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Saturday, March 1, 2008

Kicking The Pukebox

Few people know that I taught Henry Winkler how to suppress his gag reflex.

We were working on neighboring sets. Shared the same catering tent.

He happened to be piling a plate nearby when I started choking on a salmon canape.

I just reached down there and pulled it out. Coughed a little fish up.

Amazed, he wanted to know how it was done.

I grabbed him by the hair and shoved my used canape halfway down his esophagus.

I think I actually got up to the elbow. Lost a cuff link.

Anyway, that's why Winkler can do some things and not throw up on himself.

I'm a teacher.

Friday, February 29, 2008

A Horse Off Course

I had a close encounter in a barn at Bell Reve once.

I was idly brushing Set On Stun and singing Moon River to him.

Something about that song. Those clear yet soaring notes. I just like it.

As I was walking behind him, he kicked me square in the chest.

I hit the stall wall, groggy. I knew one of my ribs was broken.

All I could see was this giant horse cock advancing towards me, like a knight's lance.

I thought I was going to be split in two.

But no, he just pissed on me for a good minute.

Apparently he was an Andy Williams fan.

Not my fault. I had a cold.

Everybody's a critic.

Howdy Doody Bill

Buffalo Bob Smith happened to attend a con in Maine in the 80s.

He ambled up backstage when Walter Koenig and I were sharing a flask.

We offered him some, but he declined.

Very devout man. Nice guy.

Okay, it was awkward.

Nobody likes drinking around a Christian puppeteer.

Walter started babbling in Russian to me, and I nodded and said "Da" every once in a while.

We kept talking until he walked away.

That's a fine how do you do for you.

Utility Bat

When I'm up in the twilight hours, alone, especially in the summer, I like to catch bats.

I put a little gravel in the corner of a freezer bag and twist-tie it off.

Then I sling it around and throw it high up in the air, while the bats are bug hunting.

They're pretty much diving at anything that moves, you see.

If they hit it right, they bonk their little heads on the rocks.

They hit the ground, and I pounce while they're stunned.

Sometimes I tie their little legs to a stick, string them up, and hang them from my porch.

That's right.

I make bat mobiles.

The gentle flapping is very meditative.

Not as annoying as wind chimes.

Quincy and the Chocolate Girl

You know who's a terrible dancer? Jack Klugman.

I remember we were at the MGM together for one of Frank's birthday parties.

Can't remember which one. Bobby Kennedy was still alive, if that helps.

Anyway, Jack had been chatting up a mulatto waitress. Sexy. Smelled like bananas and coffee.

She laughed him off, but he was a determined bastard.

Asked her if she'd go to dinner with him if he did a backflip right then and there.

Well, I knew how much gin he'd had, so I motioned to people to back up.

Too late, I'm afraid. He flipped and took out a table.

Sinatra's great aunt ended up with a wine glass stem through both cheeks.

Someone pulled it out, and when she screamed, her face whistled.

Frank comes from a long line of entertainers.

I'm a medical doctor.

Wardrobe Girls

Robert Vaughn and I shared a wardrobe girl when he was on Star Trek.

Dirty, naughty girl. Played us both like fiddles. Had a little mole on her dewlap.

After he found out, Vaughn challenged me to a bat'leth deathmatch.

The Enterprise bridge set almost caught fire after we knocked over some fresnels.

Ended with Nimoy trying to do that ridiculous kung fu grip on each of us.

We both cracked up and couldn't continue.

Lenny? Two black eyes for his trouble. Episode never aired.

There is no moral to this story.

Don't fuck wardrobe girls.

Kiss It And Make It Better

Gene Simmons and I were feeding Calcutta whores back in '82.

I thought I was a showman, but this guy took the cake. Literally.

Every day he'd wear a black velvet cape and cowboy boots with real spurs.

Then he performed magic tricks, like pulling biscuits out from behind their dirty, unwashed ears.

Once I saw him pull back and drink a woman's portion of soup right from the ladle, making her cry.

Then he poured it out of his sleeve into her bowl.

Oh, how they'd gnash and wail as he kept food from them with magic.

The spurs were for crowd control.

Talented bastard. Never got my cape back.

Surf's Up

I was on the set of a stag film with Jack Lord back in '67.

Two girls in tiger striped bikinis were licking each other on a porch swing.

Jack leaned over, and said, "They're going to town like cats covered in pudding."

I chuckled, then spit in his martini.

Who carries their drink in their left hand?

Anty Up

Ricardo Montalban and I judged a bikini contest in Nassau in '79.

Nobody knew the man was deathly afraid of fire ants.

I guess the brandy I spilled on his leg didn't help.

What an asshole.

If I were a borderline gay caballero, though, I'd switch for him.



Unhappy Days

Clint Howard - as that omnipotent midget - still haunts me to this day.

I hear that sneering voice and see those mangled teeth.

That laugh, Oh God, that laugh.

Makes me want to drink gasoline until I pass out.

But then I think of the Philippino girls chained up in my basement.

And it's like I'm made of rainbows.


Mamie On Ice

Mamie Van Doren and I were trapped in a gondola once, in the Swiss alps.

The cables had iced up, and it was a little awkward at first.

We both laughed with relief when Mamie found poppers in her purse.

When our car got back to the platform, the operator found us with our genitals frozen to a window, completely unconscious.

What a crazy skirt.

She has a Doctorate, you know. In something-something.

A Glorious Encounter

Whitley Streiber, Gary Busey and I were all abducted by aliens at the same time, back in '84.

There I was, immobilized, floating in some kind of flat force field.

It was like being squashed between two invisible tables.

Busey could apparently resist. I caught him picking his buck teeth with his fingernail out of the corner of my eye.

Then he did a fireman's blow, which landed on my leg. "Sorry, Captain," he said.

I told him it was no problem. That it might even make it easier for them to get DNA samples.

Maybe they wouldn't have to go into our asses for it.

So all three of us started spitting. Everywhere.

Whitley ran out of sputum. I think he had been smoking the weed when they picked him up, and had cottonmouth. He started crying.

Busey began howling like a wolf and clawing at his skin. He disappeared in a flash of light.

Apparently the aliens are uncomfortable with werewolves.

Whitley and I tried the same thing, but they weren't about to fall for it twice. Plus, Whitley sounded more like a wounded Scotsman than a wolf.

And the spitting didn't work.

The Voodoo That I Do

I met Papa Legba in Haiti in 1975.

I was a guest of the Duvaliers, but I snuck out one night to spend time with "the people".

Good Lord, there is nothing sexier than a mulatto woman in a psychic frenzy.

Bouncier than a Vegas showgirl on cocaine who just won the jackpot.

Anyway, one of the gentlemen became possessed, and after some jabbering, his eyes settled on me.

He came over and told me how much he loved my version of Mr. Tambourine Man.

We were halfway to a bar to have some drinks when the spirit left him and he fell to the ground.

Passersby thought I'd knocked him out and starting beating me.

I had a small pouch to ward of evil spirits, and I shook it in their faces. Cheap garbage. Nothing happened.

Luckily, Baby Doc's troops pulled up just in time and shot about 14 people before they took me back to my room.

Luxurious place. Had a bidet and everything.

Oscar Fever

At the '91 Oscars, I kept messing with Tom Berenger in the seats.

Jodie Foster was accepting her Best Lesbian award for Silence of the Lambs.

I normally find lesbos exciting, but my mind drifted.

Berenger was sitting directly in front of me, looking very self-satisfied. Why, I don't know.

So I dipped my fingers in my martini, and made a quiet sneezing sound while I flicked them at his neck.

He turned around, alarmed. I made a "sorry" gesture, and he smiled and nodded.

I waited about one minute, then punched myself in the nose.

I "sneezed" on him again. When he turned around, my nose was bleeding and my eyes were watering.

He jumped up, wiping at his neck. I laughed, and then pretended to pass out.

Berenger still refuses to do AIDS charities.

Just doing my part to cut the bullshit.

Full Throttle Disco

I was at a discotheque in Mazatlan with Victoria Principal back in 1977.

This was during my tequila phase. She had just finished an episode of Fantasy Island.

So we were both at the top of our game.

Typical 70s dirty dancing. She put on quite a show. Amazing tits.

Anyhoo, I can't actually remember putting my hands around her neck.

I remember squeezing, but I don't remember how my hands got there.

Funny thing, tequila.

Well, valium is funny too. Kind of.

Revving the Injun

Nimoy and I got lost on an Oglala Sioux reservation in South Dakota once.

Our RV rolled up into the middle of their shanty town around sunset. We were surrounded.

I opened the window a tiny crack and asked to "parlay" with their chief.

A homely man in a Skoal cap approached the cab.

I was affronted that he didn't present himself in formal dress.

Lenny was scared witless, worried they were going to steal our gin.

He had heard that's how they multiply. Like Tribbles.

We had to shoot our way out.

True story.

Mouthketeer Club

Went parking with Annette Funicello on Mulholland Drive once.

I gestured out at the landscape and all the glittering lights and talked about all the possibilities.

The money and the fame. Being able to travel all over the world.

The opportunities to create real art.

To make an honest impact on people's lives.

And like the champ she is, she swallowed.

No need for that crusty towel in my back seat.

Some broads are just born classy.

Lateral Damage

Geraldine Ferraro was a pistol.

She and I met at a Star Trek convention in Taos, New Mexico.

This was just before she shacked up with Mondale.

We were pounding tequila by the bottle in the hotel bar.

I gave her a ride on my shoulders. Stumbled around the place and out into the lobby.

She's got big, roamy hips and a great ass. It was like wearing a giggling beanbag chair for a helmet.


I think we caused about $2000 in damage to the place.

Fuck limes. Limes are for fruit loops.

Omar Relief

Recently, I was reminded of the time Omar Sharif and I were in Brazil.

We were smuggling cachaca back to the States. That's a kind of rum.

He'd gotten the dysentery. Montezuma's Revenge. The shits.

We were almost to the border, when we were attacked by jaguars.

Omar took off running, but his legs were buckling. He was weak.

Crap stained his linen pants, like two giant eclairs.

I acted quickly, and chopped our native guide's arm off with my machete.

I can still hear his screams as they tore him apart.

Moral of the story?

When you travel, bring your own ice.

William F. Buckley, RIP

Bill Buckley and I once travelled around Yellowstone in an RV.

Ah, the woods. The aroma of Ponderosa pines, and the crisp, clean air.

Buckley smelled his fingers too much.

I wouldn't let him drive.

Disappeared into the back every once in a while, said he liked making faces at the people behind us.

Once he came back without pants.

One Lay At A Time

Mackenzie Phillips has a birthmark the shape of Oklahoma on her back.

We used to roughhouse in the early 80s. Don't ask me why.

Maybe I was just trying to make Bonnie Franklin jealous.

Anyway, she was facing away from me, necessarily, and all I could do was stare at that stain.

Oklahoma... Oklahoma...

It started to develop an exotic sound in my head after a while.

I pretended we were in a surrey with fringe on top. Rocking it like a cradle.

And I was the sheriff, working schemes in my head to swindle her out of her gold claim.

It helped that she sounded like a goddamn horse.

After a while I stuck her panties in her mouth.

Floyd the Beekeeper

I was at Howard McNear's house once.

This was back in '68, just before he died. Barbara Eden was with me.

Never knew he was into beekeeping. Kept hives in his orchard out back.

He had us put on those screen helmets, just for good measure, but they had imprinted on him.

Howard took the lids off a couple, and I was fascinated.

Barb, however, was whining that she had stepped in horse shit, and kicked a box to clean them off.

You have to understand, Howard was a stroke victim and couldn't run very fast.

He hobbled away, towards the house, waving his arms and yelling "Oh!" every time he was stung.

He died the next year. They say it was the stroke.

Bees are animals.

True story.