Buzz or Howl Under the Influence of Heat
Sweet Savory Jesus, it's hot out there. For whatever reason, New York has decided it's actually late July, and as such, our veal fattening pen smells like Fatty Arbuckle's ghost has been using it as a late-night fuckpad, while the corpse of Red Skelton looks on, helpless.
Of course, the smothering heat is something we should all get used to, as it turns out that the hippies may have been right about the global warming thing all along. Luckily for everyone in the world, a former oil whore did us all the courtesy of editing out the bad news from the gubment's kids-tested, scientist-approved climate reports, which means that all the elderly folk out there who are susceptible to combustion when the mercury hits the 100º F mark can rest easy. It's all in your head, Skeletor.
Anyhoo, we got nothing today, except for two wholly unconnected musings on the Bard of Avon and reality TV. We realize that you don't come around for this kind of thing, but we don't have any funny tales of alcohol-fueled pandemonium to report because we sort of took it easy last night. (Although we did eat a fish that happened to still have his head attached. Our dining companion was rather nonplussed, but we just stared that dead seafaring motherfucker down like the Alpha Male we so singularly are. We were like the Old Man and the Sea, minus the old part and on dry land.)
Jesus, have we mentioned how hot it is out there? OK then:
Musing # 1) Think how hard it must have been for Shakespeare's friends to send him birthday cards. They must have been all intimidated, going, “Oh I never know what to write in these things,” so they'd buy a Hallmark card with a lot of pre-produced text on the inside, featuring end-rhyming couplets (“... Friends / ... 'Til the end”), and maybe a picture of Garfield on the front. Then they'd scrawl, “Your pal, Mike” on the bottom and leave it at that. And every year on the day after his birthday, Shakespeare would gather up all the cards and burn them in the yard with the leaves, sighing, “My friends must really think very little of me. What's with those cards? I hate Garfield! Fuck!”
We feel bad for Shakespeare. Also, he was a gaylord.
Musing # 2) We're thinking of pitching the Food Network an idea for a series called The Fugitive Gourmet.*** Basically, you'd have this chef who's been wrongly accused of murdering his wife with an undercooked pork loin. (The working title for episode one is “Trichinosis: The Silent Killer,” but we could be convinced to change it to “This is What it Sounds Like When the Pigs Cry.”) While trying to stay one step ahead of the po-po, the guy is also assembling ingredients for this massive feast he'd been planning before the little woman's oink-related demise. At the end of every episode, he'll have finished one of the component dishes, only to have the cops kick in the door and chase him out the fire escape or whatever. When they fail to catch him, the cops return to the chef's latest hideout and eat whatever he's prepared. Of course, we'll have to find some really erudite foodie cops so that when they dine on the FG's recipes, they'll have some sharp things to say about taste, presentation, etc. (One of the foodie cops will be a hologram, to appeal to the sci-fi enthusiast niche.) At the end of the 12-episode run, the FG will recreate all the earlier dishes, plus a piece de resistance type entrée--think a typical Iron Chef presentation, but without the simpering ingénue offering giggly, inane commentary. Just as the cops kick in the door for the last time, the FG will reveal that he's identified the real killer, leading to a surprise reveal. I'm thinking either Emeril, because he's jealous of the FG's mad skillz and sort of looks like an Ewok, or maybe Christopher Walken, who word has it is quite the cook himself, not to mention wildly entertaining. Then the cops (including the hologram), the FG and special guest The Ghost of the Lindbergh Baby all sit down and enjoy a fantastic meal.
Please keep this under wraps, people. This is the project that will make us rich. Well, either this or another idea we have for a one-hour drama series about a professional tennis player who also happens to be a mummy. But that's for HBO's eyes only.
***Incidentally, we have done something very similar in the past. At a certain television industry event, we cornered a programming executive from that bottom tiered network that frontloads its broadcast slate with shows featuring that woman who used to be in Tony Orlando and Dawn. While this particular gentleman was in the midst of frothy micturation, we croaked out a pitch for a game show to be called Drunk or Retarded, kind of modeled on the old To Tell the Truth show, but with Trisomy and whiskey. Probably the worst look we ever got thrown at us in a bathroom, if memory serves.