My Miscellany.

Hello Darlings. You know, in Hollywood I've met a lot of two-faced people, but that washout from Cirque Du Soliel, Dr. Lao, is seven-faced!


My Facebook page keeps showing me ads for "H.P. Lovecraft audiobooks." Ignoring for the moment the insult that it thinks I can't read for myself, I'm tempted, if only to hear how some poor actor pronounces: "Ph'nglui mglw'mafh Cthulhu R'lyeh Wgah'nagl fhtagn." (That's transcribed directly from a Lovecraft tale.)

But then, if someone did pronounce it correctly, it would unleash a shitstorm of ancient, inter-dimensional monsters upon us. It was some poor schmuck reading that story aloud last November that accidentally put all those insane Teabagger candidates into Congress. Let's face it, Michelle Bachman is clearly Yog-Sothoth, Speaker of the House John Boner is obviously a Shoggoth (the crying is a dead giveaway), Rand Paul is unmistakably the horrific Nyarlathotep, while everyone knows that the hideous and revolting Sarah Palin is actually Ia Shub-Niggurath, aka "The Goat with a Thousand Young." And the state of Texas is obviously the hideous Yuggoth, while poor Wisconsin is being turned by its wacky Governor Cthulhu into the Fabled Plateau of Leng, where only nameless horrors live. Take a look at the Teabaggers' platform; it's the Necronomicon in English.

Think about it. In Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos stories, the hideous "Old Ones" are the Elder Gods, who once possessed the earth millions of years ago, and now reside in some inter-dimensional netherworld, trying ever to seduce extremely stupid and/or evil humans into performing the rites that will unleash these horrors back onto earth, to wipe humanity off the planet, and reign as Nameless Evil forever. Good grief, it's the Official Teabagger Agenda. Now it all makes sense.


Mark Twain, seen here with his second wife, Betty White, is dead, yet he put out a new book this year, a best seller in fact. Being dead is no longer an excuse for not writing. Come on, Charles Dickens, finish The Mystery of Edwin Drood already, you slacker!


Don't you love the American newsmedia? There are revolutions all over North Africa and the Middle-East, Wisconsin is being devastated by a crazed Fascist Governor who is trying to destroy the unions, Congress has been taken over by the Cult of Cthulhu and is trying to destroy all that is good in America, and an earthquake in New Zealand has killed a large number of people, but the big headlines this week were "Charlie Sheen Off the Deep End Again," "Jennifer Lopez Cries on American Idol," and the really big one that has every fat, pimply 13 year old girl in the country wailing in despair: "Justin Bieber Got a Haircut." Stop the presses! No, I mean it. Stop them, if this is what they're printing.

Not that I have anything against Celebrity news. In fact, I'll be recapping The Oscars on Monday over at The Huffington Post. After all, I am the second-oldest surviving celebrity in the world these days, after Betty White. I was delighted to see another ancient celebrity, my old pal and (blood) drinking buddy, Sir Christopher Lee, receive a the BAFTA version of a Life Achievement Award. Seeing all the great of movieland giving him two standing ovations did my heart good. Congratulations to Sir Christopher. Here he is with his award, his wife, and me. Lady Lee must be stronger than I am, because I could never stand erect wearing that 50 pound lead necklace she has on. I overheard a Ubangi saying "That's a bit much."

Little Dougie is a lifelong fan of Sir Christopher. Here he is with Sir Chris back when both of them were in considerably better shape. As you can see, Sir Christopher was obviously taking fashion tips from Dougie, as the only major differences in their outfits is the colors of their otherwise matching sweaters.

But along with an honor, came a mistaken disgrace, for poor Sir Christopher was the victim of identity theft, when a douchebag Teabagger (Yes, he's a teabagger and a douchebagger) congressman began passing himself off as Representative Christopher Lee online, where he was trying to cheat on his wife. As his cheating shows, he is, or was, an actual congressman, but don't be fooled. Sir Christopher only pretends to be Evil in movies. Ex-Congressman Lee actually is Evil. In fact, he took Christopher Lee's name because his real name is Azathoth, another of Lovecraft's horrors.

Speaking of The Oscars, The Wolfman was nominated for Best Make-Up. Who knew CGI constitutes "Make-Up." (But I really liked the movie. Good luck to Rick Baker, like he needs another Oscar.)

A 40-year member of the Hollywood Foreign Press Association committed suicide the day after the Golden Globes were awarded. Talk about overreacting to Ricky Gervais! I thought Ricky was funny.

I saw this headline last week: "Schwartzenegger to Act Again." What do they mean by "Again"?


Did you watch the Rose Parade? During the broadcast, longtime parade TV host Stephanie Edwards actually said: "I'm going to apply some nuts to my face this year." Steph, your mike is on! Stephanie is a lovely woman. I shared a dressing room with her for a TV broadcast once many years ago. Perhaps it was observing me that gave her the idea for this unique beauty treatment, or maybe she was inspired by the Teabaggers.

Speaking of old celebrities, poor Zsa Zsa Gabor is not in the best of health, and had to have one of her legs amputated. Her ex-leg just announced its marriage to Long John Silver's old leg. It's the first marriage for his, the ninth for hers. (Too soon? Well, Zsa Zsa won't see it.)

Darling David Tennent, the 10th Doctor Who, now regenerated, is marrying Georgia Moffett, who is the daughter of Peter Davison, the 5th Doctor Who, making The Doctor into his own father-in-law/son-in-law. This sort of thing may be considered okay on Gallifrey, but here on earth, you're not supposed to marry your own daughter, now matter how many times you've regenerated since.

Plus, Georgia's mother played Trillian, the heroine of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy in its TV series version. So she's also descended from Douglas Adams's other TV comic science-fiction universe. This is the sort of thing that can cause a time vortex that can swallow all of Reality.


They've got to get this stupid Spider-Man musical opened, so it can close. Julie Taymor needs to get on to her next dream project, a $100 million dollar revival of The Fantasticks. A cast of 40 will perform the entire show flying on wires at all times, manipulating twice lifesize marionettes. Julie has promised: "This time it will be fantastic!" The show, she promises, will be so deadly, she doesn't expect to get through any entire performance without killing at least one cast member. That's entertainment!

Here we see a typical Republican, the ones who invented this Teabagger scam to con stupid people across America into voting for people who are out to rob them and destroy all middle-class Americans, celebrating the extension of the Bush tax cuts for the rich. You know the Teabaggers are serous about balancing the budget by their extending those tax cuts which, if ended, would vastly increase America's income. Well, millions may be out of work, thousands have lost their homes, and essential services for the poor may be cut, but at least our overlords can still swim in their obscene personal wealth.

Here's Dick Cheney at his winter vacation undisclosed location, relieved that he won't have to pay his fair share of taxes to repair the country he destroyed. Did you vote for him, or for any Teabagger? If so, go screw yourself, asshole.



Speaking of Dick Cheney, here he is celebrating his latest Not-Fully-Dead-Yet Day. Why can't we deny him healthcare, the way his minions labor to deny it to you?


In other bad news, while the supremely Evil Dick Cheney lives on and on, artificially, several wonderful people have died recently. Jeanne Siegel, widow of Jerry Siegel, co-creator of Superman, and the inspiration and model for Lois Lane passed away, with no Superman to rescue her from old age. And my darling Betty Garrett died.




I've known Betty slightly for a long time now, and she was a powerhouse. She even presented Little Dougie with an acting award once, back in 1996. (It must have been some sort of horrible mistake.) Betty was a musical star at MGM until her career was sidelined by the Red Scare, that disgraceful blot on American history that happened the the last time the conservatives went power mad. (If we let these stupid Teabaggers run riot, the blacklist will return, mark my words. American Fascism lies happy and hungry in the heart of the Teabaggers.) Betty's crime? She was a liberal.




But she fought her way back, and found a second career on TV in the 1970s, winning another generation of fans. She was indefatigable. She even taught a musical comedy workshop the day before she died. She won the Kenny Award (named for my dear friend, the late Kenny Sasha, who was its first recipient), given to the person each year who does the most the help people with AIDS. Betty was a saint, and the conservatives who hounded her will never meet her again, as she won't be dropping by Hell, where they will all rot forever.

And if all that wasn't bad enough, the great Kenneth Mars died the same week. Even attempting to list all of Ken's magnificent career could take weeks. I first met him on the set of Young Frankenstein back in January 1974, and fairly recently ran into him in the Ahmanson Theater lobby, where we had a lovely chat. Along with being a brilliantly funny actor, he was approachable, friendly, warm, and very smart. He was also about 9 feet tall. I adored him. He was, after all, the man who told us: "Not many people knew it, but the Fuhrer was a terrific dancer."

"Nobody efer said a bad vord about Vinston Churchill! Churchil, vith hiz cigars, and hiz rotten painting, rotten! Now Ze Fuhrer, there was a painter. he could paint an entire apartment in one afternoon, two coats!"

"Shit! To zee lumberyard!"

It turns out the Easter Bunny has a drinking problem. When I mentioned this to my friend, Little Brian McCray, he replied: "The Easter Bunny can quit anytime it wants to, damn it! Get off its back! Do you have any idea how stressful it is for a pink rabbit to lay chicken eggs to hide for Christian children to find in a pagan ritual? This is wheels within wheels, buddy. He just needs something to take the edge off."

Brian misunderstood my meaning. Bunny's drinking problem is finding a bar that will serve animals.

Is this the British guy they cast as Superman? Because he looks a little young. In fact, he looks like charming Billy Mumy, whom I've met a couple times and know to be a delightful chap, nothing like the creepy magic kid Anthony he played on that classic episode of The Twilight Zone based on Jerome Bixby's story: It's a Good Life. I can hear the new movie's dialogue now: "Clark, it was a good thing you did to Lex Luthor, a good thing. He'll be much happier out in the cornfield."

On another matter altogether, Little Dougie wrote the forward for this book, and a long essay about Larry "Seymour" Vincent, and it will contain some of the scripts he wrote for Seymour's TV show. Any baby boomer who grew up in Los Angeles will want to read this book, which is now available at trc4u.com.

In parting I offer you this thought: There are no strangers in the world, just friends you haven't offended yet.

Cheers darlings.

The Desert Rata.

Go placidly among the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in riches.
Speak your truth softly, and carry a big stick.
Listen to others, even the dull and ignorant, no matter how boringly and stupidly they may waste your time.
Don’t put all your eggs in one basket, and recall that a pot that is watched will never boil.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, for they may punch you in the mouth.
If you compare yourself with others you will find you are a loser among losers.
Keep interested in your own career, however insignificant, and possibly illegal it may be.
Always buy low and sell high.
Exercise caution buying used cars, for the world is full of lemons, but don’t let this blind you to the killing you can make, for everywhere, Life is full of suckers.
Be yourself, however dull. Especially, do not feign marital intentions in a motel room.
Neither be cynical about Love; promise her anything, but give her Arpege.
You are a child of the Universe, no less than the Edsel and the dinosaur, you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the Universe will ignore you. Why shouldn’t it? Who are you?
Therefore, be at peace with the government, whatever it conceives you to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations in the noisy confusion of Life, keep peace with your wife, or she’ll soak you for every cent you’ve got.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a crummy world.
Tippiecanoe and Tyler too.
Be prepared.
Strive to have power over others.
And remember, only you can prevent forest fires.


Cheers darlings.

4th Anniversary.

Good gracious. Yesterday was the fourth anniversary of the creation of this flog, and I almost completely forgot. I've been very neglectful of it this year; only 10 columns all year, and none since August. I'm sorry, darlings. My column on The Huffington Post, combined with Little Dougie's other writing projects has left little time or energy for flogging here. Anyway, Let's have a few random bits here. Shall we?

Up at the top of the column is Little Dougie and I with Casey Turner, whom you may remember as Big Brother 11's Banana Man back in 2009, which I flogged, episode by episode, over on Ye Olde Huffington Post as it aired. This was taken by Casey's wife the night before the finale and reunion show, when we dined together. No joke here. Casey was one of the few - ever - players on that show I found likeable enough to ever want to be in the same room with, and we've kept in touch since the show ended. Casey's one of my very few victi - ah - subjects I've written about who took it with good humor. This flog has made me some nice friends, and Casey is one of them

How does one politely tell a lady that she has crabs?



December starts next week, and Santa has a great gift suggestion for those hard-to-shop-for people you can't stand.

So the Roy Rogers museum closed (I'd been meaning to be getting around to going to see it just as soon as it was the last tourist attraction on earth, for half a century now), and they auctioned the stuff off.

Trigger - stuffed - sold for $266,500.

Bullet the doggie - stuffed - sold for $35,000.

Buttermilk, Dale's horse - stuffed - sold for $25,000.

Pat Buttram - stuffed - sold for $15,350.

Norman Bates's Mother - stuffed - sold for $544,000.

Hmm. I wonder what I could get for Sarah Palin stuffed?

Oh, and the article I read said: "The Bible they used at the dinner table every night sold for $8,750." What was it used for? A serving platter? An appetite depressant? Table mats? I'd pay more than that to eat dinner every night where the was no Bible at all.

I love the new British PBS series Sherlock. It's VASTLY superior to that piece of shit movie that Robert Downey Jr. made last year. Even moved into the 21st Century, it's more authentically Sherlockian than that big budget, action movie dreck. How do you not love the star's name: Benedict Cumberbatch? It will be just terrible to learn his name is really Bill Jones or Sarah Palin. Anyway, Benedict is a welcome addition to such other stalwart Sherlocks looking on here as Basil Rathbone, Jeremy Brett, Peter Cushing and Little Dougie. LITTLE DOUGIE! What is he doing there? Sherlock Holmes never had a beard, other than Irene Adler, that is. I've got to supervise Dougie's handling of my illustrations more closely.


Who didn't love Tony Curtis? I would have, but somehow I ended up being the only woman in Hollywood besides Greer Garson that Tony never shagged. Tony, I like it hot, and you, baby, were hot.



And Barbara Billingsey died recently also, America's Mom. Poor Beaver and Wally, although one of those pearls from that pearl necklace she wore at all times, even when baking, will never fall into their food again.



Don't worry, my latest Studly Hunk isn't being arrested, but I had to resort to stern measures to get Gerard into my boudoir.


Little Dougie's delusions just get worse and worse. Jake's had to take out a restraining order.



Could someone explain to me how Walt Disney and his entire staff of Disneyland planners and construction people all failed to notice they were erecting a giant penis beside a huge pair of testicles? I mean, I'm not complaining; the erotic aspect of this structure always aroused me. Who doesn't love riding a big rocket? Little Dougie liked it more when TWA left and Douglas Aircraft became the sponsor, and they painted his name on the rocket, so it became a giant monument to his junk. (He's a dreamer!) But really, how could they miss it?



You see, the Rocket to the Moon was supposed to be just the first step. Walt planned to build a Disney Resort on the Moon. Lots of room for parking, but that 1/6th gravity makes for slow-moving rollercoasters. Space Mountain would take 2 hours to ride. Oh, and there's that little problem of no air.



There they are, the newly-elected Freshman class of congressmen elected by the insane, idiot teabaggers. Here they eye progressive social progress, and draw their evil plans against it, and prepare to deprive America of that socialist healthcare that they themselves are enjoying, since hypocrisy is the only thing beyond greed and stupidity that the teabaggers all possess. They are busy extending the Bush tax cuts for the rich but refusing to extend unemployment benefits. You know, if you voted for any of those moronic teabagger candidates, fuck you. But first, they need to go speed-dial batch-vote for Bristol Palin, so that fat little Teen Fascist who can not dance, or think, can win Dancing With the Republicans. Don't watch that show, or Sarah Palin's Alaska. Commercials for American Fascism is all they are.

My ex-husband Boris and his friend Bela were fired by Ozzie & Harriet, when they decided to recast the roles of David and Ricky for no good reason, and with kids yet! They claimed that people found the show scary with Boris and Bela on it. So what? Did it ever occur to anyone that it was Ozzie, the man with no job or visible means of support, and Harriet who were frightening people? And then it turned out that the kids they cast were their own children! What blatant nepotism!


Last, and definitely least, this lovely book is coming out quite soon (It's being printed right now), and Little Dougie wrote the forward, a long essay for the chapter on Seymour, and it even includes some of his TV and stage scripts for Seymour. Fortunately, Jim Fetters wrote the book, so it will be worth reading, especially if you grew up in Los Angeles in the 1950s, 60s, or '70s. When I have a release date and info on how you can acquire it, I'll post it here, but it will be soon.As hopefully my next posting will be. Meanwhile, read me over on The Huff Po, and Cheers darlings.

The Martian Chronicler.

Today is the 90th birthday of Ray Douglas Bradbury!!!

I can not think of an event more worthy of dancing in the streets, drinking in the saloons, and necking in the parlors. Pick up a Bradbury book and spend some glorious hours drinking in the Dandelion Wine of his words in his honor.

Or catch one of his movies. I have the film of Something Wicked This Way Comes running on my TV at this moment. It makes a great double-feature with George Pal's 7 Faces Of Dr. Lao. Both tell of magic carnivals coming to small towns to change the lives of their residents, one for the good, the other for the very, very bad. and Royal Dano, the voice of Disney's robot Lincoln, is in both.

Without Ray, no one would ever have heard of Mars!

These are two of Little Dougie's most-prized possessions. Ray's middle name is "Douglas." He named the protagonist of Dandelion Wine "Douglas" after himself, and told Dougie that book was special, just for Douglases. However, Little Dougie has stated that The Royal Order of Guys Named Douglas will graciously allow all to share our joy, and read Dandelion Wine..

Ray Bradbury, 90 years great as of today, is often called a "science fiction writer." I'm going to go out on a limb here and say - hold on - Ray Bradbury is not a science fiction writer. Look at these books. Are any of them even remotely science fiction? Nope. Ray is a fantasy writer, who often employs science fiction tropes for some of his his flights of fantasy. (Damn! There goes my vow never to use the word "tropes".)

Wait! One of these books isn't even fiction. It's essays. And two of those are mysteries.

You know what Ray is? A writer. Period. One of the best. And a National Treasure. No. Strike that. He's a World Treasure!

"Every man, they said, must face reality. Must face the Here and Now. Everything that was not so must go. All the beautiful literary lies and flights of fancy must be shot in mid-air. So they lined them up against a library wall one Sunday morning thirty years ago, in 1975; they lined them up, St. Nicholas and the Headless Horseman and Snow White and Rumplestiltskin and Mother Goose - oh, what a wailing! - and shot them down, and burned the paper castles and the fairy frogs and the old kings and the people who lived happily ever after (for of course it was a fact that nobody lived happily ever after!), and Once Upon a Time became No More! And they spread the ashes of the Phantom Rickshaw with the rubble of the Land of Oz; they filleted the bones of Glinda the Good and Ozma and shattered Polychrome in a spectroscope and served Jack Pumpkinhead with meringue at the Biologist's Ball! The Beanstalk died in a bramble of red tape! Sleeping Beauty awoke at the kiss of a scientist and expired at the fatal puncture of his syringe. And they made Alice drink something from a bottle which reduced her to a size where she could no longer cry 'curiouser and curioser,' and they gave the Looking-Glass one hammer blow to smash it and every Red King and Oyster away."

- from The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury.

Little Dougie told me: "I think it was reading that specific paragraph, when I was 8 years old, that first showed me how a writer could get drunk on the music of his own words. Notice how the deliberate omission of commas makes the raging tide of images flood forth like a Tsunami, as though they poured out too fast to bother with punctuation."

On the accompanying book cover, I have no idea why the face of renowned character actor Henry Daniell is peering out at us from Mars.

Ray Bradbury was the first professional writer Little Dougie ever met, and he found him more glamorous than any mere movie star. Actors interpret, but writers create.

‎"First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys. Not that all months aren't rare. But there must be bad and good, as the pirates say. Take September, a bad month: school begins. Consider August, a good month: school hasn't begun yet. July, well, July's really fine: there's no chance in the world for school. June, no doubting it, June's best of all, for the school doors spring wide and September's a billion years away.

But you take October now. School's been on a month and you're riding easier in the reins, jogging along. You got time to think of the garbage you'll dump on old man Prickett's porch, or the hairy ape costume you'll wear to the YMCA the last night of the month. And if it's around October twentieth and everything smokey-smelling and the sky orange and ash-gray at twilight, it seems Halloween will never come in a fall of broomsticks and a soft flap of bedsheets around corners.

But one strange wild dark long year, Halloween came early."

From Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury.



How ridiculously cool is this photo? Ray Bradbury and Malcolm McDowell. Alex the Droog meets The Illustrated Man. A Clockwork Orange meets Fahrenheit 451.


Here's a wonderful caricature of Ray Bradbury and his best friend, Ray Harryhausen, impersonating my boys, Laurel & Hardy. Harryhausen turned 90 two months ago. Let's hope these wonderful men live another 90 years.

Cheers darlings.

Oh, and I'm still plugging along, churning out Big Brother reaps for The Huffington Post. Here's my most recent: "The Boobiac Strikes Back!"

Black Rocks

This is WTC Ground Zero yesterday, and those aren't spare ribs, extra-charred. They are the ribs of a 19th Century Slave Ship, which were apparently ribbed like a French condom (or a Frenchman, for that matter) which were discovered there yesterday. If it weren't for 9-11, they would never have been found. But are archeologists and scientists thanking Osama? No.


Wait! A 19th Century slave ship? Oh my Dog, it's The Black Rock from Lost!



So is Manhattan actually The Island from Lost? Eloise Hawking did say it moves about. Did it move to New York Harbor? It would explain so much. Why are New Yorkers so hostile? They are The Others! Why does nothing there make sense? It's The Island. Why are the rents so out of control? The place is being run by Hurley! Why is it that when I phone someone in NYC at noon, they don't get the call until 3 PM? The time-distortion field that surrounds The Island! Manhattan is lost in time and lost in space, and meaning, like Australia, or Catalina. And that's not pollution; it's the Smoke Monster!


It even explains the penchant for giant statues. Giant statues are only found in three places: the giant statue of Towaret on The Island that was sheered off when The Black Rock hit it in a storm (though you'd think that when a wooden ship hits a stone statue, the ship would suffer the worst damage.), Miss Liberty in New York Harbor, and the giant statue of me (aka "Miss Take-Liberties") here in my hedge labyrinth, The Befuddlement, which was built for my 1935 movie HER! at RKO, and has been here ever since, except for its brief loan-out to Universal when I made Abbott & Costello Meet She Who Must Be Obeyed in 1955. I bet if you lifted Miss Liberty's skirt, you'd find she has only 4 toes. And if you lifted my skirt, you'd get something amazing also, and I speak as a skirt-lifter from way back.



Speaking of Black Rocks, I have a message for Old Spice:



I don't give a rat's ass how this Adonis smells. Hell, he'd have to have been dead a week to smell worse than me anyway. What I care about is how he tastes!


So I'm just going to let him ride me off into the sunset. Besides, I have to go flog Big Brother now over on The Huffington Post, where you can read my newest piece: "Big Brother 12: (Mala)Props to the Houseguests." We make quite the pair, Old Spice and Old Slut.

Cheers darlings.