Written by John Peurach

Tuesday, 17 August 2010


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image for Pentagon Papers II: The Big Turnaround
GUESS WHO'S NEXT COMING TO DINNER: Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.

HOLLYWOOD/WASHINGTON D.C./PERTH AMBOY, NEW JERSEY - ATTENTION READERS: Due to an extended series of online complaints (plus, one - thankfully - unsuccessful bomb threat, inadvertently discovered at London's Charring Cross Station this past week by a heavy-footed MPA officer when he apparently tripped over the unattended package/suspect device in question, while otherwise in the close-quarter process of attempting to mind the step of a lower level staircase during his not-so-sure footed pursuit of an as yet unidentified Tunbridge Wells man, believed to be in his mid-forties, who, while dressed up like pop singer/songwriter/political activist, M.I.A., repeatedly antagonized many among the station's mad house crowd of rush hour commuters, to the point where he was often described as both "creepy" and "a stark, raving, bloody awful nuisance" by numerous partially off-the-record onlookers, not otherwise impressed by the man's reportedly overall command, and apparent uniquely individual skill, with regards to knowing how to play a ukulele, while singing assorted tunes by the late Nick Drake, that were made popular way after the fact though a series of semi-memorable automobile commercials), every effort has been made by the author* of the following "Spoof" piece to not only make this one both brief and to the point (whatever that is), but also, something that hopefully clocks in under the usual 5000-plus words, as has been the case (more often than not) in the past, with far too many of this author's other magazine and/or news items currently online within the vast, all-encompassing "Spoof" system/wink-wink/nudge-nudge clearing house for assorted satirical whatnot and/or whathaveyou.

Therefore, what follows has been specifically designed as a throwback of sorts. (No, not that kind!) One that hopefully will clearly address, as close as possible, and thus embrace whatever may arrive screaming and kicking, via the traditional gold standard format of seemingly all successful journalistic endeavors from both the recent, and more distant-like past. Not counting the Dark (or anything else too obviously close for comfort, within any of the either implied and/or foregonely concluded "lights out" moments during the sometimes more or less windowless periods that may or may not have otherwise occurred at any point of a once upon time age, or…) Ages, if you will.

And, of course, you will. That is, you do, or did. Or, don't you?

In other words, this kind:

WHO? - That would be Jason Wayne Terry, a 36-year-old, semi-illiterate, would-be screenwriter/used to be part-time telemarketer who (Due to his direct participation with Primo Improvio, a Las Vegas-based communications/boiler room outfit that supposedly provided telemarketing services for various home improvement companies in both Southern California and Arizona, but was actually a front of sorts. Which, in turn, resulted in the immediate gaining of operational in-the-field knowledge of numerous unsuspecting households, that ultimately cleared the way for a variety of pulled-off home break-in's. One of which may have contributed to the sudden disappearance of a well to do Pasadena woman, along with most of her furniture and otherwise remarkable worldly-like goods, except for an original unopened vinyl copy of "Deja Vu" by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, and a vintage (once belonged to Andy Warhol) cookie jar, that was believed to have been left behind after being both emptied and irreparably damaged during the course of the alleged robbery) was recently forced to quickly become even more of a full-time resident of the ever-widening out-there margins of a perpetually disgruntled society.

In other words, for what was initially thought to be only a temporary situation, or until something else too unavoidable just happened to come his way (and did it ever), Terry vacated his studio apartment on the edge of L.A.'s Koreatown two months ago, and promptly re-set-up his present tense-like wayward eastbound and down existence at his mother's home in Perth Amboy, New Jersey for the first time since he left to attend Emerson College in Boston, Massachusetts back in 1992.

"Sure, it's great having him back, I suppose," said Marlene Silverman-Balasubhramaniam, late-fiftysomething, the current owner and operator of The Corner Clip Joint, a home-based dog grooming business, which shares office and some partial basement space with "Inka Roo Yu," a completely under the radar ("Fourteen steps down, just watch out for the low exposed beam near the dryer!") boutique tattoo parlor run by her husband (Terry's stepfather #2) Nunu "Mickey" Balasubhramaniam, once it had sunk in that her one and only child had indeed come home kind of late, unannounced, during what was then her night to host one of the now weekly "As The World Turns" pre-cancelation parties she and some former classmates from Hillside (NJ) High School have recently began to stage in anticipation of the long running TV soap's announced departure from the nation's visual airwaves on September 17, 2010.

"Luckily we weren't able to unload his old Huffy at our garage sale last month, which means it's still his to enjoy if he can get his job back delivering the Star-Ledger," the somewhat terminally hopeful Ms. Silverman-Balasubhramaiam added, while those around her sniffled and wept amongst themselves, in a collective form of obviously unbridled emotion, no doubt brought on by the rising tide of collective unkind thoughts centered around the soon to be happening reality of going on with what remains of their lives without their weekly daytime fix of tube-like contact with either Holden, Dusty, and/or Barbara Ryan, to help make some sort of half-way sense of the whole deep, disturbing, swirling along morass of what passes itself off as life these days.

"I just hope he don't mind too much having to sleep in the basement, and share a toilet with Mickey's sometimes around-the-clock rough trade cliental," Ms. Silverman-Balaubhramaim, cautioned, while snapping open another 16 oz. Colt 45 (her fourth), "I mean, some of those gals from both Edna Mahan or Gloucester County, especially the ones who went to Perth Amboy High, can really spook ya."

WHAT? - Well, it seems this fellow Jason Wayne Terry once wrote a screenplay, that for some time had gone nowhere fast, but which, in recent weeks has picked up some noticeable, and quite far-reaching, faster than a bat out of who dat hell-like steam. Mainly because a series of strange but true, inadvertent-like events clicked in together and therefore allowed this rather long, misunderstood, never actually completely read, 250 page, sub-standard formatted opus, "Taking Care of Da Hot Spotz," to get more than the usual minimal (i.e. mostly not at all) coverage from assorted unpaid interns (from a variety of over-priced eastern schools) whose job it was to weed out the muck from the perpetual daily script-glut mire, and hopefully locate something for (as was the case during past ten years) either Brad Pitt or Julia Roberts, or, as of late, anything that smells like another "Matrix", or, at least could possibly be "The Hangover II." (With, or without a little of sex, but with, a whole lot of cute, yet effective, kicks in the nuts.)

Anyway, talk about timing. According to whatever little coverage previously existed as far as "Taking Care of Da Hot Spotz" was concerned, all indications were that this was only a bomb waiting to never happen.

And, not just because right from the get-go, this would-be never happening project was optioned outright by Samuel J. Katzinjammerman (a little known bottom-feeder-like North Hollywood-based producer for too many years) who became the primary moving shaker usher of this heretofore undiscovered germ-like diamond in the enough is enough pile of wannabe screen properties, as apparently a favor for his cousin, Sid Katzin, a semi-surprisingly successful owner of several Ford dealerships in Rhode Island (semi-surprisingly, in that, he somehow has remained alive and swell throughout the last forty or so years, despite his sometimes long rumored inability to do nothing but the usual short count during his alleged long, and still, running time as a local money laundering tool for certain, as yet, unsubstantiated forces deep within the otherwise thriving and certainly out in the open - at least during the end of the year holidays, and/or whenever the New England Patriots were playing - Providence area mob machine) whose daughter Selma apparently had a crush on Terry, while they were both attending Emerson College during the early 1990s, primarily because besides using her never-say-die (just ask, why not) exotically tinged slutty good looks (and her sometimes - as in, always - all too obvious ample up-top persuasive tendencies) in all his student films (and, of course, promising to ultimately put her eventual B.A. in Musical Theatre Performance (with a minor in Political Science) to good use via his hoped-for some day string of would-be, can't miss, sell-out the art house, Hollywood blockbusters) Terry was also the only non-gay guy at Emerson who thought enough to ask her to dance during her freshman year, at a party celebrating the school having just completed the rather contentious eviction of a gruesome group of multi-layered, poorly fed, squatters from a recently purchased classic art deco downtown theater, which was then in the soon to be process of being totally refurbished.

No, there was something else entirely (besides a higher than usual concept and/or the high wire, should-be improbable-like first act set-up of this particular who-but-you-know-who-would-have-done-it-this-way-if-they-only-could sort of what-if epic) that had a way of causing everyone who got near it to think twice. And then, twice more. Or, however many it took them, after they'd quickly skimmed past the nutsy whatsy bolts at play here and there during the tricky bridge to (and over) the film's not yet ironed out nowhere/somewhere middle in order to hopefully sneak a final scene peek at what would seem to be an all-too-impossible "as promised" or "highly, if not, ultimately unlikely" do-not-look-behind-the-curtain, doomsday-like, totally rigged, explosive-laden, save the world by destroying much of it (or, at least, those areas that deserved it) faux apocalyptical, save-the-new-day finale conclusion.

"I couldn't believe it, this damn thing had it all," said Katzinjammerman recently, while otherwise taking a short break during the jury selection for his upcoming trial in Seattle related to a series of parking violations, and also for apparently laughing hysterically throughout a USO-sponsored Memorial Day weekend outdoor screening of the Oscar-winning film,"The Hurt Locker," following a local VFW barbeque picnic that included a Special Forces Olympic competition. "Bullets, bombs, bozos, and babes. And, somewhat of a cautionary tale, to boot. So add that to the list of "B's", the boot, that is, and keep a look out for Brahms. No, just kidding. But you know what I mean."

All of which, in the end, seemed to suggest that through the bold, daring, and adventurous implementation of just such a coordinated multi-national (with one singular sensation notion under God in mind) course of pinpoint strategic pro-active global editing, and, of course, a collective "no look back" approach as their only guide for whatever full speed ahead intentions would soon enough ensue, not only would such a plan reset the record straight, it would, as inappropriately imaged as possible, reconfigure the existing playground of worldwide pie under the sky into much more of a likable (and hopefully) co-existing arrangement, suitable for framing (and/or, as agreed to by) the major primary first and second world powers of the once proud globe at large. Who, as was often recognized at the time, had more (if not all) to lose, should conditions within various and sundry third world locals, as well as, some of the more troubling keyed up areas already within their (the two-headed global beasts) respective spheres of undo influence and/or puppet-like control, keep moving along, as is, instead of was.

Or, to go all logline all of a sudden (or, at long last, depending on which end of the pier you're now in a position to want to jump from): In order for the United States and the not-nyet-more Soviet Union/Russia to get back to what used to be an inappropriately good enough (for them anyhow) drawn up and quartered board, that (as long as they were the ones holding the key to the system) was, for better or worse, a world of too good and plenty of plenty just out there waiting (and yes, all theirs to be had) they of course, team up and agree to deposit most (if not all) of their nuclear warhead arsenal, if not under a rug, then in and around a whole bunch of out of town elsewheres. Or, so it is planned, once they become even more aware of the pre-endgame possibilities of just such a self-fulfilling concept, after they unofficially co-opt and re-devise a similar plan, as initially cooked up by a reigning hip-hop mogul and his geeked out, urban myth making/super Nintendo-gameboy freakazoid nephew (quite by accident, it seems) in an effort to spice up their ongoing whatcha wants 2 du now, dog, crib life, y'all. And, well, from there, they, that is the U.S.kies and the Ruskies, cherry pick and chose whatever nagging hot spots around the planet are, in their eyes, in need of the ultimate leverage clip job. Which, all things being unequal, their particular express mail payloads would most def-like be up to the task of delivering the go-boom goods accordingly, where and wherever else so. So, there!

And, well, to cover their tracks, so as to hopefully put both a proper as well as a so-called mystified mystery-like message inside each and every mushroom cloud enigma that arrives in downtown duck and coverville, (all in post post-war world due time) they bring in teams of Hollywood's finest FX hotshots to help mask any all-too-obvious overkill crash and burn trail with some of there own patent-pending smoke and mirrors and/or whatever something else entirely. All of which would seem to suggest that, in response to an obviously deliberate attack from an invading evil force from outside our still spinning planetary realm, old school superpower boys, USA and (Mother F-N) Russia, pull off the ultimate tag-team DP, and essentially save the day (or what's left of it - for them) after they first go full-tilt devastating megaton on the entire Middle East, the Balkans, North Korea, Mexico, Chechnya, much of Africa and South America, a big chunk of China, anything they can around India (except Mumbai), both Vietnam and Afghanistan (coming in the form of corresponding not-sorry-we're-late, wall-to-wall, land-leveling payback hits), and, in a sort of matching direct hit and/or similar Sieg Heil-this, vein, Germany, too (if not for the obvious reasons, then because, what the hell, someone finally can. And besides, sure why not? After all they're the dummkopfs who went rogue in the first place, and, by doing so, got all this kind tit for tat crap up and running for everyone else to enjoy. Or, at least think they should join in and give it a try. If only to maybe pick up some fashion tips along the way, and/or certainly broaden whatever geopolitical flair they may need to adjust (or just ape completely) in order to properly shrink what had, in succeeding years, already become something of noticeable fetish gap between them, and well, what will soon enough, be someone else's rest of the once upon the time complete world.

Okay, so maybe that's a couple of loglines rolled into one big push-the- envelope outside-the-box one, for all to chew on, and then, on the way home hopefully enjoy. So, like what? You were maybe expecting a more bite-sized, boy meets girl, countries go nuts, world blows up, the end, thanks for playing along, drive home safely, I'm here all week, and/or I rang the bell didn't I? Maybe next time.

"I think the picture is pretty damn clear here, no matter how you slice it," said Katzinjammerman, as he finished using a cell block laptop to send yet another e-mail out to remind whoever's been stupid enough to send the Nigerian Letter/419 fraud deal to this particular local lockdown crowd, that time was indeed running out for any chance of whoever it was to log in and sign up for whatever upcoming sure fire college and pro football pools were being drawn up inside the downtown correctional facilty.

"So you can imagine my surprise," he added, "when all I kept getting was the usual, 'been there, done that, seen this, not that,' but, yeah, so? So, what? I saw the potential, why didn't anyone else out there, huh? But, what can you do? That's what they do to visionaries in this here end of the pool. Always have, always will. Von Stroheim, Welles, and hell, Ray, especially Ray, despite what not enough anymore will look you straight in the eye and tell you. But even so, did I think it would eventually wind up like it did? Are you kidding?? With Jaleel White, the Urkel guy, somehow attached to it at the end, all because someone, I'm still not sure who, promised him that we'd change the kid into some sort of basketball star instead of a what…….a genius video game/computer designer who insisted the big picture was always just another small one inside of an even bigger one, with I, you, me, he, she, it, always just hanging on for a wicked helluva a way to get there one last ride? Believe me, I didn't see all that then, and I don't now. But that doesn't mean there no room out there for anyone else's alternative, or strictly along the way, other way of all kinds."

In other words, favors being favors, then as now, nothing much came of Katzinjammerman's unsystematic efforts to get anyone around Hollywood to give "Taking Care of Da Hot Spotz" anything more than a casual sniff. Expect for Robert Downey Jr., who was reported to have been either "really impressed" (or completely sober, after an unnamed guard at the L.A. County Men's Central Jail - and part-time Security Consultant for Katzinjammerman's production company, Unlimited Partners, Inc. - slipped him a 12-page treatment during the early days of one his many drug-related trials in the mid-1990s) so much so that he promised to have lunch with Katzinjammerman if and when he was ever in a more capable position of doing so.

Uhhh, yeah.

And well, as luck and an uncertain amount of nose clean fate would also have it, even less was more often than not expected from (and, as such, never at all realized by) Katzinjammerman, especially whenever the ponies were running at Hollywood Park.

This, in turn, took an even more peculiar turn for the unusual not-so-nice and/or just way too dicey worse, due to the unfortunate fact of the matter that somewhere along the way cousin Sid got official wind that fledgling auteur-in-waiting Terry was about to (or, based on any available footage) had already become knee-deep in the process of showcasing Selma as the centerpiece attraction in a super-sized series of filmed in Las Vegas and/or Mexico fetish-oriented features for numerous overseas (mainly Germany, Turkey, and Brazil) markets, once her bouncy two-week hop-a-long nicely stint on "Baywatch" didn't pan out as planned, essentially because of an unplanned stingray bite, and the fact, that, as it turned out, she had what could safely be described as a violent and noticeable allergic reaction to David Hasselhoff's customized designed Bobbie Brown spray-on-tan.

"You gotta remember, by then I was really up against it," said Katzenjammerman, while flipping through a just-arrived screenplay about a long forgotten, yet still fresh and fishy (at least in some retired guy's mind from Yuma, Arizona) scandal surrounding the Gadsen Purchase in 1853, and the questionable roll a certain westward ho wagon train of New Orleans harlots had cinching the steal (or, rather, inking the "deal") that gave the U.S. what is now the now the lower fat lip of present day Arizona. "But like I said, whoever says they had a clue back then that this would all go the way it did, is either lying, or is, more than likely, just one of the fellas I've been trading smokes and sudokus with ever since I got here. As for Terry, well, after the big push and pull beginning got neither of us the time a day, he never let up, or ever once seemed ready to throw in the towel, which, eventually he never had anyway. But that's beside the point. Really, no matter what, he was always right there, regardless, ready to make with the re-writes, even when that seemed like just another idea of Paula Abdy's to get us the hell out of her office. Even so, I always knew I could count on him. And, as for now, I can only wish him well, and good speed. Since, that's how he seemed to do his best work. And, not to go all Dr. Oz on you, but even now, that kind of stuff still really works, especially in here."

WHEN? - According to recently unsealed transcripts and assorted direct deposit bank records, Jason Wayne Terry wrote the bulk (or at least the action and descriptive details) of "Taking Care of Da Hot Spotz" over a six-month period in late 1997, while he was a 22-year-old Researcher/Video Logger at "America's Funniest Home Videos." Apparently a daily diet of gathering, viewing, categorizing, and, in the end, digitizing, a seemingly endless visual parade of guys of all shapes, sizes and stripes getting forever whacked in the nuts, with nearly every imaginable object possible (including a brand new set of steak knives apparently flung at the below the belt terrain of an unsuspecting - and, anything but prepared - real estate salesman from Long Island who appeared otherwise unaware that coffee is for closers) was all that was needed in order for Terry to remain reasonably inspired. Especially during those evenings when there was still Mountain Dew in his fridge, and his neighbor's accidentally delivered copy of Juggs to "read" while waiting for the cable guy to not show.

Meanwhile, all the dialogue for "Taking Care of Da Hot Spotz" was added later on, following Terry's wall-to-wall viewing of a three-day "Sgt. Bilko"/"The Phil Silvers Show" marathon on TV Land. No doubt this is what contributed to the screenplay's mistakenly unintentional (or, at least, often enough perceived) "flipped-out," and/or "totally reckless" overall tone. Especially since it was often delivered in a rapid-fire fashion, that, although funny on the surface, couldn't help but be a noticeable, and at times, unnecessary distraction. Especially with regards to the underlining subtext that was already fueling much of the ongoing, and in many cases, tragic drama that had been so painstakingly established.

This so-called "Bilko Influence" was apparently also the reason for Terry's somewhat conscious decision to re-name all of the major military personnel and political figures with assorted character names from the classic 50s era comedy show, during the course of his dialogue deployment.

Consequently, this explains why, from the beginning, "Taking Care of Da Hot Spotz" was led by a President Doberman, whose cabinet included assorted folks named Barbella, Paparelli, and Zimmerman, and Joint Chiefs Of Staff was populated with characters named Henshaw, Grover, Ritzik, and Fender.

"All I can say is I'm just glad the kid wasn't into 'Petticoat Junction' or something else just as scary," Katzinjammerman said, during a recent Q & A session co-sponsored by the State Department and Seattle's Highway 99 Blues Club. "I mean, I know for a fact that, at the last minute, he was seriously thinking about blowing it all up again, and going in a more "Laugh-In" like direction. But one look at the legal headache that would bring on, quickly cured, or at least put the lid down on such a foolish idea before too much blood, sweat, and tears, were otherwise written off as just so much business as usual collateral damage."

Sadly, the nine months that Terry worked at Vin Di Bona Productions (the forthright, clear-thinking geniuses behind "America's Funniest Home Videos") proved to be his only successful industry related employment, as a result of any hoped for so-called Emerson College alumni networking connections.

And, other than the time when (during a five-year stint as an overnight member of the Independent Taxi Company transport team) he drove noted kooky soap star/TV writer-producer Arleen Sorkin to LAX to catch the red-eye to Washington D.C., the only other even half-way close-call contact Terry had with a fellow Emersonian was the time when, as low man on the "Double Whammy" catering crew totem pole, he was forced to let Denis Leary cut in the port-o-potty line before him, due to an apparent emergency situation brought on by the recent careless consumption of too much old (or thought to have been previously discarded) Buri Turo sushi.

"Frankly, we're still surprised Mr. Terry was ever even admitted into Emerson College in the first place," said Ms. Fatima Goldman-Aziz, longtime Director of Admissions at the highly regarded educational institution, located in Boston's thriving, elite world, theatre district, when asked to comment on reports that Terry might now be, aside from Mario Cantone, the most sought after Emerson grad since the late Eugene Roche. "Besides having only one legitimate transcript recommendation, from a suspended Euro-Centric History instructor/video store clerk in Elizabeth, New Jersey, Terry scored extremely low on the, supposed to be fun and easy to take, Steven Wright Inverse Ratio Admittance Exam."

"And, on top of that," she quickly added, before rushing off to make sure some late-arriving applications from a recent influx of bald sopranos (originating from a Franco-Romanian cult of musical theatre absurdists currently operating in Philadelphia and several island communities off the coast of South Carolina) were on the up and up with, of course, payment fee checks that hopefully won't bounce this time, "there really is no record that he even graduated from Emerson. There is however, a rather substantial unpaid fine still yet on his record, to the tune of $11,865.76, that is directly attributed to damage which somehow occurred to the penthouse floor of one of our dormitories, as result of his non-sanctioned participation in both the creation and eventual irresponsible presentation of a casino night/soy yogurt wrestling match party that otherwise included several M.I.T. fraternities, a visiting delegation of Scandinavian podiatrists, and at least six members of the Portland Trail Blazers pro basketball team."

WHERE? - As previously stated, Terry wrote "Taking Care of Da Hot Spotz" during evenings spent at his home. Which, at the time, was essentially nothing much more than a series of unconnected rooms on the third floor of a mid-city building in Los Angeles, that overlooked an onramp to a westbound portion of the 10 (Santa Monica) Freeway.

One can only assume that the soothing, steady sound of so much seemingly non-stop nearby traffic, along with any (highly likely) nightly encounters with police helicopters and their always illuminating flood-lit intrusion and/or reoccurring presence, helped immensely in setting the mood for Terry to dream and, in the end, complete his somewhat backhand cockeyed mission statement, of sorts.

"From what I gathered, he also ate like a ton of cottage cheese," said Huk Soo Fun, a lower floor resident of the building at the time, who has since moved on to live either in a dumpster across the street, or, during inclement weather beneath the aforementioned freeway onramp. "Because that's about all I ever saw him heave out his window into the driveway. Other than, of course, his collection of World Book Encyclopedia Yearbooks, one of those Gazelle Workout Stations, and, usually every New Year's Day, a pillow case full of stale candy corn."

And while this apartment was the place Terry initially put it all down on an eventual six inch thick stack of legal pads, any follow-up fine tuning, and/or rewrites were done at the home of Swaliroowho de La Palma, a young impressionable data-entry clerk he'd apparently met at a Hollywood area employment services company, after he tripped over her desk in an attempt to avoid becoming any more involved than he had to with two former highly disgraced network showrunners (something to do with either "Hiller and Diller" or "The Tom Show") fighting for equal access to a recent opening at a popular fast-food franchise.

"Besides looking super cuddly in an un-tucked t-shirt, Jason just had something special about him," confessed Ms. de La Palma, now the co-owner of an Indian oriented sweets establishment in Artesia, California. "Or, I don't know, maybe it was the way liked to walk around and talk like Granny from "The Beverly Hillbillies" after midnight. Or, whenever it was when his writing became, I guess, just a little too uncomfortable to pass through his goofy, yet, sometimes decidedly tortured, mixed-up, way out there, little boy oh boy sort of soul."

HOW? - How does anything that starts out this slow (and/or completely unaccepted by those in a position to either do so, or, at best, re-direct said anything in a more fruitful direction that, in some cases, actually helps and further enables the likelihood that a positive and/or temporary beneficial outcome might be more readily achieved; either initially as an extended part of what would seem to be an altogether intended conclusion, but also, ultimately, as essentially whatever remains, following any necessary period of unavoidable pissing and moaning, and/or well established degree of overly-dramatic looks the other way) become, in the end, without much trying, a total, raging wildfire of imaginable-like possibilities, that, by the nature of the could-be unleashed beast from within, something both magnetically compelling, yet still so relentlessly repulsive to behold, how the hell in the world does that kind of crap shoot kick into gear, and then, actually really happen, for good?

Well, according to Katzinjammerman it's generally as easy as whatever business as usual sign is ridden in on, during any of the more often supersized frustrating times that always arise when a property is guided around the semi-artistic, always hungry for a hit, landscape soup system of the business of show.

In other words, in the beginning, it was just a matter of, well, it is so written. Or, was until someone got the bright idea that, hell, all things considered, the play's the thing. And, so it was, or would seem to be, as long as the stage was set and no one missed or simply forget their necessarily appropriate cue, and/or whatever was used to keep things moving along at a clip that all could either observe and, of course, play along with accordingly.

Which, in turn, ultimately comes around to a certain way of thinking that seems to sum up what is best and most brightest about our own individually collective chances to successfully follow a course worth following. Or, as the sign and good book (Sid Fields' anyway) says, it all begins with a well-structured story, that, despite the set-up and continuing thread of an arc, should, in the beginning, middle, and end, be quite capable of telling it's own side of it's story, without, of course, waiting for, or relying on, everyone else to tag along and somehow keep their lips moving without full (or prior) knowledge of where the funny is, and the payoff begins.

"Clearly, no one really knew what they had, or what they were going to do with it, if they did know," said Katzinjammerman, while lounging in a not-exactly-comfy (but, it'll do) L.A. Men's Central rooftop deck chair, watching two banned-for-life (from The Ivy) former ICM VP's lift weights under the causal spot-less supervision of fellow inmate Raheem DeWayne Shabazz. "Which, as a rule, is standard operating procedures, with or without, of course, a typical amount of partially veiled personal threats and/or promises, that someone, somewhere is either dead to someone else, or, in all likelihood, never going to be in a position to either work or eat lunch in this town ever again. Or, until, that is, they're at least needed to, in order to swing a new and/or better deal. Or, as is most often the case, get an unspecified amount low-level tickets to see the Lakers in the play-offs, along with a parking pass. That thing you just gotta have, or else, what good is the rest, really? Or, or. I mean, there just is no other way around that one."

"Still, it never hurts to have either luck, or someone else's unfortunate misfortune to help open things up a bit for you, or whoever it is that might, in fact, let you represent them, in order to bring out even more of your shine," he continued, even though all indications seemed to suggest he'd been lost for sometime now without really knowing it. "I mean, like everything else, everywhere else, getting to the church on time in Hollywood is no different. Except that out here sometimes a priest is likely to call it a night pretty early in the evening, every time Charlie Sheen, or Mel Gibson have one of their people phone in their last confession."

In the strange case of "Taking Care of Da Hot Spotz," the luck that Katzinjammerman referred to came in the unexpected form of some all of a sudden clampdown exclusionary interest in the property, once it slipped through a few fingers at CUE/B (Creative United Empowered/Beholden), the new no-man's land agency that, for better or worse, is, as always, committed to ignore the rules, jumpstart the wave, and, as is their purogitive, seriously attempt to get Seymour Cassel his own series (preferably with either Valerie Harper of Brenda Vaccaro along for the ride) before it's too late.

"Needless to say, at first I was anything but impressed," confessed JaKobson Nina, one of the more candid, yet seriously under control acquisition officers/agent-managers, currently waiting for someone else to pick up any phone that rings more than twice at the CUE/B main office in Century City.

After being pushed around gently (mainly due to a sudden lapse in her usual self-contained mid-day sexual office politics decorum), Ms. Nina, eventually had even more to say on the subject of "Taking Care of Da Hot Spotz" and it's onward slippery spiral to whatever lay ahead of, apparently, everyone's curve, "As a sort of don't-go-there-girlfriend, hip-hop meets "Independence Day"/"Dr. Strangelove," with a slab of maybe too much would-be Spielberg/Lucas whiz bang on the side, this rather far-reaching cinematic reflux-a-thon foresaw a new unified world order of self-imposed nuclear disarmament and systematic strategic global termination as being the ultimate package deal between "all in" political/military heads and the best state-of-the-art Hollywood special effects any amount of money could buy, with either Ice Cube, Wesley Snipes, or Martin Lawrence somehow attached, and all sorts of extra-added, pile it on, WTF written all over it."

"Usually in all the margins, of what little there was that was actually read," she added, while making a face (which she checked, re-checked, then re-checked again) as the phone kept ringing, obviously well past a customary period of courtesy go-to-voice-mail-already-why don't-ya time. "That is, once it was somehow allowed to begin traveling a sort of round about course that occasionally touched base with someone, not already too busy and/or totally bogged down with such necessary miscellaneous responsibilities as either making sure there's enough coffee filters, trying to find at least one stapler that works more than twice, and/or attempting to fix a copy machine after one of the mailroom assiciates semi-successfully runs off about ten copies of almost half of his bare ass rear end."

In any case, the initial, unpromising days after "Taking Care of Da Hot Spotz" made it to beachhead at CUE/B, were just tip-of-the-iceberg time for most of us still on board at this time. Something to be not all that impressed by, if only because of its obviously apparent girth. Which, at the time, seemed to suggest that while the exposed, open for perusal surface, seemed not-so-innocent enough, no one had the nerve, the guts, and/or quite simply, enough time in the day to give this paper pile anything more than a passing ("Man, this frigin' thing is heavy; and I don't mean cause David Crosby or Peter Fonda might think it's cool) glance, with nary a thumb-up and waving, except for in the usual company cozy.

That is, until it finally crossed the desk of R. Ted Medamuscellini, a fast-rising, shoot-from-the-lip, someday will own the place (if he lives that long), Junior In-House Speed Script Reader, who, because he was on a mission (and certain pharmaceuticals he so far has been able to successfully mask though a variety of undetected means whenever it's time to pee in a cup, as result of a new company drug policy, and the fact, that when he tried to do it in a cereal bowl, the new receptionist had a cow, which must have hurt, as she hasn't really sat down ever since, except to….….well, that's another story), he remained at his desk during a recent gas leak evacuation, that, although entirely necessary, the gas leak and subsequent flood of exiting company folk bolting to the outdoors, provided a worthwhile window of opportunity of sorts, in that it allowed everyone a longer than usual chance to check out and sample some of the food stuff wares being offered on a daily basis by a series of impressively decked out boutique lunch trucks specializing in all cool things piping hot and ready to go. Go figure. And then, go often.)

Meanwhile, it was Medamuscellini who saw the light at the end of the funnel that, of course, fueled the fire from within whatever Jason Wayne Terry was attempting say in all his feverish, overwrought glory, as mapped out from pillar to post in the first place.

"Yeah I got it alright, and it didn't take me to page ten to see that this indeed had something way more than it seemed going on all over it," said Medamuscellini during a rare moment of calm at the mid-point of his daily foot bath at the company sauna/Preston Sturges Science Viewing Room. "I mean, besides all the scribbling in the corners by Matt Sprat from down the hall, the usual coffee cup markings from when Sylvia Rios-Mendelssohn did her usual no-look number, and, of course, a bunch of undetermined stains that couldn't help but come front and centered all over the cover page after I accidentally left it in one of the restroom stalls all afternoon because, well…….I can, and just, did, that's all. But seriously, by that point I already knew I was all the way onto something, so, what the hell, water under the bridge, you know?"

As long as someone does.

Anyway, as the story goes, according to what's become common enough knowledge so far, once Medamuscellini got half way though reading "Taking Care of Da Hot Spotz" he really knew he was onto something well worth skipping to the end of, to find out what in the world gives. And not just because he, too, had visions of someday getting Wesley Snipes back up on his feet and under the soundstage lights instead of the interrogating kind he's been so busy facing, as of late, downtown, and points somewhere.

"Yeah, well, since I could see, even in the middle of the second act, I could see, where the chips were all going to start falling, it suddenly stuck me as all too eerily similar to something else I'd sort of heard recently," said Medamuscellini, trying to sit extra still while Estanza, the company pedicure floater, banged away at one of his hammertoes with a small flashlight. "You see, I got this buddy, and he's got a sister, who's married to guy, who's still got a mother, who lives next to a guy, who used to live with this nurse, who generally works the all-night ER at a hospital in Maryland, and, according to her, one night not long ago, some State Department mucky-wuk came in, mostly out of it, and in serious need of something to be removed from him. And I don't mean his wallet. At least not at first. And, of course, the guy's all delirious, and speaking nonsense, which, considering the context, figures since more often than not folks in his, well, delicate ("What WERE you thinking, Sir, when you decided to…….HOLD STILL!) conditional position, will, and do, say anything. And, based on what he had to say, or was overcooking upstairs, or at least kept semi-consciously alluding to, was pretty much the same exact divide and conquer by elimination policy, as improperly spelled out from one end to whatever exhaustive conclusion other was capable of handling the truth, as was, you know, already dictated by Terry's pre-stated special dish menu and its brave new world of would-be recovering possibilities, for the soon to be, new old big dogs on the world block, so to speak.

"And, being a kind of patriotic sort, who can smell the rose in bloom whenever I step in it, I had to just say, Hmmmmmmmm. With a capital "H" - em," said Medamuscelini, just as he began to realize that pedicure artist Estanza had apparently made off with one of his socks. "And well, what could I do after that, except, make the call, and pray that I wouldn't fall asleep waiting for someone real to also be semi-awake on the other end."

WHY? - Why not? Or, why do you think? And not just because Martin Lawrence needs a hit right about now, too.

In other words, this time out the cut-to-the-chase went pretty much as follows:

"Thank you for calling U.S. Department of State, if you would like to hear the rest of this menu in English, press one. If you are currently in possession of, and/or have come in contact with, a form of intellectual property, (even if it exceeds the standard crackpot protocol 300 double-spaced pages limit, with, of course, the appropriate margins and borders) that in any way, shape, or form might seemingly be of interest to anyone within U.S. Department of State family, or possibly be of even greater interest to those within assorted outlining areas of the present governmental system community, with currently an even higher and more advanced level of national security clearance, especially in the areas of the military policy, foreign affairs, global economy, and/or the way it just is, then remain on the line for the next available outsourced U.S. Department of State Communications Associate Coordinator to help you with your lightening in a bottle, monkey in a box, or whatever pertinent situational whatzit has, for now anyway, gotten your tiger's tail in a big old, can't-sit-down-no-more, bundle of too much hunka bunch junk."

And well, from here it's fairly easy to do the math. And even more fun to do the figuring out of any and all subsequent scenario-like fallout. Especially when high-ranking governmental insiders, uppity-ups, and assorted interrelated (executive branch suggested, congressionally approved) inside-the-beltway policy spear carriers and/or carefully pre-screened (not stirred) stewards for a more particular envision-this policy, take turns joining in to at least make with the notes, and/or offer up whatever else they can so as to make sure there's enough, creatively-speaking, profit participation to go all around the shrinking world table. Especially once their updated version of a new and improved scorched Earth, get-back-to-the-garden, just watch out for the burning bush, endgame junior storyboard policy gets green lit, and lets the military machine and imported dream merchant tech crew take over the big will be done, and drive it the rest of the way home. And/or hopefully in time for another (although, maybe not as competitive) festive-like Oscar season.

Needless to say, the usual waste not/want all hearts and minds plans of those in charge of our more private public will at large, at first hit a variety of inter-governmental fans inside the many walled-in windowless halls of national and global security persuasion. Which, given the possible threat of some sort of lingering copywrite infringement that might, in the meantime, bring in the Writer's Guild to lay claim for one of its own, is understandable. But, apparently, not un-advisable.

So, it's no wonder that, scuttlebutt being what it is these days, the call went out to make immediate nice-nice with Jason Wayne Terry. Which, in turn, meant that necessary arrangements were established with his people so as to help persuade him down out of his Perth Amboy tree house and into a more appropriate setting in order to partner-up, so to speak, and, in turn, be something of an advisory assistmeister for the parent company governmental body in their ongoing continued attempt to address certain sticky points in the third draft version of their particular take on the as schemed up, proposed worldwide U.S. - Russia remodel power grab of so many around the world places well known.

Meaning of course, that Terry couldn't help but say, "I'm in!" when offered just such a side door chance to rise above the great unwashed soup bowl he was then in the un-fun process of sinking in. All of which ended any of his pressing worries about getting the Star-Ledger paper route back. And, definitely caused him to stop sweating any possible s-h-i details that might have been just it for him, with regards to that bogus telemarketing/grand larceny rap with his name and voice mail all over it, in both Las Vegas and Pasadena, and who knows wherever else?

Consequently, being the good little moviemaking scribe he always pretended to be, Terry will (or is already) somewhat royally ensconced in an undisclosed totally bitchin' bungalow somewhere attempting to iron out supposed real life/real world standoff structural issues between the U.S. and their Russian brothers and sisters in certain not yet set in stone areas of greater procedural concern. Namely, how to resolve the inevitable tipping point, not-so-good faith trade-off agreement that seems to have never been resolved, due to the fact that neither side is, at this point, willing to either give in and/or commit to, a previously agreed upon line item that stipulated that each side must invariably annihilate one of their own "as designated" home targets, as suggested by either side, so as to better balance things out and in the end firm up whatever committal uncertainty may still exist at the kick-off portion of their collective zero hours.

As it currently stands, Russia will only do the U.S. choice of Yekaterinburg, if the Yanks agree to take out Atlanta. (It wouldn't be the first time.) For the simple reason that, according to some Kremlin area Blockbusters still up and actually running, Prime Minister Putin is a long standing, die-hard "Gone With The Wind" fan, who, during much of his secondary school years, often sported a sort of devil-may-care Clark Gableish pencil-stash, while working as a circus juggler traveling the highly festive, yet Big Top-challenged, Black Sea circuit.

As a sort of ongoing counter move, certain forces within the current U.S. power structure have floated the idea that they might be willing to go as high as Detroit, if only to show how much they really have "no mercy." And, of course, hopefully provide the NFL Lions with even more of an incentive to maybe make this year they one they really go for it all.

"Hell, I always knew the kid had it in him to do something important with his skills," said Katzinjammerman, about to now start something new of his own with a just hatched three-picture first-look set-up deal at Sony, due to his stunning cashed-in sign-off of any future personal involvement with either "Taking Care of Da Hot Spotz, or its subsequent revisionary absorption into what now is commonly referred to in certain circles and squares as, "Operation It-Can." "I guess now it's Obama's chance, or anyone else with plans of still standing, to just sit back, let the genius loose, and, well, you know, like the sign says, hold on when it's time to ride the old tentpole whirlwind."

Anyway, so far, so good.

In other words, it ain't over till the writer taps "Fade-out: The End," the director says, "Cut!", and the first A.D. quickly tells any in the (hopefully) still wide awake assembled, that they're, "Moving on!"

And, so they are, or will be shortly, after the crew takes five.

In still other words, apparently we'll always have Paris, if not Mumbai.

EPILOGUE: In response to unfulfilled promises for journalistic brevity, the management of "The Spoof" and "Spoof, Inc. Ltd." wish to apologize for any herein excesses on top to bottom display.

*On a side note, it has come to the attention of no one in particular, that the person credited with spinning out this yarn piece is, in all actuality, nothing more than an unwittingly naive stooge and/or a pre-arranged by-line front for notorious, low-flying, Serbian cock and bull performance artist, Savo "Howie" Lykmenowbichavic, who, apparently became that way for the simple reason that he -- the faux-like reporter (heretofore, an otherwise unemployed Hollywood-based torso model/landscape technician) -- recently engaged the services of a Czech Republic Mail-Order-Bride enterprise, that, as it has since turned out, supplied him with a postage due (and all the necessary shots, too) female companion that, for better or worse, acts and sounds (but in no way looks) like saucy porn kitten Francesca Felucci.

As is so often the case, once again, some settling of contents may have occurred during shipment and handling.


The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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