(Display Name not set)June 2008 Archives
Every third Wednesday, Beefcakes in tres chic P.C. holds an amateur night contest to lure nascent succulent males and their wallet-fat friends to the club. I decided it was important for my growth as a blogger to experience the seedier side of the entertainment world. Sign ups were at the ungodly hour of 10 pm. On my drive there, I hit zero traffic, so I reached the area around 8. To calm my nerves, I ducked into a Thai restaurant, where I covertly did shots of Jim Beam from a flask, gazing warily at the flashing "Beefcakes" sign across the street. At 9:45, I mustered the courage to enter the club. On stage dancing to the thumping bass of "Seasons in the Sun" was a hairless, dark-skinned man sporting a leather thong and a vacant stare, as if someone had made off with his joie de vive in the dressing room. The clientele was a disjointed melange of dork-retro mamas, lazy-eyed motel maids and toothless social workers, all horking greasy appetizers and champagne cocktails. The smell was a combination of elementary school paste and the perfume counter at Target. I signed in with a cashier who I could swear was the "Fabulous" girl from the Orbit commercials, then was unceremoniously ushered into what they call "the beef pit", basically an airless, soul-destroying holding room. As I plunked my Simon LeBon carrying bag containing my costume onto the green 60s carpet, I could see the other contestants' eyes darting from my face down to the bag, arching their brows, curious as to its contents. The air was thick with the unease of oiled-up men sharing a confined space. It was as if we were trapped together on one of those D-day amphibious landing vehicles, headed for the unyielding rifles of the enemy on Omaha Beach. We knew why we were all there. It was FUBAR, but we would all go down together.
After a midget they call Boss Daddy rattled off the contest rules, he gave us the performing order. I would go on second after Venom, a pliable African-American, who looked like the love child of Flip Wilson and Gumby. At the end of his act, he lifted one of his legs behind his back and up over his shoulder, sticking his big toe seductively into his mouth, all timed perfectly to the final measures of Paul Davis' "'65 Love Affair". I quickly slipped into my costume, which consisted of a Star Trek Enterprise uniform shirt, a traditional Scottish kilt, hush puppies and a cowboy hat.
The gravely voiced DJ introduced me. "Ladies, let's give a warm Beefcakes welcome to Backend Prophet!" As the opening strains of Duran Duran's "The Reflex" pulsed, I glided onto the stage, bumping and grinding with unbridled passion. The women at the tip rail stared slack-jawed. I worked the pole like it was my third cousin. After flinging my hat into the crowd, I kicked off my hush puppies, then swiveled my hips seductively, slowly removing the kilt, revealing my twelve year old tighty whiteys. The tip rail girls recoiled and retreated to the bar. I was filled with unprecedented exhuberance. My newfound abandon, however, was somewhat tempered by one wardrobe malfunction: my Star Trek shirt was so tight, I couldn't fully remove it. It ended up coiled around one arm and my neck. To cover, I improvised a dramatic pose at the end of the song, one arm twisted and jutting out like I was in the Special Olympics of Stripping.
Everything was a blur after that. I only got $6 in tips and I think vegetables were thrown at me. A dude from Arleta named Boner Simpson, who padded the joint with his au courant spin class cronies, ended up taking first prize, much to the chagrin of Venom. He was pissed, but I was elated. I wandered out the front door, encountering six young ladies who I thought at first were fans but came to discover were 15 year olds with a pregnancy pact looking for some sperm. I referred them to the homeless men in the alley, then ambled dreamily to my '96 Taurus. I had been bitten by the ladybug known as stripping, and I knew at that moment I would always be her bitch. Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose. And Freedom, thy name is Beefcakes.
I'm there Mondays and Wednesdays. No cover, but if you want a lap dance, you'll have to buy me a $9 soda.
Kurt Barnet
Happy post-Father's Day, my beta-bloggers. As my biological dad ran
off in the late 60's with a Krishna girl he met at the airport handing
out quaaludes, I had no obligations on Father's Day and planned to
spend the afternoon completing my 3D map of Mordor. But it's funny what life throws at you.
All week I had been researching revenue generated from TV, discovering the great disparity between high-profile, syndication-ready series and struggling newcomers, often noting the enormous salaries paid to established stars after a show reaches hit status. Networks seemingly have to use smoke and mirrors to see any kind of profit from their prestige series. And there's no trickle down process.
Which brings me to my Father's Day and the ironic parallel I encountered in the form of an unexpected houseguest.
At 5 am Sunday morning, a frantic knock at the door jolted me from my
sleep. I opened the door to discover old family friend Ed McMahon,
three suitcases, and four dogs. You see, Ed befriended my
mother during a taping of "The Barbara McNair Show" years ago, doing
shots together under the stands. They kept in touch and Ed would often
come over for Groundhog Day, and he and mom would play "Six More Weeks
of Winter" in mom's bedroom. I hadn't seen him since he invited us to
a taping of "Muppets Tonight", so it was a shock seeing him on my
doorstep. I asked him if Countrywide had foreclosed on his home
already, and he said no, that he and his wife Pamela had had a fight
over his purchase of a vintage radio microphone he just had to have.
He had no place else to go. Jerry's in Vegas, Larry's in D.C. and the
Muppets are not real. We spent the day reminiscing about Groundhog
Days past, how the muffled sound of his trademark laugh permeated mom's
bedroom door and always brought a smile to my face. We ate corned beef
and laughed and cried and hugged, then laughed again.That night, we did some DiSironno on the rocks and I asked him how he could possibly be on the brink of financial ruin. He re-iterated much of what he'd already said on talk shows, like manager's fees, divorces and bad investments.
But after he loosened up, he divulged
his resentment toward the lopsided pay scale and residuals from "The
Tonight Show". Johnny made off with $20 million a year, while Ed got a
fraction of that, and very little ancillary participation. The thought
of this made us so angry, we went upstairs and peed off the balcony in
protest, howling at the moon, cursing Johnny's name. Since Ed's in a
neck brace, he couldn't sleep on the couch, so we shared my bed with
his Norwegian Elkhounds Sonny, Cher, Regis and Art Fern. Ed snored
like a long-haul trucker, but his mind was finally at rest, and he
slept with a smile on his face. Quintessential Ed.The whole experience has motivated me to fight for equal pay among television artists. Whether you're the talent who holds the entire program together, or the drunk who laughs off camera. I will be lobbying the MBS executives to adopt a strict policy of fairness. I will not rest until the marginally talented are adequately compensated. In the interim, I gave a hearty donation to www.LetsHelpEd.com, so Uncle Ed won't wind up homeless on Mulholland. I suggest you do the same.
Heads up on next week's blog: Since everyone's on vacation and there's not much industry analysis to be done, my co-workers have encouraged me to be a male stripper for a week, then blog about it. Fascinating experiment. Consider Kurt Barnet on assignment!
Kurt BarnetAfternoon all. Please forgive my mood today. It was a rough weekend for me. Since blogging is all about honesty, I feel compelled to disclose that since last week's entry I have been continuously attempting to contact L.A. Dolls Roller Derby captain Niraa Death (not sure of her real name). I've been told my actions verged on stalking.
As a result, I was forced to appear at a court hearing yesterday, during which I was issued a restraining order. I cannot come within 100 feet of Ms. Death or any Roller Derby in the continental United States or Puerto Rico. My sincere apologies go out to Ms. Death and her teammates, family, friends and cats. But as you all know, I do NOT allow bumps in the road to slow me down, so let's hit the ground full throttle!
This week, I've had many conversations with my peers about the paucity of new television programs scheduled for the fall. All the major networks, including Manka's own MBS, announced fewer new shows at the New York Upfronts than ever before.
Today, I had lunch with Melissa Davenport from the MBS-TV scheduling division to get her views on the current trend, its causes, its effects, and to find out how many advertising dollars Manka Bros. may have in its pocket come November sweeps. I took Melissa to the executive commissary, because it's quieter there and they play gentle piano music. I ordered salmon for her, chicken fettucine for me, and a $75 bottle of Cabernet. Since she's a vegan, she only ate the rice and veggies, but as she told me about MBS's plans for low-cost, high yield reality and game show programming, I couldn't help but notice the sparkle in her eye, the way her cheek bones seemed to raise to the heavens with each smile, and this Cybil Shepard glow that suddenly appeared to enshroud her.
After a while, I couldn't hear what she was saying, just the lilting sounds of the piano muzak. At some point, she gently pushed her auburn hair behind one ear, revealing the seductive curve of her neck and her tastefully alluring earring. The smell of her aromatic perfume transported me. I felt we had a real connection. She touched my hand once and my heart skipped a beat. After my three Visa cards were declined and she picked up the tab, I walked her to the door and we shook hands. I held her hand for what seemed like several minutes, stroking her delicate fingers, gazing into her magnetic eyes. It wasn't until after security had me escorted away that I realized perhaps I had crossed a line.
My theory is that I had some sort of chemical reaction to her perfume, which was designed by American Idol winner Fantasia. I am certainly going to obtain a sample of it and have it tested for hallucinogens. Or possibly the Cabernet had gone bad. Or possibly I'm clinically depressed.
There's no denying the impact the Sex and the City opening weekend grosses have had on the studio mindset today. All-time romantic comedy record with $55.7 million, besting Hitch's $43.1. The eye-opener: 75% of the audience was female, 80% older than 25. Preliminary figures show the remainder of the audience consisted of 18% gay men, 2% gay women, 2% transgender, 1.5% seeing eye dog, 1% straight male, and .05% confused about sexual orientation.
After perusing these numbers, I got right on the horn to the development department to see if Manka has any plans to cater to this once dormant, now vibrant demographic. Sure enough, some languishing female-driven projects have now been moved to the front burner.
Kevin in development told me Robin Rafe just this morning greenlit a script called Fun and Dames, which follows the sexual exploits of four 70-something former beauty queens living in a retirement home. In the film, a team of gay interns busts them all out so one of them can pledge her love to the man that got away, and the rest of them can hit on waiters.
In the heat of the moment, I couldn't help but pitch Kevin the female-driven screenplay I wrote back in '92. I'm convinced now may be the time for it! It's called Dolls of Pain, and it centers on a hard-hitting, tatooed all-girl Roller Derby team lead by the outrageous Niraa Death, who comes to blows with team rival Sheila Destroyu over the hunky Derby president Jerry Manhood. When a bevy of high-end fashion models threatens to overtake the league and infuse it with glamour and mainstream sex appeal, Niraa and Sheila have to band together to uphold the goth integrity of the sport, spilling some skinny ass model blood along the way. My agent at the Coralie Jr. agency hawked it around town for years, until he died. After that I set it up with Phil Shoemeister at the Shoemeister Agency. It was only after signing I discovered Phil was blind. But he fought hard for the script he never read, until his untimely death. For a while, it was repped by All Star Talent, until Rob, the head agent, called me in to wrestle with him in the alley behind the agency, which I thought was creepy, so I walked. After my last agent was indicted, I decided to shelve the script for a while. But are the planets now aligning? Kevin?? KEVIN?!?!?!?
Since Manka Bros.' business policy precludes actresses from receiving any back end participation on feature films, the studio profit margin and ancillary prospects would be plentiful, should Robin Rafe choose to greenlight more female projects. Films centered around the world of roller derby have traditionally opened to an average of $30.6 million. Elements such as tattoos and models usually bump the b.o. by 22%.
About Kurt Barnet
Kurt Barnet has been a Junior VP in Accounts Payable at Manka Bros. for over 15 years. He is single.
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