Chipotle restaurant.  I hadn't seen her since I took her to Cannes and she ran off with Gael Garcia Bernal.  She ran up and gave me a big hug and apologized for the way we left things, saying that Gael turned out to be some OCD freak who would often curl up in the corner of a room and cry for hours on end.  Amazing lover with an enormous penis who made her come more than any other man, but a real nutjob.  I asked her if she wanted to see the movie with me and she accepted.
 
On the way into the theater, we hardly said a word to each other.  No words were necessary.  She and I had something sweetly telepathic going on.  Almost otherwordly.  We both stared in awe as Wall-E and Eve romantically glided through outer space together, leaving a trail of stardust.  Carina turned to me and said, "Awwwwwww...."  When they finally held hands, I reached out and took Carina's hand.  She quickly pulled away, dumping her nachos on my head before sprinting out of the auditorium.  Which I believe in her native Nicaragua is a symbol of growing affection for the opposite sex.  On my way out, I saw her tonguing the popcorn guy, but I think I have her right where I want her.
 
"Wall-E's" $62 million haul and incredible crossover appeal should be a real lesson for Manka's animation development department (A.D.D.)  Our upcoming "Mobsters", about wacky Cosa Nostra lobsters under the sea, may not have the saccharine elements audiences are craving right now.  There's a war on, people!  The economy's in the crapper!  George Carlin is dead!  We need to make animated films about two squeaky metal garbage cans who find love in a magical alleyway, or a postal scale who pines away for a newfangled grocery store produce scale.  I'm just spitballing here!  Think of the millions we'd make opening weekend!  A.D.D.: get to work on it!
 
FYI - next week I will be attending the annual Profits and Participations symposium in Virginia City, Montana.  So my next entry will be on July 15.  Also - I'm thinking of installing a stripper pole in my townhouse and having strip parties.  Manka employees: if I did that, how many of you would attend?  Let's get a dialogue going here!

Most men don't go to Panorama City to strip.  Not in the choking, trenchant heat of summer.  They occasionally get dragged to the mall there by insistent wives.  They sometimes stop at the Burger King on their way to the cozy, Stepford-like confines of the Santa Clarita valley.  They most definitely don't go there to peddle their smooth-as-fine-sauvignon-blanc ass for suburban women who possess the wit and allure of Arnold Horshack.  A man who came here to rip off his tank top night after night for nickels, dimes and Jeffersons would have to be what the locals might call "desperado."  But last week, that's exactly what this man did.
 

Every third Wednesday, Beefcakes in tres chic P.C. holds an amateur night contest to lure nascent succulent males and their wallet-fat friends to the club.  I decided it was important for my growth as a blogger to experience the seedier side of the entertainment world.  Sign ups were at the ungodly hour of 10 pm.  On my drive there, I hit zero traffic, so I reached the area around 8.  To calm my nerves, I ducked into a Thai restaurant, where I covertly did shots of Jim Beam from a flask, gazing warily at the flashing "Beefcakes" sign across the street.  At 9:45, I mustered the courage to enter the club.  On stage dancing to the thumping bass of "Seasons in the Sun" was a hairless, dark-skinned man sporting a leather thong and a vacant stare, as if someone had made off with his joie de vive in the dressing room.  The clientele was a disjointed melange of dork-retro mamas, lazy-eyed motel maids and toothless social workers, all horking greasy appetizers and champagne cocktails.  The smell was a combination of elementary school paste and the perfume counter at Target. 
 
I signed in with a cashier who I could swear was the "Fabulous" girl from the Orbit commercials, then was unceremoniously ushered into what they call "the beef pit", basically an airless, soul-destroying holding room.  As I plunked my Simon LeBon carrying bag containing my costume onto the green 60s carpet, I could see the other contestants' eyes darting from my face down to the bag, arching their brows, curious as to its contents.  The air was thick with the unease of oiled-up men sharing a confined space.  It was as if we were trapped together on one of those D-day amphibious landing vehicles, headed for the unyielding rifles of the enemy on Omaha Beach.  We knew why we were all there.  It was FUBAR, but we would all go down together.
 

 

After a midget they call Boss Daddy rattled off the contest rules, he gave us the performing order.  I would go on second after Venom, a pliable African-American, who looked like the love child of Flip Wilson and Gumby.  At the end of his act, he lifted one of his legs behind his back and up over his shoulder, sticking his big toe seductively into his mouth, all timed perfectly to the final measures of Paul Davis' "'65 Love Affair".  I quickly slipped into my costume, which consisted of a Star Trek Enterprise uniform shirt, a traditional Scottish kilt, hush puppies and a cowboy hat. 

The gravely voiced DJ introduced me.  "Ladies, let's give a warm Beefcakes welcome to Backend Prophet!"  As the opening strains of Duran Duran's "The Reflex" pulsed, I glided onto the stage, bumping and grinding with unbridled passion.  The women at the tip rail stared slack-jawed.  I worked the pole like it was my third cousin.  After flinging my hat into the crowd, I kicked off my hush puppies, then swiveled my hips seductively, slowly removing the kilt, revealing my twelve year old tighty whiteys.  The tip rail girls recoiled and retreated to the bar.  I was filled with unprecedented exhuberance.  My newfound abandon, however, was somewhat tempered by one wardrobe malfunction:  my Star Trek shirt was so tight, I couldn't fully remove it.  It ended up coiled around one arm and my neck.  To cover, I improvised a dramatic pose at the end of the song, one arm twisted and jutting out like I was in the Special Olympics of Stripping. 

Everything was a blur after that.  I only got $6 in tips and I think vegetables were thrown at me.  A dude from Arleta named Boner Simpson, who padded the joint with his au courant spin class cronies, ended up taking first prize, much to the chagrin of Venom.  He was pissed, but I was elated.  I wandered out the front door, encountering six young ladies who I thought at first were fans but came to discover were 15 year olds with a pregnancy pact looking for some sperm.  I referred them to the homeless men in the alley, then ambled dreamily to my '96 Taurus.  I had been bitten by the ladybug known as stripping, and I knew at that moment I would always be her bitch.  Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose. 
 
And Freedom, thy name is Beefcakes. 
 
I'm there Mondays and Wednesdays.  No cover, but if you want a lap dance, you'll have to buy me a $9 soda.

Happy post-Father's Day, my beta-bloggers.  As my biological dad ran off in the late 60's with a Krishna girl he met at the airport handing out quaaludes, I had no obligations on Father's Day and planned to spend the afternoon completing my 3D map of Mordor. 

But it's funny what life throws at you. 

All week I had been researching revenue generated from TV, discovering the great disparity between high-profile, syndication-ready series and struggling newcomers, often noting the enormous salaries paid to established stars after a show reaches hit status.  Networks seemingly have to use smoke and mirrors to see any kind of profit from their prestige series.  And there's no trickle down process.
 
Which brings me to my Father's Day and the ironic parallel I encountered in the form of an unexpected houseguest.
 
At 5 am Sunday morning, a frantic knock at the door jolted me from my sleep.  I opened the door to discover old family friend Ed McMahon, three suitcases, and four dogs.  You see, Ed befriended my mother during a taping of "The Barbara McNair Show" years ago, doing shots together under the stands.  They kept in touch and Ed would often come over for Groundhog Day, and he and mom would play "Six More Weeks of Winter" in mom's bedroom.  I hadn't seen him since he invited us to a taping of "Muppets Tonight", so it was a shock seeing him on my doorstep.  I asked him if Countrywide had foreclosed on his home already, and he said no, that he and his wife Pamela had had a fight over his purchase of a vintage radio microphone he just had to have.  He had no place else to go.  Jerry's in Vegas, Larry's in D.C. and the Muppets are not real.  We spent the day reminiscing about Groundhog Days past, how the muffled sound of his trademark laugh permeated mom's bedroom door and always brought a smile to my face.  We ate corned beef and laughed and cried and hugged, then laughed again.
 
That night, we did some DiSironno on the rocks and I asked him how he could possibly be on the brink of financial ruin.  He re-iterated much of what he'd already said on talk shows, like manager's fees, divorces and bad investments.  But after he loosened up, he divulged his resentment toward the lopsided pay scale and residuals from "The Tonight Show".  Johnny made off with $20 million a year, while Ed got a fraction of that, and very little ancillary participation.  The thought of this made us so angry, we went upstairs and peed off the balcony in protest, howling at the moon, cursing Johnny's name.  Since Ed's in a neck brace, he couldn't sleep on the couch, so we shared my bed with his Norwegian Elkhounds Sonny, Cher, Regis and Art Fern.  Ed snored like a long-haul trucker, but his mind was finally at rest, and he slept with a smile on his face.  Quintessential Ed.
 
The whole experience has motivated me to fight for equal pay among television artists.  Whether you're the talent who holds the entire program together, or the drunk who laughs off camera.  I will be lobbying the MBS executives to adopt a strict policy of fairness.  I will not rest until the marginally talented are adequately compensated.  In the interim, I gave a hearty donation to www.LetsHelpEd.com, so Uncle Ed won't wind up homeless on Mulholland.  I suggest you do the same.
 
Heads up on next week's blog:  Since everyone's on vacation and there's not much industry analysis to be done, my co-workers have encouraged me to be a male stripper for a week, then blog about it.  Fascinating experiment.  Consider Kurt Barnet on assignment!

Afternoon all.  Please forgive my mood today.  It was a rough weekend for me.  Since blogging is all about honesty, I feel compelled to disclose that since last week's entry I have been continuously attempting to contact L.A. Dolls Roller Derby captain Niraa Death (not sure of her real name).  I've been told my actions verged on stalking. 

As a result, I was forced to appear at a court hearing yesterday, during which I was issued a restraining order.  I cannot come within 100 feet of Ms. Death or any Roller Derby in the continental United States or Puerto Rico.  My sincere apologies go out to Ms. Death and her teammates, family, friends and cats.  But as you all know, I do NOT allow bumps in the road to slow me down, so let's hit the ground full throttle!
 
This week, I've had many conversations with my peers about the paucity of new television programs scheduled for the fall.  All the major networks, including Manka's own MBS, announced fewer new shows at the New York Upfronts than ever before. 

Today, I had lunch with Melissa Davenport from the MBS-TV scheduling division to get her views on the current trend, its causes, its effects, and to find out how many advertising dollars Manka Bros. may have in its pocket come November sweeps.  I took Melissa to the executive commissary, because it's quieter there and they play gentle piano music.  I ordered salmon for her, chicken fettucine for me, and a $75 bottle of Cabernet.  Since she's a vegan, she only ate the rice and veggies, but as she told me about MBS's plans for low-cost, high yield reality and game show programming, I couldn't help but notice the sparkle in her eye, the way her cheek bones seemed to raise to the heavens with each smile, and this Cybil Shepard glow that suddenly appeared to enshroud her. 

After a while, I couldn't hear what she was saying, just the lilting sounds of the piano muzak.  At some point, she gently pushed her auburn hair behind one ear, revealing the seductive curve of her neck and her tastefully alluring earring.  The smell of her aromatic perfume transported me.  I felt we had a real connection.  She touched my hand once and my heart skipped a beat.  After my three Visa cards were declined and she picked up the tab, I walked her to the door and we shook hands.  I held her hand for what seemed like several minutes, stroking her delicate fingers, gazing into her magnetic eyes.  It wasn't until after security had me escorted away that I realized perhaps I had crossed a line. 

My theory is that I had some sort of chemical reaction to her perfume, which was designed by American Idol winner Fantasia.  I am certainly going to obtain a sample of it and have it tested for hallucinogens.  Or possibly the Cabernet had gone bad.  Or possibly I'm clinically depressed.
 
Melissa has since e-mailed me to let me know that MBS is very excited about the ad revenue prospects for the upcoming game show, Check Under Your Bed!, in which regular people (mostly hot chicks) have to choose which bed has a mattress filled with $100 bills.  She reports that advertising is down 14% from this same period last year due to skittishness surrounding the impending actors strike.  She also mentioned it's getting really expensive to fill the tank in her Range Rover.