Thursday, August 27, 2009

Fresh New Exciting Sexy Ideas for TV Shows.

All of these ideas are currently under serious consideration
by various top people in TV and movies. For your own good,
please do not try to steal them.


"Stranger in Blog Town"

Suddenly one day, nobody is able to start a new blog in town.
For some mysterious reason there is a limit to how many blogs
there can be in town, and that limit has been reached. Everybody
who was thinking about starting a blog and kept putting it off,
they go into a panic, fearing that now they will never have a blog,
unless they move to another town and start life over from scratch.

Then somebody with a blog dies for no good reason. Foul play is hinted
at. A waiting list forms to take the dead person's blog place. The
people who already have a blog are frightened, because they wonder
if the people who don't have a blog will try to do something to take
their blog place. The people who are on the waiting list are
afraid that somebody will try to do something to move up the
list. A brutal blog black market ensues. Everybody who has a blog
blogs about only one thing--the blog mystery crisis--although they
watch every word they write in order not to offend the people who
do not have blogs.

Then a stranger rides into town on a golden palomino. It will soon
turn out that she has the answer to the mystery, although, is her
"answer" worse than the mystery itself?

This is Movie-of-the-Week material, rather than a series. It is
suspense, with romantic adventure undertones.


"Tick-Tock, Hypno-Schnauzer"

A schnauzer named Tick-Tock was born with the ability to
hypnotize oversensitive people. He pants and looks in their
eyes as if he needed help. Then they keep asking him questions
about what's wrong until it's too late and they realize they're

Tick-Tock then gets his victims to do his bidding. That
consists of providing him with all the peculiar food he
prefers, taking him for walks that he escapes from to run free,
throwing sticks and balls which he may or not chase and return,
and providing him with various family-fare dog entertainment.
So far, so good.

The only thing is, a strange mastermind named Ernie notices
Tick-Tock can hypnotize people. Ernie tries to trick Tick-Tock
into evil schemes, e.g., hypnotizing all the guards at the bank,
or the cheerleading coach. Each week there is a battle of wills as
Tick-Tock tries to pursue his own self-interests and Ernie
tries to pervert what is a natural gift from God to Tick-Tock.

This is Animal/Adventure/Inspirational.


"Detective Tim, Embryo"

An embryo in a poor immigrant named Sandra is discovered to have
mystical abilities to detect evildoers. One day his mother is sitting
on a bus bench and Tim starts kicking like hell for no reason, only there
is a reason.

Namely, the person sitting next to Sandra has just robbed a bank
and is trying to blend into the crowd. Sandra sees a packet of money
with a bank label that falls out of his trousers. She rolls her eyes
and makes head movements at a cop who's in the area looking for the

From then on, there is a battle of wills between police agencies
who want to employ Tim to detect criminals through his kicking,
and Sandra, who wishes only for a normal life for herself, for
Tim, and for Tim's mysterious father who cannot reveal himself
at this time.

A team of doctors and scientists determine through technical means
that Tim will lose his detective abilities once he is born, but
minor complications ensue that make Tim not be able to be born,
but have to stay in Sandra's womb. At first, Tim is upset, then
accepts his situation and makes the best of it.

This is a Sci-Fi mixed with thoughtful domestic romance.


"Emily in Backwards Town"

Emily is a young woman setting out on her own to find fame and
fortune, starting from scratch. She's naive but tough, having run
an entire ranch since she was fourteen years old, after her parents
and sisters and brothers and whole extended family were taken away
on a spaceship during a reunion picnic. Emily had fallen asleep under
a table to sleep off some bad potato salad, the aliens didn't see her,
and she has felt grateful but guilty from that day forward.

Then, one day, the farm is destroyed in a tornado. Looking for
happiness, she stumbles into a town that goes backwards in time. At
first, she doesn't notice, because she is so lonesome and stunned from
her bad luck in life. She thinks it is her, but can't figure out why
the waitress keeps taking away her full plate of food, etc. But then
when she notices time is going backwards, it's too late and she is
caught in the strange web of the town.

But not all in a bad way, because she helps people. Since she already
lived in the time that the other people in town are going backwards
into, she is able to suggest things and give advice about the future,
which is her past.

There are also evil forces in town who want to control the railroad,
the saloon, and the plunge. They don't want her interfering in their
"good thing." Also, she becomes coach of a church youth softball team
whose success is threatened by its players regressing in skill levels,
and by her growing notoriety as a troublemaking guru. The team wants
her all to itself, but she is trapped in a web of helping people
by using her powers of being normal in forwards time, rather than
having romance or learning how to play jazz piano, which is all
she ever dreamed about.

This is a Mystery, with a flair of community crime drama.


"President, Zombie, Friend"

A zombie is elected President under mysterious circumstances.
The story is told from the point of view of the President's
childhood friend, Jim, who has known the President both as zombie
and as a normal person. The President makes Jim his adviser, so
Jim can provide stability and counseling 24/7, a needed commodity
as the President is highly emotional at times and completely
indifferent at other times.

The first episode tests their friendship as aliens land in the Rose
Garden. The President wants to eat one of the aliens to see if
somehow the extraterrestrial elements will make him not be a zombie
any more, so that he can start life over from scratch, but Jim
counsels patience until they can figure out what the aliens want,
although are the aliens themselves all or more that they seem?

This is political culinary noir.

Stumble Upon Toolbar

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

One Great Gulp

I was barefoot, my yellow rain coat on, dark glasses, a bug bite on my upper arm itched, gloves, a ski mask, a black hat. Four or five accidents happened all at once down on Western. A body lay in the street and nobody came. A woman stood on the curb, longing. Clouds were coming out of the Union Bank Building. Somebody said "flagpolla unfirma." A large strange piece of furniture slipped from my grip over the side. In the infinitesimal distance I caught the red mouth of Angel's Flight. The body in the street began to rise into the air. My heart went out to him and then came back to me in fear. I was in my own arms, so confused I understood everything in one great gulp and rose to face the day.

Stumble Upon Toolbar

Monday, August 17, 2009

Took A Strange Fall

I'd had free-floating anger all day, barked at my wife a couple times
out of nowhere, made amends. I think my anger had to do with a situation
where I believed I had not been properly praised & appreciated for the
wonderful things I'd done.

Later we were headed to a meeting. I was carrying a big blue glass
bowl full of fresh picked cherry tomatoes from our garden. I was
still impatient with her, with myself, with parking, with
carrying the tomatoes, with thinking about being late & not
getting my favorite seat. We were starting to cross the landscaped
middle strip of a four-lane road & the traffic was too thick, so I
started to rush up the middle strip until we could cross.

My left foot hit a sprinkler-head and my right foot hit my left
foot, so that suddenly I was falling straight down like a cut
sapling, holding this blue glass bowl in my hands, and the bowl
was right in front of my face as I fell, thinking, This does not
look good.

I landed with my face right in the bowl of tomatoes. The bowl
didn't break, or it would have been bad. Half the tomatoes were
smashed. There were two guys behind us who stopped to ask if I was
all right. When I said I was all right, they went ahead to the
meeting. It was a kind of twilight zone in-between time in the event
where I was embarrassed but not sure if I wasn't badly hurt or not.

The bowl had caught under my left ear & I kept checking to see if
my ear was there or cut or what--it was all right. My arm and chest
had also hit the bowl as I landed, and would bruise like hell the next

So, I wasn't seriously hurt. The two strangers who had stopped were
at the meeting but left right after my wife and I finally got there.
Nobody had ever seen them before. My wife thanked them for stopping
and they smiled. I was too embarrassed still, and shook up, to even
think about thanking them.

During the meeting I was disoriented, going back and forth between
the lingering free-floating anger, and a new strange calm, as if
something toxic had been knocked out of me by the fall, but I was
still trying to hold onto the angry place as protection, or the
delusion of protection.

Then in the meeting I shared about the fall, and it came out hilarious
in parts, to my amazement. How I had thought in the middle of the fall,
"This is going to be interesting," and how I said to my wife when I
finally stood after falling, "I'm not going to that meeting," as in
"I'll show them, or show somebody, or show something." And the whole
sensation of my face going into the tomatoes, and comparing it to
getting rotten tomatoes thrown at you for being phony, or stuffy, or

Then after the meeting I couldn't figure out why nobody was eating any
of the tomatoes.

Now, I don't know what the long-term effect will be, if any. But
three days later, I'm still wondering about it, about the glass not
breaking, at the tomatoes cushioning my fall, at the two strangers
who stopped, at the fact that all my anger came out in humor when
I told the story.

I believe it has something to do with taking myself too seriously,
and especially my anger, my impatience & resentments. I felt so totally in
charge when I stormed into that landscaping for that short-cut, and
in one-step everything was taken out of my control, as if it were ever
in my control. And there was a micro-second of non-verbalized awareness
where I knew I was falling just like a tree into hard dirt and there
was nothing in the world I could do about it but wait for impact, and the
only reason I kept holding onto the bowl of tomatoes was that I had
been holding onto it when I started the fall, and whatever I was doing
at the beginning of the fall I would be doing at the end of the fall.

Still thinking about it, wondering on it, grateful for it.

Stumble Upon Toolbar

Thursday, August 13, 2009

The Convenience & Pitfalls of Picking Yourself As Your Hero.

Yes, my hero is me.

I don't mean that as a compliment. I don't mean it
as conceitedness. I'm not a stuffy person. I mean only
that it's both convenient & practical to have yourself
as your hero. Conceitedness has absolutely nothing to
do with it.

First, I'm present more than anybody else in my life.
I'm here all the time. Even when I'm sleeping, my dreams
are basically full of myself. Dreams are nothing if not myself
placed into other people, furniture, animals, and situations
so to see me from different angles. I didn't invent dreams,
or myself. It's not my doing that my life is full of myself,
asleep or awake, thus making it inviting to consider myself
as my hero. Why?

Because I would be a fool not to take advantage of my constant
closeness, as far as heroism goes. Whatever benefits I want to
receive out of having a hero, if I'm my own, then I can get those
benefits 24 hours a day. I never have to go look for my hero
someplace else. I never have to even think of them or drive by
their house or go get a book they wrote or watch a movie they
starred in and got millions for while my ticket price goes up,
although I understand economics, more or less. As your own hero,
you are always right here to be inspired by yourself, providing
you're both inspirational and open to being inspired at the same

As it is in dreams, so it is in waking life: even when you
think about other people, you're really thinking about yourself
indirectly. Your views of them are filtered and smeared and
stained with your own perceptions, likes, wants, and moods.
So why not surrender to the fact that everybody and everything
in your life is really just a middleman to yourself. Therefore,
cut out the middleman and pick yourself as your hero. It's your
choice, of course.

Furthermore, I know secrets about myself that I might not know
about somebody else if I had them as my hero. Secrets I may
just not want to particularly know. It might be a little
harder to have someone as your hero if you know every single
thing they do and think all day long, and night, too. Imagine
knowing your hero as well as you know yourself. But you
can always use a little bit of denial and put on rose-colored
glasses to overlook certain disgusting or alarming thoughts
you have, or irksome peccadilloes you exhibit, or revolting
opinions you harbor, or eyebrow-raising activities you might
participate in with yourself or others.

I also must note that as my own hero, I get on my nerves at
times. That is, the hero part of me does get bugged by the
non-hero part. Imagine having somebody that sees you as their
hero following you around 24 hours a day. Not only following
you around, but inside your head watching every thought, and
participating intimately in every activity you do. That could
get annoying, or even somewhat frightening at times.

So, you have to make certain allowances for yourself, or for
the different parts of yourself, hero and non-hero alike. I
know I do, in any case. Sometimes both heroes and fans are
annoying, that much more when you are both of them at once.

Of course, the main point of having a hero is that it gives you
something to live up to, or feel good about; that there's at least
one person in the world who understands you and loves you and leads
you on a heroic path, even if they never heard of you and never will.
Even if when you write them a letter of admiration they might have
their robot secretary answer you, if you're lucky. Even if you saw
them rushing down the street surrounded by a retinue of hanger-ons
and bodyguards, they wouldn't even bother to look your way if you
screamed and jumped up and down and threw your clothes in the air.

If you have yourself as your hero, you may not always be able to
inspire yourself as much as some conventional external hero, but
you never have to go through any of the humiliating experiences
above either. As your own hero, you always answer your own love
letters promptly. You always wave back when you wave. You always
humbly and happily give yourself your own signature, day or night.
And you certainly never have to throw your clothes in the air
to get your own attention.

In other words, you can't get away from yourself. In fact, if
you're not your own hero, there will be somebody around you all
the time who is constantly failing to live up to the standards
you have set that are based on your hero. Is that what you want?
I suspect not, but if I'm wrong, then so be it and be my guest.

You can have other heroes, of course, and should, and I do. I
have writer heroes. I have sports heroes. I have spiritual
heroes and political heroes and attractiveness heroes. But they
are not around all the time. They might be in my head, but I
forget about them. Do I ever really forget about myself. Not in
so many words. I may not be hero material, to be sure, but the
convenience of self-heroism far outreaches the inevitable lowering
of standards. You never have to fear finding out some sickening
secret about them that causes you to dump them as your hero, because
you already know all the sickening secrets about yourself.

Therefore, after much difficult and pain-staking consideration,
my hero is myself.

Stumble Upon Toolbar

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

If One Paragraph Keeps the Boogeyman Away, Then Have Two ...

Both from Mixed Animal . . .

* * *

We packed up and broke camp. The wigwam turned out to be inflatable
and squeezed down to the size of a lampshade, which we strapped
to Buzz's head. Him and her started down the mountain, while I
took a moment to drink in the enchanting vision of my home village
far below in the glow of sunrise. There sat little Hmmm, in the
disconcerting shape of Founder Lola's missing foot, a tiny herd
of cottages and farms in the green teacup of the ancient valley.
Puffy pink clouds floated above it like bunny slippers, only new
and fresh, not worn and smelly. You missed your village, looking
at it like that, with people too small to even see, much less bug
you. You couldn't wait to hike down and get home. You was thankful
you could dwell there your whole life, and not have to venture into
the great unknown of the non-Hmmm world beyond, where unfamiliar,
unbeseen, and untowards things could happen at any moment.

* * *

He ceased howling. He stopped shaking, trembling, and tossing about.
He sat up in our arms, sniffed the night air, listened and surveyed,
alive and alert as a sentry to something that was bigger than the
torment of having nor skin nor fur nor blubber. Something more important
and powerful than death itself had entered the mountain clearing.

Stumble Upon Toolbar

Saturday, August 8, 2009

A Paragraph a Day, Part 2.

As far as Mabel went, who known how she saw
the big picture of me and her. With gals,
all you did was watch your front foot
and don't step off any cliffs.
If you looked up at the big picture
with a gal, you just went right over.
Gals was born for the big picture.
A gal not only had her own mind
humming away on new methods
to outsmart you, she also had
all other gals' minds since time begun
built in to her mental atoms
to advise her along. Whereas a fella's mind
was pretty much on its own from beginning
to end with no help in sight.

Stumble Upon Toolbar