Burn, Baby, Burn

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Sure, we know you're a master of the sci-fi, action-adventure, detective/spy, kick-boxing and softcore pornography genres... but where's the comedy? Make us laugh, monkey!" I can't say whereas I like your attitude... but fair enough. Ifilm has just put up my new film "The Making of Burn, Baby, Burn". "New" meaning "I made it three years ago but I'm too pathologically lazy to promote anything so it just sat around". Here's the link:

http://www.ifilm.com/ifilmdetail/2662544

This film was written by and stars the brilliant Maggie Rowe. After you see this film, you're going to want to write your congressperson and say, "We need more Maggie Rowe." I can tell you that this film is great without an ounce of my trademark egomania, because it's not me: it's all Maggie. I'm just the guy who pointed the camera at her.

Maggie's costar is the very funny Craig Anstett. Mark Morris, my strong right arm, was the cinematographer. (Okay, so Mark pointed the camera at her, not me. But I told Mark where to put the camera, and that's gotta count for something. Also they let me yell "action" and "cut", which is always nice.) The hilarious title song is by Amy Mikel, who broke all our hearts by leaving Los Angeles.

It's under ten minutes long. Go watch. Enjoy.

(By the way, all the blog titles on this page are links -- including the "Burn, Baby, Burn" atop this paragraph. Click on the titles and they'll take you to the page discussed in the body of the blog. Sooooo fancy.)

Citizen Carl

One deadly night at the Dresden Room, one particularly dreary awful night, I was slumping my way to the exit when I felt a firm grip on my shoulder. I turned to see Carl Ferraro, the Dresden's owner, manager, Godfather. All ninety-some years of him, still trim and natty in a herringbone blazer. And Carl spake, saying, "Keep swingin', baby." And lo, my spirits were lifted. And I went forth, and kept swinging.

Over the years, Carl and I became good friends. After my dad died it was nice to have another old codger around who'd call me "boy". On his way out the door he'd clap me on the back and say, "I'm going home. You're in charge, my boy." This made him laugh. The first time he said it was the first time I consciously thought "I come here waaaaaaay too much."

By now you see where this is going.

Carl was an ornery old cuss, but sheer obstinacy alone can only hold off the reaper for so long. He's gone wherever great saloon keepers go, and to paraphrase Kipling, I'd take a swig in Hell from Carl Ferraro. Until that time I'll just have to keep swingin',