A Likely Scenario: Lee Majors vs. Andre the Giant

First of all, I have to give credit to the fine folk over at Basketbawful who dug up this gem. Sometimes you have to stretch to find A Likely Scenario; other times they just drop in your lap. Here's the set-up, per Basketbawful:

That random mention of the Six Million Dollar Man -- not to mention seeing Big Baby's beastly physique -- reminded me of the awesomest episode of any TV series ever: The one where Steve Austin fought Bigfoot. But before all you hippies start getting your panties in a bunch, don't worry. No actual Bigfoots were harmed in the making of this video. It was actually a robot Bigfoot created by space aliens to protect their secret mountain lair. And no, I'm not making that up.

It's an astounding piece of footage. First of all, I remember loving this show as a kid. Can someone please tell me why? Was I (and the rest of America) naive enough to believe that Sound Effect + Slow Motion = Bionic? Apparently, yes. Watching it with my 2008 eyes, the effects actually combine to make Lee Majors look perilously unathletic, and a tad dumb. (Note: I question neither the physical nor mental capabilities of Mr. Majors as he both married and divorced an in-her-prime Farrah Fawcett, so he obviously had the physique to capture her and the good sense to release her back into the wild where she could go crazy all by her lonesome, in front of millions.)

On the flip side, Andre the Giant as Bigfoot (take that, John C. Reilly!) looks positively spry in this clip for those of us who only remember his arthritic and oafish (yet, brilliant) performance in The Princess Bride. I like the fact that for the Sasquatch roars, they actually used his unmistakeable Dread Pirate Roberts growl.

And the dialogue! Despite the hilarity of Colonel Austin's attempts to communicate with Bigfoot, the cake-taker for best line has to be:

No, I'll still bet on the Sasaquatch.

Because what oppresive alien regime wouldn't allow wagering on mythical robot-beasts? And the actor says it with such smugness that we know it's only a matter of time before Andre the Giant Robot gets his arm torn off. Thanks for the foreshadowing, pal-o-mine!

Which brings me to the actual fight. This is as good as "so bad it's good" gets. There really aren't enough bongos or piccolos in action scores anymore. And, man, those sound effects! In addition to the trademark "Bionic Noise", we get awesome bomb sounds every time someone hits the ground. And how quaint is it that once little Stevie Austin has dismembered Sass, he lets him have his arm back. You know, instead of beating him to death with it? It's enough to make my head explode to think that at one point in our televisual history, the sight of two men, one in a Bigfoot costume, mind you, fighting in slow motion could command seven minutes of prime-time network television. SEVEN FREAKING MINUTES. That's basically a sixth of the show's running time once commercials are accounted for. And people watched this. Apparently everyone really was doing drugs in the 70s.

I love this video and only regret that I can't find the sequel: "The Bionic Man vs. A Solid Wall of Rock." (Note to alien gamblers: Don't bet on the wall.)

On Notice: The NBA

Tonight is Game 4 of The NBA Finals. I can’t really say I give much of a shit anymore, aside from the fact that I love to watch a good Laker-beating. What I can’t bear to watch, however, is the beating the NBA continues to dish out with this latest wrinkle in the Tim Donaghy scandal. His Holiness David Stern would like to dismiss it as the last act of a desperate man, but I don’t care if it’s the first act of Henry V. Something is definitely rotten in the state of professional basketball. (That’s right, I’m quoting both Shakespeare and Mel Brooks in a sports blog. Peach Basket, bitches.)

The debacle that was last year’s playoffs nearly put me off the NBA entirely. I even went so far as to publicly renounce the game several times, not unlike my repeated vows to move to Australia back in 2004 if Bush were to win “another” election. Needless to say, I’m still here, and I still watched the NBA this season. But now I think I may have been pushed too far.

Sure, this is a convicted felon who’s singing like a bird for a little leniency on his impending prison sentence. But don’t they lean on criminals to get them to sing? Hasn’t this been a law enforcement tactic since the advent of the good cop/bad cop routine? Why, all of a sudden, and apparently just because the Commish says so, should we not take anything he says seriously? Don’t get me wrong, I hate Donaghy’s guts. He can piss blood and crap piss the rest of his life for all I care. But since that life is already a shambles—divorced, unemployable and mere weeks away from incarceration and an ass-pounding he so richly deserves—the poor bastard really has little left to lose. Why lie now? Donaghy probably sees himself as a whistleblower (no pun intended); Stern's portraying him as the only criminal in an otherwise just league. My guess is that, as with most extremes, the truth lies somewhere in the middle.

Whatever that truth may be, I’m betting that referee corruption is a league-wide problem, not just a Donaghy problem. Ol’ Timmy seems less and less like the rogue bad apple Stern wants him to be (a claim that reeked of stubbornly defiant horseshit from the start) and more and more like the stool pigeon he most likely is. At least that’s the pill I find easier to swallow right now, even though I still don’t like the taste. After all, I’ve loved/hated this game for more than 20 years; the last thing I want is to turn my back on it. Like a battered wife, I want to believe that the injustices I’ve suffered were only isolated incidents of poor judgment, not calculated patterns of abuse. But every year I just get more reasons to leave and fewer reasons to stay. So throw me a bone, NBA. I can only tell people I fell down the stairs for one more season.

A Likely Scenario: ZZ Top Goes Goth

ZZ Top and vampires. What could possibly go wrong?



Yes, that's Fairuza Balk as the goth hottie and yes again that's worst-Bond-movie-assassin-ever Vincent Schiavelli as her... Um, I'm not sure exactly. Whatever. He's creepy.

This was about the last time we saw the longbeards on the network that killed the radio star. Some might blame this video. I might blame a 7-minute long bluesy meditation on being stuck in a relationship from the guys who gave you "Pearl Necklace", "Tube Snake Boogie", and "Legs." That might be overestimating your audience a bit.

Crapping on My Childhood: Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

WARNING: SPOILERS ABOUND BELOW. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED. THAT'S WHY IT'S CALLED A WARNING.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull Plastic Head, as it shall be referred to heretofore, is an awful, awful movie. It peaks during the opening credits (an Elvis-scored drag race) and begins a long slow spiral downward thereafter. Peach Basketeers, consider your childhood crapped on. How so? Let me count the ways:

1) Harrison Ford sucks. Maybe it’s not his fault. His performance after all resembles that of an actor forced to read every line of execrable dialogue at gunpoint. This would not surprise me, if he had not been paid something along the lines of 30 million dignity-sapping dollars to star in this flaming bag of poo. It’s not even that he’s too old to play the character of Dr. Henry Jones, Jr., anymore (he’s not). It’s that he’s too poor an actor.

2) The Crystal Skull Plastic Head sucks. The rumored budget for this movie was approximately $185 million. Of that, about $3.99 went towards the ARTIFACT MENTIONED IN THE TITLE. It’s a plastic bubble stuffed with cellophane. I would say it probably has a “MADE IN CHINA” label on it somewhere, but that would unfairly insult Chinese craftsmanship.

3) David Koepp sucks. It might surprise you to discover that I don’t have a big issue with the film’s underlying alien premise. In theory, I could have bought it… if Koepp had bothered to put together a remotely plausible or entertaining framework around which to build said premise. Instead, it’s a slapped-together cause-effect-plotpoint bouillabaisse. They waited 20 years to make a sequel and this is the script they approved? I hate Hollywood.

4) Steven Spielberg sucks. Remember Raiders of the Lost Ark? (If you don’t, he will hit you over your plastic head with it several times during the current installment.) If you’ll recall, Spielberg took his time unspooling the story for you. Yes, it was far-fetched. Yes, it was action-packed. But the time was taken to create a universe in which a) you believed said action was possible, and b) said action appeared to have motivated and tangible consequences. This “film” jumps – nay! – teleports from CGI action sequence to CGI action sequence with Ford and Shia LaBeouf yammering some gibberish about oxen and cities of gold in between. It’s the worst parts of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom crossed with the worst parts of Artificial Intelligence: AI. (That would be all of them, Stevie. You thought we’d forgotten, didn’t you? Never forget, my friend. Never forget.)

5) Cate Blanchett sucks. Just kidding. She’s actually the only thing that’s watchable for the entire running time. And hey, look, we’re hating Commies again! Awesome!

6) George Lucas sucks. Mutt, Jar-Jar. Jar-Jar, Mutt. Even Short Round thinks he’s annoying.

7) Shia LaBeouf sucks. This is not entirely his fault, anymore than it’s Warwick Davis’ fault the Ewoks sucked. He’s just entirely miscast as an unlikable 50s greaser rebel. Even Homer Simpson’s formidable powers couldn’t make Poochie a beloved character.

8) The first three movies suck. OK, not really, but believe me, you liked them all much better the first time you saw them. This is not a new movie. It is the cinematic equivalent of a clip show retrospective, complete with expository “Unfortunately, Sean Connery and Denholm Eliot couldn’t be with us tonight, but ladies and gentlemen, give a warm welcome to…”

9) “…Karen Allen” sucks. Not Karen Allen so much as her character. If this is a clip show, she’s sort of around as a “Where are they now and Jesus do they look old?” interview. (And where the fuck is John Rhys-Davies? Apparently, Sallah has moved on to greener cinematic pastures.) By she and Indy’s third fight, you’ll be rooting for the fire ants or the Commies or the deadly natives or anything on earth to kill either you or them and put you/the film out of your/its misery.

10) Aliens suck. Chris Carter can sleep well knowing that he can now only release the 2nd worst why-the-fuck-are-they-doing-this-sequel-now alien movie of the summer.

Oh, and, just because I can, whatever you do, do not click on the following very offensive (NSFW, big time) pun-based image of how you'll feel after the movie. Seriously, don't.

L.A. Story - In The Public Domain: One Bum To Rule Them All

Reminder: All of these things happened in public and most of the time in broad daylight.

As a native Southern-Californian, I have seen my share of bums, hobos, vagrants and tramps. But a few weeks ago, I witnessed one of the greatest things I have ever seen. Unable to truly comprehend what I was seeing, I quickly dialed up one of my Fellow Peach Basketeers.

The following is an exact transcript:

John Waters on Safari: Dude... what is the largest number of shopping carts that you've ever seen one bum with?
Fellow Peach Basketeer: Uh, I don't know. Maybe one or two. I think I remember hearing from someone who saw a guy with four carts once. Why?
JWS: Because I am in my car right now looking at a bum with EIGHT shopping carts! This fuckin' guy has EIGHT carts! He has so much stuff it's unbelievable. I think he has more shoes than Imelda Marcos.
FPB: Whoa, whoa whoa.... first of all, bums don't have things. And secondly, you're lying. What you're describing is not possible.

(There is a short silence as I am horrified that an alleged friend and Fellow Basketeer would question my integrity while I simultaneously question my own existence.)

JWS: You're questioning me?
FPB: I am not only questioning you... I am calling you out. You're full of shit.

(Stunned, I quickly gather my thoughts. How can I possibly prove myself and earn back the trust of said Fellow Peach Basketeer?)

JWS: Wait a minute! I have a camera! I'll take some pictures and I'll email them to you as soon as I get to a computer.
FPB: You're going to take pictures of the bum?
JWS: Is visual evidence the only way that you're going to believe me?
FPB: Yes.
JWS: Then absolutely.

Behold, the greatest bum of them all:



Taken in the side-mirror of my car while driving, I captured the henceforth-dubbed Super Bum dragging five of his eight shopping carts full of goodies across traffic. Not only was each cart full, there were multiple bags full of detritus hanging outside of every cart.



It has been suggested that much like the Highlander, this Super Bum gains others bums' powers after he steals their carts. This is not a man to be crossed. In fact, he may not be a man at all. Perhaps explaining how he came to have eight shopping carts, I believe the Super Bum to be more like The Kurgan.

There can be only one!

The Gentleman Bachelor: Shallots

We here at the Peach Basket all have been down the lonely road of bachelorhood. Some of us still tread it. As a service to our bachelor brethren, we would like to offer some tips on how to channel your inner Felix Unger. Much of the advice we offer here may sound gay to the uninitiated. It probably is. You know why? WOMEN LOVE GAY MEN. We promise that none of our advice will lead you down a leather-clad path of assless chaps, full body waxing or Will and Grace box sets. We just think every hombre needs a little homo in him. (OK, that was gay.)

I’m assuming a lot here, bachelor pal o’ mine. Like that you can cook. If you can’t, stop reading, learn, then come back. Need a reason? Here are three:

• Cooking for the ladies is a lot cheaper than taking them out to dinner. Even Red Lobster.
• Cooking for the ladies puts them in your house, or, just as good, it puts you at her house. Either way, you are much closer to a bedroom by several orders of magnitude.
• If you know how to cook, you can use shallots, Mother Nature's oniontastic aphrodisiac.

What is a shallot? According to the Random House Dictionary, a shallot is:

a plant, Allium cepa aggregatum (or A. ascalonicum), related to the onion, having a divided bulb used for flavoring in cookery.

Knowing this will not help you. It has been at least one millennium since Latin helped anyone advance his carnal cause (original Romantic language, my ass). Allow me to edumucate you as to the true meaning of the shallot.

The shallot is a classy onion. The shallot is to the onion as the Aston Martin DBS is to the Chrysler Sebring. Softer, sweeter, and mellower than it’s larger cousin, the shallot turns any run-of-the-mill recipe into four-star fare. If you have a dish that you normally like to prepare with onions, substituting shallots is an acceptable way to introduce them to your culinary arsenal. More practical and more impressive, though, is to seek out a simple recipe that shows off the shallot in all its savory glory. You can find them by the bushel at Food.com, the food network’s official site, and the bachelor chef’s best friend. Bookmark it. Now!


Whether used as an ingredient or a garnish (thinly sliced and fried to a crisp, they can top just about any main course), I guarantee the shallot will impress any diner of the opposite sex. It also won’t give either of you lingering breath problems that might interfere with whatever you have planned for after dessert. (You did remember dessert, right?)


Here is a typical exchange between a Gentleman Bachelor and his date as he starts to slice shallots for their meal.

Date: What are those? They look like rosy onions.

GB: Oh, these? They’re shallots. I cook with them all the time. I had them at {insert trendy restaurant you can't afford} and thought I’d give them a shot at home. Now, I can’t believe I ever cooked without them.

Date: Wow! Fancy!

GB: Not any fancier than the champagne and strawberries I have for dessert.

Date giggles, swoons, and calls her roommate to tell her not to wait up.

The next morning, when you wake up, impress your now-overnight guest with sautéed shallots and eggs. Just don’t blame us when she asks you what’s for lunch.

Movie City Blues, Part II: Waking Up From Reality

I'm in Los Angeles now. With gas money and a dream. The trappings of success are painfully visible all around me. Now I just have to help myself to a job as a...

...valet. Yup. My first 6 months in LA were spent parking rich people's cars at a fancy hotel. I was so broke at the time that I regarded a keyless remote as a status symbol (still don't have one as a matter of fact). In a town that runs on who-you-know, my uncle’s colleague’s daughter got me my first break in the biz.

The gig was as a runner for a post-production/trailer house in Burbank, an excellent entry-level job. I spent most of the day driving around the city and got to know the geography of movie industry Los Angeles pretty well. I also learned that being an office monkey is not my thing. Lunch orders, filing, tape labeling... ugh. I hated it. And, working in post was not my idea of a good time. I wanted to be on set.

Looking for the next gig wasn't any easier. At this point, I had a very tiny circle of friends. Fortunately, a couple former roommates from Tucson had moved out and they too had tiny circles of friends. One of these friends worked for a show called Paradise Hotel. I almost got hired as a "talent handler" for them. Bullet dodged. Another friend worked for a little show called Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. And at the time it was a little show. It hadn’t aired yet and no one knew what huge hit it was going to be. After a ton of pestering, I convinced them to hire me as a Production Assistant.

“Congratulations, self,” I thought, “you’re on a real live TV show.” And I was. It was a great experience. I stayed on for three full seasons, getting promoted first to Assistant Production Coordinator and then to Production Coordinator. I got paid to travel the country. I worked some hellacious hours in some even more hellacious weather. I got to be a defender of the faith for reality TV since I was on one of the "good" shows. It was a gig I could be proud of. And it got me nowhere closer to the aforementioned dream.

Neither did The Girls Next Door (awesome in its own right in that I got paid to hang out at the Playboy Mansion), Star Tomorrow (don't remember it? Neither does anybody else), or Armed and Famous (8 freezing, miserable weeks in Muncie, IN that I will never get back).

Here's why. Reality TV is its own beast. While there are some similarities between the production of a reality show and a traditional one, there's one big difference: a script, and and the shooting thereof. I wasn't learning that on reality shows, and I'm kind of a writer, so that would be a good thing to learn, no?

And so, I left behind the comfort and (sigh) comfortable paychecks of reality and struck out for the scripted world. Again, I had a very limited number of contacts there. But I got lucky, one of my former PAs was PAing all over the place and got me my first gig.

I won't recount them all here. If you want to know what I worked on you can go here for the complete list. I worked on some great shows like Weeds, and some not-so-great ones like Cavemen. I learned a shit-ton about how shows get made. The nice thing about being a PA is that you really do get to see everything. The not-so-nice thing is that you get paid minimum wage or just above it. But you can afford to live on that because you're working 75 hours a week and they're providing your meals (most of the time).

Being a production assistant also puts you on the road to becoming an assistant director. “I can make a living doing that,” I thought. I had a goal. And it was a fantastic learning experience. Being a PA, you get to see and hear it all on a set. I was in first and out last. I took pride in my long hours and dedication to the job.

Time went by. The novelty wore off.

A year and a half later, I was still looking at a good 300 days to reach the magic number of 600 to qualify for membership in the Director's Guild of America. At 24, this would not be a problem. At 34, it was troubling to think of another year and a half of brutal hours at just above minimum wage pay for the right to work another 150 days in commercials and out-of-town productions in order to become a full-fledged 2nd AD. I’d had enough of being labor in someone else’s dream.

Which brings me to the here and now and the business of getting on with the dream. Here is the dream: to make good movies, even great ones. What I realize – what I’ve learned – is that the only way to make my own movies and tell my own stories is to simply start telling those stories. And I simply did not have the time to tell those stories while accruing all my valuable industry experience. I have stepped out at the bottom hoping at some point to step back in closer to the top.

My goal is to land a 40-hour work week making enough money to pay the bills writing during in the other 35 hours I gain by leaving the industry. It’s going to be tough. A temporary agency at which I’d scheduled an appointment this morning called me to cancel the appointment. They told me my “expectations for work were too high” given my resume.

Of course, the dream doesn’t live at the temp agency. It lives in me. I just need someone to pay me while I live it.