It's So Hard To Type With A Gun In My Mouth (12 page)

Carl became my mentor telling me things like. "There is no time clock on creativity." Meaning, if I wasn't funny from 9 to 5, it might happen at 11 p.m. and I should be writing then. Those words stayed with me my entire career and through every show I ever wrote on.... and saved my ass on several occasions. To give you an idea of how good Carl was to me...right in the middle of production I walked into his office and said, "I'm having my nose fixed on Wednesday... I'll be out a couple of days." And he said. "Cool". I had the operation and came back to work black and blue and all bandaged. On the tape above my nose I wrote, "UNDER CONSTRUCTION". When I walked in Carl was the first one to laugh and laugh the hardest.  (The nose turned out well.)

The producers of the show were Sid and Marty Krofft. They were the wunderkind of television...  that week. Sid was the creative one: Marty was the business one. Sid was, shall we say, odd. His mind thought in ways others didn't. He was in his own Puff 'n Stuff world and welcome to it. But he created an empire, which lasts until today. 

I got to work with many stars on the show, Tina Turner, Lee Majors, Farah Fawcett, Rip Taylor, Rick Dees (this is where our friendship began), Vincent Price, Tony Randall,  Milton Berle and many more.  Of all the stories, my experience with Milton is the best.

There was one additional writer, whose name will remain anonymous, who was an incredible pothead. He was stoned the entire time we were in production and had his own office away from the set so he could smoke his evil weed. We were working under a deadline and Carl asked me to go up to "this writer's" office to work on a scene with him. I wasn't there six minutes when out came the pot. Now this was the 70's and everyone was smoking pot, myself no exception.  It was a time when we all felt invincible, we have since learned otherwise. But I was young and invincible and I partook and partook and partook. This writer always had the best shit! I think he flew it in from Hawaii... anyway, I was flying higher than the plane that brought this crap in.  We were writing this hilarious scene, or so we thought, when the phone rings. It's my secretary..."They need you down on the set." I could barely stand. In my drug induced stupor I thought, " I can do this. No one will notice." and I put on a pair of sunglasses and left for the set stopping only to buy candy bars at the roach coach.

I walk into the sound stage and EVERYONE is there... Florence, Robert, most of the kids, the network executives, the production staff and Milton Berle. Bobby is missing, however, and Jack Regas, the director, says to me, "Steve will you read Bobby's part?"  PANIC CITY. "Sure." It's a scene where Milton introduces himself to Bobby. "Hello, Bobby, I'm Milton Berle" and I'm supposed to say, "Hi, Mr. Berle." Instead I  say "HI Mr. Berle, I'm Steve Bluestein, one of the writers."  Berle breaks character and turns to Carl... "Look at that, I'm such a good actor the kid thinks I'm talking to HIM. "  Everyone laughs: I want to die. My heart drops about six feet. I am scared shitless I am going to get in trouble. I look for a friendly face...ah! Carl.

I turn to Carl and raise the sunglasses to show him my eyes. He knows I've been working with Mr. El Stone-o and knows instantly I'm about to audition for a Cheech and Chong movie. He rolls off the chair and is so convulsed with laughter he has to leave the stage. And that is the irony of the Brady Bunch Variety Hour...this wholesome, all American, family entertainment show was written by stoned freaks who were the hippest writers of that time... see, show business is all bullshit.  But I would not change a minute of that experience. Florence Henderson was a joy to work with, Robert Reed, although totally out of his element on this show, was a professional. The kids were great! I loved my fellow writers. I got to meet Witchy-poo and all the Kroft characters. What could be so bad?

OH!!! I think it was last year that TV Guide voted THE BRADY BUNCH VARIETY HOUR as the fourth worst show in the history of television. Thank you. It was my pleasure.

March 31. 2006
-  THE PLAYBOY PLAYMATE AWARDS

As I've told you several times before, once you get started working in show business, especially behind the camera, you continue to work on and on and on and that happened to me and the other writers on the Brady Bunch Variety Hour. Carl went on to write films, Ronnie wrote books, Terry produced TV shows, Bruce won Emmys for his work and became a celebrity. The stoned out guy went on to get the head writer's job on an ABC Late Night Special, THE PLAYBOY PLAYMATE AWARDS... and whom did he hire to write on the staff with him, his old smoking buddy, moi! Also hired was another writer, whose name escapes me, but he was older, extremely bookish, very intellectual and had a very dry sense of humor.  So we have the three writers; I don't deserve this job, dry and stoned. I see a Pulitzer in my future.

The special is to be shot at the Playboy Mansion and the producers want the writers, that would be the unholy trio, to get to know the place. We are invited to tour the grounds and meet with Mr. Hefner.  First the tour... Disneyland with condoms. I have never seen anything like it in my life. Forget the peacocks, the game house or the grotto...the place had a staff of at least a hundred. That's a lot of illegal aliens. It was the details that impressed me the most, the bowls of m & m's everywhere, the pads of paper by every phone, the little touches that made this home feel like a hotel.  He lived there but it wasn't a home... it was a publicity machine. In the hallway were works of art by the masters... and each one hung on a hook that was attached to an alarm button. Lift the picture off the hook and the alarm goes off. Ya know, just like at your mother's house.

So we meet with Mr. Hefner, who shows up in his pajamas and velvet initialed slippers. Oh fuck, he's a caricature of himself.  He sits on a sofa under the bust of Barbie Benton. Not a statue, the actual bust. He's talking and Barbie is looking down on us. All I could think of is, "Where do you buy one of these?" You don't go into Macy's and say, "I'll take a Barbie in a 38D". So, Hef, as we're told to call him, gives us his vision of the show. The meeting lasts about twenty minutes and he has to go upstairs and fuck someone.  The stoned writer looks at me, "Did you understand what he said?" to which I reply, "Look at the Bust of Barbie Benton."  The intelligent writer says, "Don't worry, I got it."

We are given an office on the grounds. As I remember it, it was over a garage somewhere but it was fully stocked with paper and desks and every amenity a writer could need. We start writing at about 10 a.m., we work until about 9 p.m., Hef, our old fuck buddy, wants to meet at 11 p.m. 11? So we stick around the Mansion and it's then the director comes up to me to ask if I would do stand up on camera for the special. Sure... extra money. It would be Jay Leno and me. (Who was completely unknown at the time)?

So Hef walks in with the script under his arm and tosses it on the table. "It's wrong." And now he explains a totally new concept for the show. Not a single point we discussed in the morning meeting is in his new concept. It means a whole new script. It's 11:30 p.m.; we start shooting at 9:00 a.m. the next morning. Hef gets up and says, "My staff will provide you with whatever you need." and leaves. Spin Rapunzel spin.

We get into the office and the first thing the head writer does is get stoned. He really was the HEAD writer. The intelligent writer starts musing about the meaning of the show and I call the kitchen for some food. "Can we have something sweet." The stoned guy is gonna need fuel.

We start writing, one a.m., two a.m., four a.m. I'm on a sofa shouting out jokes, the intelligent guy is typing, the stoned guy is finishing off a three layer chocolate cake. WE HAVE TEN PAGES WRITTEN. The trucks are pulling up in five hours and we have ten effing pages written. When I get overwhelmed, I get giddy and that 's what happened this night. I start laughing and I can't stop. The head writer is stoned so he starts laughing... this pisses off the smart writer who only wants to "Get the fuck out of here and get back to the reality of the Valley."

We vomit out another ten page and it's 7 a.m. What we have managed to do is produced 20 pages of pure unadulterated garbage. It's one large smelly gastric bypass. The trucks start pulling up and the

lighting crew is lighting the set. We have half a script.  We are sweating bullets now and start spewing out streams of consciousness that makes Dali look like a paint by numbers.  The director comes into the office, "What have you got for me boys?" and we all sort of chuckle. "What are you shooting first?" and thank
God it was something we had written.  And that's how the entire day's shooting went. It was my job to run down to the set and see what the next shot was. I would then run back to the office and tell the guys who would madly write it before the script supervisor would ask for it. It was insanity, complete and total insanity.

I'll never forget the feeling of complete inadequacy when Bill Cosby approached the three of us. "I need a joke here." And you could actually hear the "buzz" in the air as the three of us came up with nothing. Bill waits for an answer and none comes, he walks away shaking his head. The head writer turns to me, "I think that went well."

The whole show is shot around a party, which means hundreds of guests, cars and more confusion. Arnold was there. Bill Cosby... and country singer, Barbara Mandrell. Barbara was to sing on the special and I will never forget the image of her standing in the garden as calm and composed as a queen. Around her Rome burned but she did not let it affect her. It was a total mad house, this shoot, but she was a self-confident woman who kept her cool. In the meantime I was having a nervous breakdown.

Somehow we got through the day by me running back and forth to the set, the other guys churning out literature for the masses. It came time for me to do my stand up routine. It was to be shot in the living room, with playmates and guests all around me. I was exhausted. I did the set and then wanted to slit my writs. It sucked big time. The whole, in the living room, was not working for me. The audience was too close; I could see their reactions, which, naturally, I took as negative. Afraid of being judged badly, I grab the director and tell him. "Look, I know we're running long. If you want to cut my set...do." And he does... Jay's set airs, mine ends up on the cutting room floor. Jay later goes on to host The Tonight Show; I sell knitting supplies on the Internet.

The shoot lasts until late in the evening. I've been up for 24 hours, living on chocolate cake and coffee.  Somehow it all gets in the can, as it always does, and when it airs, it wins its time slot. Oh-MY-God! Tits sell.

The writers and I part ways, never to work together again. I see them at parties from time to time and we console each other over our experience. One of the writers became a famous producer and is occasionally seen as an actor, the smart writer is still writing books. And me... I'm the poster child for unfulfilled dreams and wasted lifetimes. I don't think I'm too hard on myself, do you?

April 1, 2006
-   TWO MILLION AND NO LINEN CLOSET
.

A few days ago I happen to pass a housing development that brought back many memories.  It all started about 35 years ago when I was first breaking into show biz. You don't know poverty until you start out in show business. There is a hunger that burns inside you to be discovered and a real hunger that's caused by lack of food.  But if you have a great group of friends you can get through anything. I have been blessed with wonderful friends, like Pat Proft.  When Pat first came to LA he had a son and wife back in Minneapolis and was earning 65 dollars a week on unemployment. As I remember it, he was sending half of the unemployment back to his family and living on almost nothing. Pat was one of the favorites at The Comedy Store. He was blonde and blue eyed and very, very funny... in a unique way. I remember one year, I think it was after Thanksgiving, Pat didn't have enough money to eat and I had a turkey leg in my fridge.  Two mouths, one leg... actually those are some of my fondest memories, those days of sharing and poverty.   For me, it was actually more fun trying to break into show business than to be in it. I found when some of my friends finally did make it, they changed; some were bitter, some arrogant, some self obsessed and obnoxious but mostly distant and unavailable. Not having a real family, these friends were my adopted family so when I would lose one... it was sad... very, very sad.  But that's why Pat was special... when he began working, he never changed, he was just, Pat, the blonde funny guy.

Where is Pat today? Oh he did ok, he's the guy who wrote AIRPLANE, POLICE ACADEMY, NAKED GUN, HOT SHOT, SCAREY MOVIE 3... shall I go on?  I will not be buying Pat a Turkey leg this year. In fact he will be buying me a turkey farm or I will sell the pictures of him and that donkey to the Enquirer. I'm happy to say Pat and I are still friends... you see some people never change and that makes all the assholes you have to deal with worth it... but like panning for gold, the good ones remain... Pat Proft, Carole Ita White, Gary Austin, Monica Johnson, my little nuggets of gold. 

So ANY WAY!!  I was young and starving and living in this apartment building in Hollywood, which would soon be called The Comedy Arms. I was the first one to move in and then Freddy Prinz, Johnny Dark, Andrew Johnson, Len Wayland, Alan Bursky, assorted comedy writers and managers all moved in after me. Can you imagine the egos around the pool?  There was hardly room for sunscreen.