ROCKY-LIKE SCREENPLAY: THE VOICE

Angelo is a waiter at an Italian restaurant in Philadelphia during the 70s. He has two bad habits: He smokes too much and he constantly sings, though he doesn't have a good voice. Unfortunately he knows all the songs from The American Songbook. Still he's attractive, young, and likable. Tragedy strikes when he discovers he has throat cancer from all that smoking. But they caught it early and can operate. Amazing! After the operation, he has a great voice. A miracle. Now he's singing at the restaurant, later in small clubs, and soon he's become a star. Naturally you'll have to throw in some love interest to the plot. But things are going well. He's going to do a concert at Carnegie Hall. Trouble ensues when he discovers that the cancer has returned. He needs an operation immediately. This time it is likely to leave him unable to speak, much less sing. If he postpones the operation to do the concert, it may mean his death. But that's what he does. So like all these soapy dramas, this one ends with him stepping on the stage at Carnegie Hall and singing some triumphant song like "My Way". Ah, the tears will flow.

PRODUCT: A PERFUME.

I've written to several companies who do not recognize this brilliant concept for a perfume. It is named Piaf after the great French chanteuse, famous for her many affairs. It comes in a small black bottle. The name Piaf is signed written in red. The glass stopper is a Lalique figure of a small bird since she was called "The Little Sparrow of Paris". The theme line is, "Piaf. Named for a woman who lived for love." I have also written a commercial which makes use of black and white news photos, both happy and tragic, with the background music of her song in French, "I Regret Nothing".

EROTIC BUSINESS: THE WINDOW

This easily established business can be created on any busy street in America. All it requires is a street level space the size of a hotel room, and a plate glass window that is, in fact, a two way mirror. The room is furnished as any hotel room, with a large king- or queen-sized bed. The customers are any couple who would find it an erotic lark to be having sex in front of what appeared to be any number of people watching them—the passersby who have no idea  what is happening on the other side of the glass. Is this a viable money-maker. I think there are enough couples in any city who would find this a very kinky experience to create a waiting list.

STAGE PLAY:" HOMEROOM"

This single set play featuring a classroom and two characters takes place in 1965 in the playwright's choice of cities. A male high school student has asked to meet with his 37 year old teacher after school (or he could just interrupt as she is finishing papers). He suggests to her that after reviewing her age, what little he knows of her European past, her mysterious vacations, etc. he think she is Anne Frank. Rather than dismissing this wild thought, she indulges him. For the rest of the one-act play they spar in such a way that she could be, and may be Anne Frank. If she is, the main reason for such a deception is having anonymously survived the camps, and having performed what she considers dishonorable acts, she did not wish to tarnish the image of the Anne Frank who had become a symbol of Jewish pride and bravery. The plays does not end with a conclusion, but leaves the question with the audience.

SCREENPLAY IDEA: THE FATAL SHOT

This film begins with a Versace type murder in a similar urban street setting. The shooter makes his escape, but fortunately a passing tourist managed to snap a photo. The film is a whodunit thriller with lots of famous suspects. The detectives study the photo in every possible way for a clue to the identity of the murder. After many twists and turns, our brilliant detective lead realizes that the murder was committed only to take the photo, which has been getting world-wide attention and making the co-conspirator to this murder a fortune, that is until he and the killer are caught.

SCREENPLAY IDEA: "OLD ENOUGH TO DIE"

Three young boys maliciously drop a rock from a bridge. It breaks the windshield of a car below and the female driver crashes and dies. The boys are caught and taken to court, where they are given light sentences to the fury of the woman's husband. But the lenient judge feels that they are too young for severe punishment. The husband vows to kill each boy as he turns eighteen. He does murder the first two, both gang members, but the third boy's aunt realizing what is happening prevents the third boy's death (a nice kid, of course) in the film's dramatic and as yet unconceived conclusion. 

A birthday gift.

The purpose of a gift is to bring joy to the recipient. That was certainly Sheila’s intention when she lovingly prepared her grapenut pudding, chilled it in to perfection in Corningware®, and gave it to her husband to bring to the office my birthday. She knew how much I liked it, and how much pleasure it would give me. What better gift than that made with one’s own clever hands?  Of course, she could not have anticipated the meager storage space in the company refrigerator and how much trouble I would have to go through to clear a shelf large enough for the huge casserole dish, tall can of whipped cream and stiff paper bag. Sheila could not have foreseen the difficulty of transporting the weighty glass dish home via a crowded bus on a hot afternoon, nor imagined that the potholes along 8^th Street would cause the loose glass top of the casserole dish to rattle incessantly during the entire journey. Nor would she have expected the bag to begin to rip at the seams, making it necessary for me, already weak from fatigue, to hold the dish in my arms while I waited in the blazing heat for a second bus. No, Sheila could only fantasize that moment when I would savor the spectacular flavor of her concoction and share it with others, after which I would  congratulate myself on having such an outstandingly thoughtful friend who was also a inspired creator of grapenut pudding. Imagining this joy, she could not have considered that enormous dish had to be washed and laboriously lifted into the strainer. She could not have predicted that I would feel it necessary to wrap it in newspaper to prevent a recurrence of the noisome rattling, then search for another bag of equal or greater strength, then carry the heavy dish to the bus stop, and later to the office for fifteen blocks along Ponce de Leon Boulevard from the Miracle Mile, all the while endlessly shifting the cumbersome casserole from hand to hand, while the jute straps of the shopping bag’s handles cut deeply into my palms. No, none of this would have entered the cheerful little thoughts of Sheila as she stirred and mixed and sang a little Irish tune while she happily prepared a birthday gift which she knew in her heart would bring nothing but joy to the lucky recipient. 

Welcome Back from Iraq.

Welcome back from Iraq

See you left an arm behind.

And heard your buddy Joe

Is burnt and lame and blind.

You’ve done your country proud

You’ll get a medal for it Jack.

Just the country’s way of saying

Welcome back from Iraq.

Welcome back from Iraq

Wish the others could be here

But their tour’s been extended

For at least another year.

Except for Frank, what a guy!

And what a rotten way to die.

He was days from coming back

Before that friendly fire attack. 

Anyway, welcome back

From Iraq.

Amy’s dead, did you hear?

Her family’s plenty sore

But what’s a mother with two children

Doing fighting in a war?

That makes nine who’ve died in this town

Seven of them black.

They give each mom a flag.

But  then they have to give it back.

How’s that for a warm

Welcome back from Iraq.

We lost a lot of youngsters.

They say they all were brave.

They never brand you coward

If you end up in a grave.

But if you lose your mind

At the smell of dying men.

You’re a worthless piece of scum

When you come back home again.

If the shell of a soldier

Shows just the slightest crack

Then there’s no

Welcome back

From Iraq.

Welcome back

From Iraq.

Shit, you look pathetic.

But it could be worse

And they’ll spring for the prosthetic.

Bush complains that the media 

Is painting it all black.

When we’ve had a shining victory.

Welcome back

From Iraq.

D.C. Reflections

I wish I could look

The way that I look

In the mirrors at

The Washington Plaza.

My skin's blemish-free

And all that I see

Is a much younger me

At the Plaza.

It's amazing the way

My hair's not as gray.

My wrinkles are barely reflected.

My eyes are much bluer.

My body looks newer.

My age spots are hardly detected.

At other hotels

The fluorescent light tells

That you've grown older and fatter.

But who you'd most like to be

Is the person you'll see

In the mirrors of the Washington Plaza.

In the golden glow

Of the flattering light

Of  the mirrors at the Washington Plaza.

The Fallacy of Musical Comedy

On one of the occasions that George Bush fell of his mountain bike, his spin-doctors (eager to make sure the fall didn’t make him seem weak or effeminate) pointed out “he wasn’t whistling show tunes.”  This is the same basic homophobic premise of several current commercials: manly men do not listen to show tunes. I find this whole subject offensive since it fosters a false stereotype that only men who are gay or effeminate are fans of Broadway show music. 

Those who subscribe to this cliché must also believe that for five decades the Broadway musical stage has been supported by women and gay men and that those same fans must be the ones to whom million of albums were sold. That would also mean that the only heterosexual men to see filmed musicals were those unfortunate enough to be dragged to movie houses by their wives or girlfriends. It’s a ridiculous premise, based on a total ignorance and lack of appreciation for the musical theater.

When the seminal musical Oklahoma opened in March of 1943, it was an enormous smash. Since the country was at war, its all-American setting and sentiments were especially popular with serviceman about to go overseas. Once they did, it was not unusual to hear soldiers, sailors and marines in Europe or the East unashamedly humming or singing,  “I’m Just a Girl Who Can’t Say No.”  And that was just one of the songs from that show that was constantly playing on the radio. They were great songs, and — guess what? — both Rodgers and Hammerstein were straight. So were such other musical creators as George M. Cohan, Irving Berlin, Harold Rome, Frank (Guys and Dolls) Loesser, and Lerner and Loewe.  One famous lyricist, a close friend of Frank Sinatra’s was so straight, in fact, that he out-womanized Old Blue Eyes.

 It’s also true, of course, that many composers and lyricists were gay, including Cole Porter, Noel Coward, Lorenz Hart, and Jerry Herman.  But what does that prove? Americans didn’t ask whom the creators of musicals were sleeping with; they just wanted to hear all those great songs. For decades the top 40 charts often included such Broadway hits as “You’re Just in Love” from Call Me Madam, “If I Loved You” from Carousel, and “Standing on the Corner” from The Most Happy Fella.  Unfortunately, by the late 60s Rock and Roll took over the recording and broadcast industry and show music was confined to the stage, TV specials, original cast recordings and badly directed films like 1967’s leaden Camelot.

With musicals less accessible, fans had to seek them out and soon anyone who did so was branded by the lovers of contemporary music as not only uncool but unmanly. It’s an odd example of Group Think because today’s young gay doesn’t like or know show music any more than his straight contemporary.  I doubt that even the leading gay rock stars have any interest in the Great White Way, while oddly enough the famously heterosexual superstar Billy Joel was thrilled to turn his music into a Broadway show.  Saying you have to be gay to love Broadway shows is like saying you have to be Indian to appreciate the sitar. It’s just a matter of musical taste, not an indicator of sexual proclivity or repressed desires. 

So, President Bush shouldn’t be afraid to whistle  “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” as he bikes along a mountain trail.  And the muscled mechanic, covered with grease, shouldn’t worry about getting caught singing "Send in the Clowns”.  Liking or disliking musical comedy is not a litmus text for masculinity. It’s musical comedy. It ‘s a strong, proud, powerful, ever-evolving art form that was invented in America. And for almost a hundred years nobody has done it better than Americans, gay or straight.

Louie's last stop.

I think this would make a great scene in some TV crime show a la The Sopranos.  Louie is a snitch who so far has avoided being found by the mob guys out to kill him. We see him in a drug store. He is buying toiletries (someone we never see being purchased by thugs). He notices the blood pressure machine and, putting down his purchases, he sits and slips his arm into the cuff. He pushes the button.We see the machine starting to inflate. Just then the mob hit man appears in front of him. In a panic Louie tries to get out of the machine, but he can't.  He begs for his life to no avail. The gangster shoots him and the scene ends with him slumped over the machine, a clerk screaming.

A second blog.

I don't know if this second blog is going to work. While the crankycopywriter is a place to post criticisms post or con about advertising, English, manners, or anything that annoys or pleases me, the idle idea factory is a place to air ideas, poems, songs, stories, any number of things that I am very unlikely to ever likely to sell or publicize. In some cases I will toss out a concept. Any reader is welcome to take it and expand on it, complete it, or use it as part of another project. Mainly I just want to get it out there and arrogantly make others aware it was my idea, good or bad. So enjoy, or don't enjoy, marvel at my cleverness or scoff at my pedestrian ideas. If I get as much response as I do from the crankycopywriter, it won't make much of a difference anyway.