I just watched a PBS special about the nature of space hosted by noted author, physicist and Big Bang Theory alumnus, Brian Greene. When it was over, I was struck by the thought that the mysterious dark energy that fills the universe might be what human beings have been praying to for thousands of years. I mean, think about it. What if prayer and meditation are natural, evolutionary pathways to connect to Einstein's cosmological constant, Buddha's nirvana and Jesus's dad? According to physicists, this dark energy is both infinite in extent and the prime mover for an expanding universe. Kinda fits the bill, right? Let's take it a step further. What if gravity, the mysterious force pulling the cosmos inward, is what our feeble frontal lobes perceive as evil? And finally, what if the two forces in balance are what allow for the whole shebang to exist in the first place? We label them good and bad. Love and hate. Life and death. But at the end of the day, all we have are two fundamental quantum thingies that can be directly experienced. Hmm... not sure what to do with this revelation. It's kind of a coin flip between starting a new religion - you know, going full frontal L. Ron Hubbard - and applying for a federal tax exemption - or just making a nice donor pledge to PBS.
Tuesday 22 November 2011
Saturday 19 November 2011
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #367
Among the team of superheroes, his power was the least envied. As The Human Sponge, he had the ability to absorb the emotions of people nearby and make them his own - to the point of actually forgetting that what he was feeling did not originate with him. While his fellow crime fighters fought evil by hurling bolts of lightning or with amazing displays of strength, The Human Sponge could only sit next to the villain o' the day and soak up his festering rage. Needless to say, when the weary band of caped crusaders returned to their secret lair, Sponge was not very good company. There were even private discussions of replacing him with Paper Towel Man (who had the same super power, but was disposable). Thankfully, the problem was solved when Jesus joined the team. From that day on, The Human Sponge was just a sweetie... except around money-lenders. Then he could be kind of a dick.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #366
This photograph was my vanity card when I was working on Grace Under Fire and Cybill. I remember deciding on its composition by asking myself what were some of my favorite things. The answer, as you can see in the picture, was tobacco, bourbon and an old Mac computer. Eighteen years later, I still love my Mac. The other two items, despite my eternal affection, have been replaced with a bronchial inhaler and a metal folding chair in a church basement.
FOOD, PETTING AND PLAYING PRODUCTIONS, #365
An odd thing happens after you've seen your name in print over and over again. It becomes detached from your sense of self. The shipping label no longer has any relationship with what's in the box. The experience is sort of like when you were a kid and you'd quickly repeat a word until it had no meaning and was just a funny sound. It's disorienting when that happens to your name, but after awhile, surprisingly, it's actually quite liberating. There's your name in an article or some blog, and then, far away, in some other place - or no place if you're feeling zennish - is you. Another way to look at it is to imagine a soul or spirit rising up from a corpse. Everybody is standing around the dearly departed, singing his praises or bitching about him, while his 'ectoplasmic body' is hovering near the ceiling and yelling, "Hey, I'm over here! I'm not that. I'm something else." (Or, zennishly, nothing else.) Of course, aside from the family dog, no one can hear or see him. They're all fixated on the body. The name. Which brings up an interesting idea. Dogs don't know our names. They see the real us, sans moniker. If they think anything when we walk into a room, it's probably something like, "Hey, it's food, petting and playing!"
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #364
On behalf of the producers of The Big Bang Theory I want to take this opportunity to thank our intrepid office staffers: Jen D'Angelo, Anthony Robinson, Jess Ambrosetti, Gary Torvinen, Tara Hernandez, Charlie Back, Robin Green for their tireless efforts and ridiculous devotion to the building of the Lego Death Star seen in tonight's episode. You are all now part of television history, although that will not be reflected in your paycheck.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #363
Was there an original thought to be thunk? Or was he forever doomed to be an emulator, or worse, a regurgitator? And if he was, so what? Doesn't every college sophomore majoring in English because they have no freaking clue what to do with their life know that disdaining the derivative is the height of unoriginality? More importantly, what was the likelihood that he could keep writing without landing on even one declarative sentence? And why did he use the idiot word "thunk"? Is he actually an idiot? Or is he wildly clever? Will we find out one day? Who knows? Who cares? Should he continue trying to write a vanity card when he has a raging flu and is so heavily intoxicated from a potpourri of over-the-counter cold medications that he keeps referring to himself in the third person?
Probably not.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #362
She was the kind of woman who said, "I hope this special day is infused with beauty and light and that all your hopes and dreams crystalize into a loving reality emanating from an equally loving universe." He would have been more comfortable if she just said, "Happy birthday."
He was the kind of man who said, "Whenever I see one of those tired, middle-aged, balding schmucks pushing a baby carriage down Montana Avenue behind his thirty-year old, yoga-fied, Pilate- sized, armoire shopping, second wife, I can't help but feel a wave of pity for the poor, toad-like bastard." She would have been more comfortable if he just said, "I don't really want more kids."
She was the kind of woman who said, "What difference does it make if I've slept with rock stars, movie stars and sports legends? You measure up quite nicely to all those guys." He would have been more comfortable if she just said, "Stand still while I stab you in the heart with my intrauterine device."
He was the kind of man who said, "I'm a worn-out, emotional wreck who's incapable of anything resembling warmth, love and intimacy, but I have a lot of money and you'll never want for anything." She would have been more comfortable if he just said.... No, actually, she was entirely comfortable with the way he put it.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #361
Never forget that taking a bow and ducking are essentially the same thing.
The reason you suffer is because you think your identity and worth as a human being are inextricably tied into your career. Don't think that.
Success has many parents, and even more lawyers. They're paying you a lot because they're killing you. Don't grow too attached to your agent. Like a beloved spouse, they come and go.
If you want fair, go to Pomona September 8-26. Wear comfy shoes. It's not true that if you believe the good reviews, you must also believe the bad ones. The bad ones could have been written by mean, stupid people who hate your success.
Act like your job is the most important thing in the world, but never forget that it's ultimately meaningless. All we are is dust in the wind, yada-yada-yada.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #361
Never forget that taking a bow and ducking are essentially the same thing.
The reason you suffer is because you think your identity and worth as a human being are inextricably tied into your career. Don't think that.
Success has many parents, and even more lawyers. They're paying you a lot because they're killing you. Don't grow too attached to your agent. Like a beloved spouse, they come and go.
If you want fair, go to Pomona September 8-26. Wear comfy shoes. It's not true that if you believe the good reviews, you must also believe the bad ones. The bad ones could have been written by mean, stupid people who hate your success.
Act like your job is the most important thing in the world, but never forget that it's ultimately meaningless. All we are is dust in the wind, yada-yada-yada.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #360
I'm sorry, there's just no time to write these things.
Talk amongst yourselves.
Talk amongst yourselves.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #359
Okay, I'm just gonna say it out loud. There are times when going crazy looks attractive. And I'm not talking about becoming charmingly eccentric. I've already got that covered nine ways to Sunday. No, I'm talking about purposely emigrating to the land of lunacy. That special psychological zip code where The Ancient Laws of Behave Yourself no longer apply. My "reasoning" is simple. It takes a great deal of effort to sustain a conservative, trustworthy persona. Surrendering that effort would involve, from a Freudian perspective, a conscious dismantling of the super ego - that part of the psyche entrusted with enforcing parental and socially approved actions. And therein lies the allure of going full frontal wack-a-doodle. The constant energy required to pass as normal would suddenly become available for doing and saying whatever pleases me in the moment. Imagine it. The id and libido completely unbound by any and all moral or cultural restrictions. Hmm... Probably won't need the shrink anymore... might need a lawyer.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #358
You make me uncomfortable when you praise me.
You make me uncomfortable when you don't.
You really need to get your act together
You make me uncomfortable when you don't.
You really need to get your act together
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #357
I've just learned that 96% of the universe is made up of stuff we don't understand, can't measure, and, until very recently, didn't even know existed. Personally, I find this extremely reassuring. A big mystery in my life is finally solved. I mean, think about it. What chance did both of my marriages have when we were all so clueless regarding the fundamental nature of everything? On a very deep, quantum level, I feel vindicated. In fact, I'm thinking of sending a note to both exes. Something along the lines of, "I told you that dark energy wasn't just coming from me. It was in you, the coffee table, your mother - it was all around us. Goo goo g'joob, baby!"
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #356
When I started writing vanity cards, way back in 1995, few people noticed them. Most of those who did assumed they were some sort of legal boilerplate. Heck, even if someone got curious and hit 'pause' on their VCR, there was no guarantee they'd be able to read the darn things. Now... forget about it. Every card gets parsed and analyzed like it was a Canticle for Leibowitz (great book, check it out). The jokes are taken way too seriously and the stories all have to have a secret meaning. (Sometimes a junkie monkey is just a junkie monkey.) Don't get me wrong. There's a part of me that loves to exploit this silliness. What other possible reason would I have to write the following poem?
'cause they weren't buried deep.
Always follow the money,
silence don't come cheap.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #355
We are a story-telling folk. For millennia, we have used the narrative device to educate, enlighten, entertain, frighten, enthrall and just plain tickle each other. That's how we roll. The problem with story-telling comes with the stories we tell ourselves and, more importantly, the degree to which they depart from what's actually happening. That's how we unravel. For instance, a heart-wrenching yarn that details a life filled with tragedy and impending doom, when in reality everything is fine, can be found within the mind of your average teenage girl... or middle-aged comedy writer. On the other end of the spectrum is the man who regales himself with a fantasy adventure about being a demigod who is beloved by all, when, in fact, he's dying, everything is going to hell and his friends and family have changed their home phone numbers and begun lighting prayer candles (no need to discuss examples for that story). And then there are the little novellas we tell ourselves every day. The ones that fill in the blank for why she/he doesn't like me, love me, laugh at my jokes, return my e-mail or look me in the eye during missionary sex. Regardless of the type of story, here are a few tips to close the book, if you will, on their psychic damage. First, look for extremity in your word choices. "Always," "never," "forever," "hopeless" and "death" are usually tip-offs that you're in a self-made fairy tale. Second, replace mental legends with manual labor. Cleaning the gutter is often the antidote for "My nose is stuffy, ergo I am patient zero of a weaponized bird flu devised by a secret arm of the Chinese government." And finally, write your little horror stories down and sell them. Here's the title and tag line from one I just optioned to an independent film maker:
If your erection lasts longer than four hours, consult a physician...
or kill one.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #354
Hardly a day goes by when I don't think about quitting this business. Hanging it up. Taking my proverbial bat and ball and going home. In my imagination, the day after I quit is a wonderful, relaxing, joyful experience. I reconnect with old friends, walk on the beach, read, listen to music, play guitar, play golf, eat leisurely meals off of real plates, exercise, meditate, maybe go see a matinee, or take a stab at writing a few pages of a self-indulgent, joke-free play filled with people screaming at each other, and then, after taking the dog for a walk, climb into bed and fall into a peaceful, stress-free sleep. The day after that, bored out of my mind, I start drinking around the clock and quickly descend into a dark, frothing madness that leads to either being institutionalized or liver failure and an agonizing, premature death. The really scary part? There's hardly a day goes by when I don't think about quitting this business.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #353
I have long believed that we as human beings are genetically inclined to elevate and worship those of us we deem to be very beautiful or very talented. We do this because we are somehow comforted by our adoration. It makes us feel good. As children we sleep beneath the images of movie, TV, music and sports stars and dream about the mystery and grandeur of their lives. As adults, the posters come off the wall, only to be replaced by a steady, noxious stream of tabloid culture. But perhaps most enjoyable of all is watching the fall from grace. Nothing beats a good ol' public crucifixion. Especially when it's self-inflicted. My theory for why this is considered entertainment is, again, a genetic one. DNA, even if it's mediocre, wants to ensure its own survival. The existence of superior DNA is viewed as a threat. When beautiful and talented people screw up, we can't help but feel that this somehow improves the chances for our mediocre descendants to eat meat. In other words, evolution my ass.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #352
He couldn't help but feel that the culture was spinning away from him. That the zeitgeist was a physical location no longer available on his personal bus route. This was the only explanation for why he now found himself standing in the shower dragging a double-edged razor across his crotch and balls. The fact that he had no idea how to properly do what he was doing did not slow his hand. The fact that he might cut some vital artery and bleed out, or worse, be rushed to the hospital where doctors and nurses would snicker about "the old guy who almost manscaped himself to death," was of little concern. His desire to remain relevant, to feel tethered to reality, had turned him into a twisted, middle-aged version of Lady Macbeth. Instead of obsessively washing his hands and muttering "out, damned spot," he scraped, trimmed and snipped at his '70's bush while chanting "out, old-fashioned testicles!" When he finally finished the job he looked down at the blighted landscape below his belly. He had not seen his groin in this condition since he was a little boy playing with boats in a bathtub. The effect was deeply disorienting. He began to cry for both his long lost youth and a world he no longer felt a part of. Fortunately his wife walked into the bathroom, saw what he'd done, and started crying as well. But her tears were those of joy. "Oh yay!" she exclaimed, "Less spitting and flossing."
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #351
Sometime last year I realized I had become the unwilling contestant in a reality show. I didn't understand the rules, wasn't sure if there even were any, and pretty much hated every second of it. For many months I kept hoping and praying that it would end. But it did not. Somewhere along the way, something inside me died. Anyway, now, suddenly, I'm being told that the reality show's been cancelled. Apparently, it was just one of those things that somehow got out of control. Sorry. Whoops. Live and learn. Moving on. Game over. And that's fine. I am so good with that. Yes, please, let's all move on. There's just one problem. That thing inside me that died? It walks at night. It's angry. It's hungry. And worst of all...it's writing a tell-all book.
Thursday 17 November 2011
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #350
The boy who farted laughing gas,
eschewed pretentious poses.
He thought those who called him vulgar,
had boogers in their noses.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
eschewed pretentious poses.
He thought those who called him vulgar,
had boogers in their noses.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #349
Every night before going to bed, he would brush his teeth and make a preemptive attempt to void his bladder. He then walked into his closet, got on his knees in front of the shoe rack and prayed to a god whose unlikely existence he likened to an ongoing quantum event. In his mind, the act of kneeling mattered not at all to this supposed god. He could just as well pray standing naked on his head with his ass serving as a fleshy vase for a bouquet of flowers. The penitential pose was only useful as a demonstration of his humility in the face of the infinite (although when things were going his way, it was more of a feigned humility). The prayers themselves mostly consisted of thanking his sub-atomic almighty verb for assembling an infrastructure that allowed for life to exist. This included, in no particular order, the various laws of physics, gravity, organic chemistry and thermodynamics. And, since it was his belief that sentient life was created by an insentient universe in order for the insentient universe to be admired, he made an effort in his prayers to tell the insentience, "nice work" or "way to go". Finally, he would close with a plea for this nameless everything to look after the less fortunate. "Please god, despite the clear evidence that it's not in your nature to care, bring love and happiness to all the souls who suffer." Then, his heart filled with grace, he would climb into bed and sleep peacefully until he dreamed he was standing in his closet and peeing on his shoes - god's clever way of telling him he had to wake up and go to the bathroom.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #346
Once upon a time there was a sea turtle and a wolf who became friends. Now you might think that these are two animals who wouldn't have much to do with each other. And you'd be right. One was a plodding, oddly-shaped ocean dweller, while the other was a sleek predator who prowled the forests for unwary deer. Their friendship began when the wolf was out hunting and saw the turtle sunning himself on the beach. The turtle looked rather unappetizing, so there was never any real thought of eating him. Nonetheless, the wolf was curious about this curious creature. And vice versa. The two got to talking and the turtle told the wolf about an island not too far offshore that was filled with delicious animals just waiting to be eaten. Needless to say, the story got the wolf's attention. A deal was quickly struck in which the turtle would ferry the wolf to the island every day in exchange for a portion of whatever the wolf killed. This arrangement worked out quite well. Many years went by and both animals got fat and happy. But there came a time when the wolf decided he didn't need the turtle anymore and could swim to the island on his own. After all, he'd been watching the turtle make the daily journey for a long time and it certainly didn't look very hard. But it was. Not long after the wolf jumped into the ocean, he was quickly overcome by the relentless waves and fierce undertow. He struggled and howled, but to no avail. The proud wolf sank to the floor of the sea where his body was quickly engulfed by a swarm of bottom-feeding crabs. His last thought was, "I wonder if it's too late to work with the turtle?" The moral of the story? Stick with the program or be stuck with bottom-feeding crabs.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #345
What doesn't kill us makes us bitter. I used to believe that to be both funny and true. Years later I learned that pain could also be the touchstone for personal growth, which of course points back to the original saying, "what doesn't kill us makes us better." Not funny, but perhaps closer to the truth. Or at least the truth I choose to believe in these days. So, having recently experienced a bit of pain, am I better? Well, let's review: I think I'm fairly immune to name-calling now. I'm not sure I could have made that claim a few months ago. I've also come to see that the things I used to think were big deals, are not. Problems appear to be relative. If you have a big one, it makes all the others seem almost charming in comparison. And finally, when your life takes a path you could never have foreseen, it's humbling. In a good way. It's kind of like a friendly reminder from the universe that while you may think you have the starring role in the movie of your life, you're actually just a bit player trying to grab a quesadilla off the craft services table when no one's looking.
So, to sum up: I now have a thicker skin, I'm less likely to sweat the small stuff, and, perhaps most importantly, I have a renewed sense of humility. All in all, better. That being said, I still try to stay reasonably bitter in order to maintain my eligibility in the Writers Guild of America.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #344
Sigmund Freud was an avid pipe smoker. Legend has it that during a lecture he gave about the sexual implications of oral fixations, a mischievous attendee asked him what the unconscious meanings were behind his constant pipe puffing. The great man's answer was, "Sometimes a pipe is just a pipe." Over the years this quote somehow morphed into "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." Regardless, the intent is the same. Every once in a while there is no subtext, no hidden meaning. In my own experience I would suggest that "Sometimes a monkey is just a monkey." That being said, I think we can all agree that a cigar is always an ignitable penis.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #343
I've been studying up on the psychological phenomenon known as projection. Sigmund Freud explained it as the mental mechanism by which a person attributes to others the very qualities he or she despises, and cannot confront, in themselves. I've also been learning about passive-aggressive behavior. This is language and actions that are abusive but cleverly hidden behind a thin veil of civility. For example, the first two sentences of this vanity card.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #342
I hear the phrase "it is what it is" a lot these days. I like it. The words strike me as an attempt to express a minor epiphany. The speaker is announcing in a casual way that they accurately perceive an unchangeable reality and have accepted it as such. There's no defeat implied, it's just an articulation of consciousness doing its thing. To me, this represents the Zenification of America. An evolutionary step forward from "c'est la vie," which implied a weary, apathetic resignation. The Frenchification of America, if you will. Another phrase I've been hearing quite often is, "it's all good." This one really bothers me. A cursory look around would indicate that "it" is not even remotely "all good." This might represent the Canadafication of America.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #341
Dear Concerned Viewers,
Thanks to the magic of computer graphics, the monkey in tonight's episode was not actually smoking a cigarette, nor was he ever exposed to secondhand smoke. At all times, every effort was made to make the monkey feel happy and safe. Nevertheless, he proved impossible to work with. During the week of production his behavior became increasingly erratic, to the point of refusing to come out of his trailer to rehearse. It wasn't until after we finished filming his scenes that we learned why. The monkey is a heroin addict. Yes, hard as it may be to believe, the monkey had a monkey on his back. Thankfully, an intervention was staged by the Geico lizard and he is now going through detox and a twelve step program at the Bonzo Center in Palm Springs. Everyone at The Big Bang Theory wishes him well.
Thanks to the magic of computer graphics, the monkey in tonight's episode was not actually smoking a cigarette, nor was he ever exposed to secondhand smoke. At all times, every effort was made to make the monkey feel happy and safe. Nevertheless, he proved impossible to work with. During the week of production his behavior became increasingly erratic, to the point of refusing to come out of his trailer to rehearse. It wasn't until after we finished filming his scenes that we learned why. The monkey is a heroin addict. Yes, hard as it may be to believe, the monkey had a monkey on his back. Thankfully, an intervention was staged by the Geico lizard and he is now going through detox and a twelve step program at the Bonzo Center in Palm Springs. Everyone at The Big Bang Theory wishes him well.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #340
MEMO FROM WARNER BROS. LEGAL DEPARTMENT: This vanity card is now approved for broadcast (see attached).
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #337
Whenever I've gone through tough times, well-meaning people have told me that God/the universe does not give us more than we can handle. Well, I've been going through a tough time recently, and sure enough, that old saying has been tossed my way on several morose occasions. After some careful consideration, I've decided it's bull$#*!. As an aphorism, it only makes sense in hindsight - after you've managed to crawl from the wreckage of whatever calamity that God/the universe decided to toss your way. No one ever uses it to comfort someone who's been hit by a bus or turned into a puddle of goo by flesh-eating bacteria (although in the right circumstance, that could be a hoot). Another thing I hear a lot is, "this too shall pass." Again, I know these are words meant to reassure, but somehow they always leave me feeling that heartbreak, rage and grief are going to come shooting out of me like kidney stones through an inflamed urethra. For someone in crisis, I think a more accurate and helpful assessment of reality would be, "Love, sex, food, friendship, art, play, beauty and the simple pleasure of a cup of tea are all well and good, but never forget that God/the universe is determined to kill you by whatever means necessary." Consider trying that next time you're called on to do some consoling. If you're feeling impish, you might also try, "According to the rules of comedy, your suffering will be funny after an undetermined length of time. Maybe not while you're having your gangrenous leg sawed off, watching your home burn down or learning how to be intimate with your cellmate, but, in the big scheme of things, soon."
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #336
One minute life is one thing.
The next minute, life is something else.
The feeling is one of disorientation. Topsy-turvy. Upheaval.
Then the Earth says, "No. I'll show you topsy-turvy.
This, Chaim, is upheaval."
Regained perspective.
Humility.
Embrace the teaching.
Call lawyer.
The next minute, life is something else.
The feeling is one of disorientation. Topsy-turvy. Upheaval.
Then the Earth says, "No. I'll show you topsy-turvy.
This, Chaim, is upheaval."
Regained perspective.
Humility.
Embrace the teaching.
Call lawyer.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #335
We tell ourselves stories. We weave together different plot lines, wondering if the outcome of the story might be different were we to have done or said something other than what we had done or said, all the while knowing that the various alternative outcomes are just more stories - fictions meant to distract us from what's actually happening. And so we pause from weaving and commence breathing, gently and non-judgmentally saying hello to what is...
Oy vey.
Oy vey.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #334
I understand that I'm under a lot of pressure to respond to certain statements made about me recently. The following are my uncensored thoughts. I hope this will put an end to any further speculation.
I believe that consciousness creates the illusion of individuation, the false feeling of being separate. In other words, I am aware, ergo I am alone. I further believe that this existential misunderstanding is the prime motivating force for the neurotic compulsion to blot out consciousness. This explains the paradox of our culture, which celebrates the ego while simultaneously promoting its evisceration with drugs and alcohol. It also clarifies our deep-seated fear of monolithic, one-minded systems like communism, religious fundamentalism, zombies and invaders from Mars. Each one is a dark echo of an oceanic state of unifying transcendence from which consciousness must, by nature, flee. The Fall from Grace is, in fact, a Sprint from Grace. Or perhaps more accurately, "Screw Grace, I am so outta here!"
Questions?
I believe that consciousness creates the illusion of individuation, the false feeling of being separate. In other words, I am aware, ergo I am alone. I further believe that this existential misunderstanding is the prime motivating force for the neurotic compulsion to blot out consciousness. This explains the paradox of our culture, which celebrates the ego while simultaneously promoting its evisceration with drugs and alcohol. It also clarifies our deep-seated fear of monolithic, one-minded systems like communism, religious fundamentalism, zombies and invaders from Mars. Each one is a dark echo of an oceanic state of unifying transcendence from which consciousness must, by nature, flee. The Fall from Grace is, in fact, a Sprint from Grace. Or perhaps more accurately, "Screw Grace, I am so outta here!"
Questions?
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #333 (CENSORED)
It was more fun writing these things when I was fairly certain no one was reading them. That is no longer the case. These days it seems like every vanity card is getting scrutinized and criticized by network executives, corporate legal departments and publicity departments, TV journalists and tabloid bloggers. Believe it or not, my musings have been both cheered and jeered by TV Guide! But lately it's gotten out of hand. Which is why I've decided to take a break for a few weeks. Let things cool off a little. Instead of writing short essays that upset people, I've decided to use my one second of network TV to do something simple and hassle-free. Starting with this card, I'm going to display a photograph of a part of my body that is entirely innocuous. No longer will I share some troublesome piece of my mind. Now I will share an actual piece of Chuck that is incapable of offending anyone. You know, a foot, a hand, or maybe a toe. So with that in mind, behold...
my knuckle.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #332
It was more fun writing these things when I was fairly certain no one was reading them. That is no longer the case. These days it seems like every vanity card is getting scrutinized and criticized by network executives, corporate legal departments and publicity departments, TV journalists and tabloid bloggers. Believe it or not, my musings have been both cheered and jeered by TV Guide! But lately it's gotten out of hand. Which is why I've decided to take a break for a few weeks. Let things cool off a little. Instead of writing short essays that upset people, I've decided to use my one second of network TV to do something simple and hassle-free. Starting with this card, I'm going to display a photograph of a part of my body that is entirely innocuous. No longer will I share some troublesome piece of my mind. Now I will share an actual piece of Chuck that is incapable of offending anyone. You know, a foot, a hand, or maybe a toe. So with that in mind, behold...
my elbow.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #331
Random Things I've Learned in TV
Never ask a question when you know the answer is going to be a lie.
Silence is always bad news.
Strong Nielson ratings guarantee employment, not self-esteem.
Actors can smoke cigarettes because they're immune to carcinogens.
It's safe to talk openly and honestly with people because they're not really listening.
The two major groups in TV show biz are, naturally enough, show people and biz people. Telling them apart is simple. No matter how old they are, 'show' people (usually creative types like writers, actors, directors and musicians) dress like teenagers. Again, regardless of age, 'biz' people (agents, managers, lawyers, company executives) dress like adults. When 'biz' people start dressing like 'show' people it means they've made too much money off the backs of the aforementioned 'show' people. When 'show' people (usually directors) start dressing like 'biz' people, it means they're insecure about their creative involvement and need a hug.
Silence is always bad news.
Strong Nielson ratings guarantee employment, not self-esteem.
Actors can smoke cigarettes because they're immune to carcinogens.
It's safe to talk openly and honestly with people because they're not really listening.
The two major groups in TV show biz are, naturally enough, show people and biz people. Telling them apart is simple. No matter how old they are, 'show' people (usually creative types like writers, actors, directors and musicians) dress like teenagers. Again, regardless of age, 'biz' people (agents, managers, lawyers, company executives) dress like adults. When 'biz' people start dressing like 'show' people it means they've made too much money off the backs of the aforementioned 'show' people. When 'show' people (usually directors) start dressing like 'biz' people, it means they're insecure about their creative involvement and need a hug.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #330
He felt dead inside.
No matter how hard he partied, he could never escape that simple fact - inside, dead.
And that was his life.
Running from a feeling.
At least until he could run no more.
Exhausted, spent and beaten, when the end finally came, he welcomed it.
With life ebbing from his wasted body, he was suddenly swept up in a transcendent state of joy that was pure and complete.
Moments later he felt dead inside.
No matter how hard he partied, he could never escape that simple fact - inside, dead.
And that was his life.
Running from a feeling.
At least until he could run no more.
Exhausted, spent and beaten, when the end finally came, he welcomed it.
With life ebbing from his wasted body, he was suddenly swept up in a transcendent state of joy that was pure and complete.
Moments later he felt dead inside.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #329
I exercise regularly. I eat moderate amounts of healthy food. I make sure to get plenty of rest. I see my doctor once a year and my dentist twice a year. I floss every night. I've had chest x–rays, cardio stress tests, EKG's and colonoscopies. I see a psychologist and have a variety of hobbies to reduce stress. I don't drink. I don't smoke. I don't do drugs. I don't have crazy, reckless sex with strangers.
If Charlie Sheen outlives me, I'm gonna be really pissed.
If Charlie Sheen outlives me, I'm gonna be really pissed.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #328
They weren't not in love. It's just that the subject, as such, never really came up. It kind of loomed over them like a blissfully stupid cloud. The love cloud.
Guaranteed to rain on your brain, 'til you're moanin' with seratonin.
Maybe what was happening was that they were in love with the idea of being in love. But that's still love, right? Instead of loving each other, they loved an idea. An aspiration. A wish. The other person was more or less of an afterthought. Somewhat expendable, or at the very least, interchangeable.
I love that you make me feel like I'm in love. You, on the other hand, I can take or leave.
Of course, it was just a matter of time before the truth of each other, the hard fact of their unique selfness, their one-of-a-kind snow-flakiness, became unavoidable.
I may be a broken toy, but you are a Chinese crib factory that uses lead paint.
Saying goodbye in these circumstances is always very awkward.
"I just had your car towed."
"That's okay, those Flip videos I
said I erased are now on the internet."
"That's okay, those Flip videos I
said I erased are now on the internet."
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #327
I'm writing this vanity card in Israel. I like it here. Not for the geography, or architecture, or even the history. No, I like it because for the first time in my life I'm surrounded with DNA much like my own. Until I got here, until I wandered around Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, I didn't realize how much my double helix yearned to be around similar strands. Now that's not to say that I don't occasionally have that very same genetic experience in Beverly Hills (particularly in Chinese restaurants on Sunday night). But the sheer homogeneity of Israel overwhelms any over-priced kung pao gathering at Mr. Chow's. The cop, the cab driver, the hotel concierge, the pilot, the waiter, the shoe salesman, the beautiful girl looking right through me as if I didn't exist -- all Jewish! If I had to sum it up, I'd say the sensation is like being at a B'nai B'rith summer camp that is surrounded by millions of crazy bastards who hate the sound of kids playing tetherball, and all the poor little camp has going for it is pluckiness and nukes. Anyway, I have to believe my visceral and very pleasant reaction is some sort of evolutionary, tribal thing. Some sort of survival gene that makes human beings want to stay with their birth group. Which raises the question, why have I spent a lifetime moving away from that group? How did Chaim become Chuck? How did Levine become Lorre? The only answer I come up with is this: When I was a little boy in Hebrew school the rabbis regularly told us that we were the chosen people. That we were God's favorites. Which is all well and good except that I went home, observed my family and, despite my tender age, thought to myself, "bull$#*!."
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #326
In the near future, we will see brain scan technology that can determine, without fail, if someone is telling the truth. Shortly thereafter, we will be able to buy mobile devices that perform the same task on the fly. In other words, we are on the verge of having all of our conversations constantly and instantly monitored for veracity. This would then spawn a counter-technology comprised of personal mind shields that keep oneself from being scanned (the use of which would, of course, imply that one is keeping secrets). The end result? Universal honesty, initially as a result of the duress of surveillance, will become the norm. Then, over time, this mode of thinking, communicating and behaving will become second nature. This will usher in the dawn of a new civilization. After thousands of years of human suffering, world peace and the long-fabled 'good will towards all men' will have finally arrived. The end of lying and cheating will also mark the end of scripted entertainment. So, you know, there'll be a downside.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #325
I have a recurring dream that I've been drafted to play on an NBA team. This is a very upsetting dream because I can't really play basketball. I mean, I play pretty much how you'd expect a middle-aged Jewish comedy writer to play. The words clumsy, hesitant, clueless, short and frightened come to mind. During the dream I'm well aware of my grotesque lack of talent. I run up and down the court hoping the ball doesn't come my way, all the while wondering why the coach doesn't take me out. Even me executing an uncontested lay-up or free throw seems like an impossible, or at least unlikely, event. Assuming dreams work as metaphor and I'm not really subconsciously afraid of having to go mano a mano with Kobe or LeBron, the question I find myself asking is, what in my life do I feel fully engaged in and yet completely unqualified for? The answer is simple: intimate relationships. Once again, the words clumsy, hesitant, clueless, short and frightened come to mind. Well, not short... average.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #324
WARNING!
Do not attempt to replicate what you saw in tonight's episode of Two and a Half Men. Despite the seeming lack of serious consequences and regardless of the hilarity that ensued, this is extremely dangerous behavior and could result in injury or death. Please keep in mind that we employ a highly-paid Hollywood professional who has years of experience with putting his life at risk. And sadly no, I'm not talking about our stunt man.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #323
The Mask of Undoogoo
Before Undoogoo would venture into the jungle to begin his daily hunt, he would don a mask to confuse his prey. Not a mask meant to frighten. No, Undoogoo's mask was pleasant to look at, designed to trick his quarry into thinking that he was harmless. In this way, Undoogoo was able to get close and strike a lethal blow. Which is exactly what he had in mind the day he spied a beautiful creature drinking at a watering hole. Hiding behind his benign facade, he positioned himself alongside his intended victim and prepared to attack. But what Undoogoo didn't know was that this "beautiful creature" was also wearing a mask. A mask that successfully camouflaged a fierce and merciless predator. And so it was that Undoogoo suddenly found himself being devoured, torn apart, eviscerated! His screams echoed through the jungle. But the jungle was accustomed to the sounds of agony, and no one came to his aid. Bloodied and barely alive, he managed to escape and crawl back to his village where, to his horror, he discovered that his tormentor had taken possession of his hut. Now helpless and homeless, he was forced to live the rest of his days in the wild, feeding on what dung beetles feed on.
The moral of the story:
Mask or not, if you hunt without a prenup, pack some ketchup for the dung.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #322
If, somewhere in the course of this vanity card, I were to use a monosyllabic, Anglo-Saxon word that sits atop the 'no say' list, my guess is nothing would change in your life. You might form an opinion, have a passing thought, or even choose to be outraged. But, and it's a big but, the choice would be yours. It would not be inflicted on you by the word. The word would be, like Kansas once morosely whined, "Dust in the Wind." And yet, we live in a culture that fears the word. In fact, on broadcast television, the phobia for the word has reached the point where the letter f is, in certain instances, no longer acceptable. F has become a subversive letter. According to our network censor, f is often up to no good. We have been warned. F is being watched! Which brings me to my belabored point. I believe that words by themselves are actually quite impotent. They hardly rise above being noise. Ideas, however, the clever, inane and/or insidious grouping together of words, are dangerous. If history proves anything, the wrong idea at the right time can do unbelievable damage. Bad ideas are what the culture should fear and guard against. Which is why I get spooked watching ox News.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #321
Sometimes I amuse myself by coming up with a weird title and then, working backwards, try to write a little story that fits it. The following is an example:
A DRINK, A GUN, AND FOUR BULLETS
When I walked into the bar I was already drunk, ergo I was in a bad mood. When I came to in intensive care the nurse was kind enough to tell me that I must've pissed off a lot of people in that bar. When I raised a puzzled eyebrow she went on to explain that I'd been stabbed five times... with four different knives. She thought that was amusing. I failed to see the humor. Thanks to the "Jesus loves you" qualities of morphine, I failed to see much of anything for several days. When I finally left the hospital, minus a few feet of intestines and a gallbladder that was never more than a mystery to me, I was determined to straighten out my life. But first I needed to get a drink, a gun, and four bullets.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #319
As I Get Older
(a poem under construction)
As I get older,
I see more clearly,
but not with my eyes.
I hear more sharply,
but not with my ears.
I smell more ripely,
but not with my nose...
As I get older,
I see more clearly,
but not with my eyes.
I hear more sharply,
but not with my ears.
I touch more intimately,
but not with my finger...
As I get older,
I see more clearly,
but not with my eyes.
I hear more sharply,
but not with my ears.
I love more deeply,
but not with my penis...
As I get older,
I see more clearly,
but not with my eyes.
I hear more sharply,
but not with my ears.
I think more better,
but not with my brain... my head... noggin...
As I get older,
I see more clearly,
(a poem under construction)
As I get older,
I see more clearly,
but not with my eyes.
I hear more sharply,
but not with my ears.
I smell more ripely,
but not with my nose...
As I get older,
I see more clearly,
but not with my eyes.
I hear more sharply,
but not with my ears.
I touch more intimately,
but not with my finger...
As I get older,
I see more clearly,
but not with my eyes.
I hear more sharply,
but not with my ears.
I love more deeply,
but not with my penis...
As I get older,
I see more clearly,
but not with my eyes.
I hear more sharply,
but not with my ears.
I think more better,
but not with my brain... my head... noggin...
As I get older,
I see more clearly,
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #318
She didn't like his pillows, his carbon footprint, his air conditioning, his water temperature, his light bulbs, his food, his car, his recycling efforts, his sexual appetite, his house, his housekeeper, his inability to enjoy hiking, his child, his attitude toward her friends, his attitude toward the religion she didn't practice, his attitude toward other people's children, his attitude, his birth control, his gender, his facial hair, and his mindless use of hand soap to wash his face. So naturally, he was madly in love with her. His friends and family began a betting pool as to how long the relationship would last. The smart money was around six months, but one wager, placed by his mother, put the 'over and under' at twenty years. When asked why she saw the relationship lasting, she said, "When he was a little boy, I didn't like his neediness, his lying, his whining, his unwillingness to go to sleep, his dirty fingernails, his farting to amuse himself, his finger constantly jammed up his nose, his poor grades, his filthy room, his idiot friends, his missing the toilet, his fascination with his penis, and finally, and most importantly, his similarity to his father."
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #317
I keep reading that my vanity cards are rants. This troubles me. To my understanding, a rant is an explosive diatribe, a poorly articulated spewing of raw emotion. To successfully write a rant one would need to use a lot of foul language and a small army of exclamation points. Any casual reading of my cards would, I believe, suggest quite the opposite. I have always steered clear from hyperbolic venting, preferring to make my case in subtle, understated ways. In fact, if any one word were to be used to describe my weekly missives, I think it would be "stealthy." Or perhaps "subversive." If I were to use two words, I might go with "winkingly clever." But "rant"? I hardly think so. Even the regrettable card from several years ago in which I suggested that many TV critics would gladly eat a hole through their loved ones in order to tunnel toward a real job in show business, was more a humorous observation than an outpouring of vitriol. And my frequent aggravation toward CBS censorship? Please. That's just a little game we play. Funny jokes are killed off by corporate executives in dead-end jobs and lawyers who are unwilling or unable to actually practice the law, while I make a show of complaining. Theater of the Absurd perhaps, but not a rant. To experience the real thing I would suggest watching video of major league baseball managers disputing calls by umpires, or Fox News. Now those are rants. In the meantime, I will continue to calmly offer my opinion regarding the world as I see it, right here after Two and a Half Men, The Big Bang Theory and Mike&Molly. If, for some reason, my detractors find that unacceptable, I will not stoop to using ugly words and exclamation points. Winkingly clever requires inference.
Go inference yourself.
Go inference yourself.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #316
I believe that there are two forces struggling to dominate this country. Reinvention and nostalgia. The first seeks to imagine and work toward a better future by changing the status quo. The second insists that things were better in the past and works to undo change. Oddly, the opposing forces have come to be represented by colors. Blue and red. It's no secret where my sympathies lie. I've always been a big fan of reinvention. My life is a testament to it. There is simply no way that a scared, sickly, vaguely educated kid from Long Island gets to live the life he's living now without being willing to scrap old, unworkable ideas and start over (Of course it helped that I didn't have a rosy past to feel nostalgic towards). Which brings me to the point of this vanity card. I'm confused by people who seek to return to a life that wasn't that great to begin with. Oh, I get it if you used to be the ruling class. If your childhood memories include watching your granddaddy sip a mimosa on the veranda while being serviced by the upstairs maid, then sure, nostalgia makes sense. But, if you're like me and didn't know anyone who had a veranda, let alone a maid, let alone an upstairs, then why not consider reinvention? Maybe we can make this country a better place to live. It's certainly a more exciting way to go. You know, an uncertain future, filled with mystery and adventure. Of course, if nostalgia wins the day, if we are to attempt to reverse the course of history, then I will do my best to cooperate -- starting with bangin' me some household help.*
*Relax, Celia. It's just a joke.
*Relax, Celia. It's just a joke.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #315
To Do List
Re-calibrate the line behind fiction and reality
Meditate using new mantra, "high ratings do not equate to high self-esteem"
Go to Al-Anon meeting
Stand in front of a mirror and practice saying "no comment"
Stand in front of a mirror and practice saying "as far as I know everything's terrific"
Write a country song entitled, "Hooker in the Closet." (Chorus: "There's a hooker in the closet, 'neath the monogrammed robes, don't know how she got there and I can't find my clothes. Officer Krupke, how are you tonight? I've misplaced my watch but I'm feeling alright.") Donate royalties to womens' shelter
Quit the business and teach creative writing at Cal State Bakersfield. Fresno?
Bite the hand that feeds you because you've had more than enough to eat
Hire a publicist to put a positive spin on this vanity card
Meditate using new mantra, "high ratings do not equate to high self-esteem"
Go to Al-Anon meeting
Stand in front of a mirror and practice saying "no comment"
Stand in front of a mirror and practice saying "as far as I know everything's terrific"
Write a country song entitled, "Hooker in the Closet." (Chorus: "There's a hooker in the closet, 'neath the monogrammed robes, don't know how she got there and I can't find my clothes. Officer Krupke, how are you tonight? I've misplaced my watch but I'm feeling alright.") Donate royalties to womens' shelter
Quit the business and teach creative writing at Cal State Bakersfield. Fresno?
Bite the hand that feeds you because you've had more than enough to eat
Hire a publicist to put a positive spin on this vanity card
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #314
Mornings are the worst. The mind seems undefended, easy prey for both memories and imagination. What happened. What should've happened. What might happen someday. Your fault, my fault, no one's fault. The only way to relieve the torment is to get up, empty the bladder, drink the coffee, read the paper, run the treadmill, perform the animal sacrifice, paint the chicken blood on the groin and call upon the demonic spirits to bring you back.
Nights are bad too. Once again, exhaustion makes the mind vulnerable to obsessing over woulda, shoulda, coulda. The only thing to do is sit alone and eat the chicken which was senselessly murdered in the morning.
Nights are bad too. Once again, exhaustion makes the mind vulnerable to obsessing over woulda, shoulda, coulda. The only thing to do is sit alone and eat the chicken which was senselessly murdered in the morning.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #313
WARNING!
Continued refusal to behave in a manner that pleases me will result in my unhappiness. This warning applies to people I love, people I work with, friends, relatives, strangers who wander through my personal narrative, and folks in faraway lands whose thoughtless actions cause me to become upset when I read the newspaper in the morning. As of this notice, all behavior will be required to pass an HWTAC test ("How will this affect Chuck?"). Failure to do so will result in me having a bad day. And nobody wants that, right? Thank you for your consideration. You may now return to your regular activities.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #312
I believe I have identified a debilitating psychological syndrome that has infected a large number of people, myself included. Simply put, the sufferer, in varying degrees of intensity, is convinced that he or she is "not alive enough." This delusion drives them to carry out all manner of self-destructive acts in a vain attempt to "feel more alive." I've dubbed the syndrome Peggy Lee Disease (in honor of her classic song which first identified the malady, "Is That All There Is?"). The list of misguided actions caused by PLD is almost endless; over-eating, over-sexing, over-shopping, extreme sports, sadism, masochism, alcoholism, drug addiction, workaholism and spending all your money to run for governor of California (for a more complete list check web sites such as TMZ and Radar Online). To date, the only sure cure for PLD is altruism -- putting aside selfish interests and giving unto others. I'm embarrassed to admit that I'm waiting for something better.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #311
When I'm not working on The Big Bang Theory, I work on other TV shows. One of those shows gets a lot of bad press. Sometimes, when I read the very unkind things written about that show, I'll remember the words of a sleazy music manager I was briefly associated with back in my rock 'n' roll days. The guy was right out of central casting. Bald, middle-aged, pot-bellied and sucking on a cheap cigar, he would sit behind his metal desk in his ratty little office and pontificate to dumbass musicians hungry for career guidance. One of his speeches has remained vivid in my memory for thirty-five years. He said, to a soon-to- be-nonexistent, dumbass power trio I was then a part of, "Boyz, if halfs da peoples loves ya, and halfs da peoples hates ya, you're a star!" At the time I had no idea what he was talking about. It wasn't until fifteen years later when I was writing for a TV show called Roseanne that I figured it out. I was once again reminded of all this when the star of the show I was talking about earlier came out for a curtain call in front of a packed studio audience. They went wild with applause. I looked at the man taking the bow and thought, "there is a big star." Then I looked up at the screaming, cheering audience and thought, "there are halfs da peoples."
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #310
Did You Know?
Mental images can stimulate the human brain with the same power as events that are actually occurring. If this were not the case we could not argue with long dead relatives or masturbate.
In Bob Dylan's classic song "Mr. Tambourine Man," the title character is urged to "play a song for me." The extreme difficulty one might face trying to play a song on a tambourine is never dealt with.
The greeting "Hey, how are you?" is a popular method of saying hello. The person using it is not really interested in your current state of being. A way to punish them for this deception, and ensure it never happens again, is to answer, "Not so good, I just had an accident in my pants. Can you accompany me to the bathroom and help me tidy up?"
In Bob Dylan's classic song "Mr. Tambourine Man," the title character is urged to "play a song for me." The extreme difficulty one might face trying to play a song on a tambourine is never dealt with.
The greeting "Hey, how are you?" is a popular method of saying hello. The person using it is not really interested in your current state of being. A way to punish them for this deception, and ensure it never happens again, is to answer, "Not so good, I just had an accident in my pants. Can you accompany me to the bathroom and help me tidy up?"
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #309
Following Kaley Cuoco's horseback riding injury, I've instituted new rules governing acceptable leisure activities for the cast of The Big Bang Theory.
1. No friggin' horses. This includes those found on merry-go-rounds and in front of supermarkets.
2. The only motorcycle you can get on is the one you're accidentally crushing in your big-ass, air-bagged SUV.
3. All cast member motor vehicles must adhere to U.S. Army guidelines for attacking Kandahar. (Galecki's Tesla is a terrifically fuel efficient vehicle but is essentially a hundred thousand dollar go-cart. From now on it is only to be used for backing down his driveway and retrieving mail.)
4. The only permissible boating activity at Comic-Con is in your hotel room bathtub.
5. Alcohol should only be ingested at home, and while seated in a big comfy chair. Wild and carefree dancing that celebrates your incredible and well-deserved success is only allowed on New Year's Eve, and only with a sober celebrity parasitic flunky to lean on.
6. And finally, sexual acts must be performed while horizontal. Certain high-risk Kama Sutra positions might be allowed, but only after consultation with Chuck Lorre. Like with dancing, a spotter might be required.
1. No friggin' horses. This includes those found on merry-go-rounds and in front of supermarkets.
2. The only motorcycle you can get on is the one you're accidentally crushing in your big-ass, air-bagged SUV.
3. All cast member motor vehicles must adhere to U.S. Army guidelines for attacking Kandahar. (Galecki's Tesla is a terrifically fuel efficient vehicle but is essentially a hundred thousand dollar go-cart. From now on it is only to be used for backing down his driveway and retrieving mail.)
4. The only permissible boating activity at Comic-Con is in your hotel room bathtub.
5. Alcohol should only be ingested at home, and while seated in a big comfy chair. Wild and carefree dancing that celebrates your incredible and well-deserved success is only allowed on New Year's Eve, and only with a sober celebrity parasitic flunky to lean on.
6. And finally, sexual acts must be performed while horizontal. Certain high-risk Kama Sutra positions might be allowed, but only after consultation with Chuck Lorre. Like with dancing, a spotter might be required.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #308
Schadenfreude
The New York Times recently reported that The Parents Television Council was in trouble. Just to catch you up, the PTC is a non- profit watchdog group charged with sanitizing American television. I'm more than a little proud of the fact that they've spent years trying to blunt the success of Two and a Half Men (as if we weren't capable of doing our own blunting). Currently, their number one priority is organizing advertiser boycotts of a profanely titled CBS series starring William Shatner. But according to the Times article, the PTC has not only lost much of their clout with federal regulators and advertisers, they are also battling allegations of extortion and fraudulent fund-raising activities (i.e. using donated money for purposes other than the ones promised). Which brings me to schadenfreude. The lilting German word that describes the feeling of pleasure one gets from the misfortune of others (leave it to the Germans to coin a word for that). At the risk of coming off as petty, vindictive or heaven forbid, Germanic, I have to admit to feeling a wave of schadenfreude when I read the article. The sensation was almost as good as the warm feeling I get whenever a pro-family politician is caught on his knees in an airport bathroom. Again, this may be a measure of my own flawed character, but every time I read the article (once with my morning coffee, once on the toilet and twice for this vanity card), I felt an odd sense of reassurance. The number one rule of human behavior might be "do unto others as you would have them do unto you." But the number two rule is "people who try to exert moral authority tend to be hypocritical $#*! heads."
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #307
Even though I was not one of them, they welcomed me. They made me feel like I belonged to something special, something bigger than me. At last I had found my true home, my safe haven, my family. All they asked of me was to wear new clothes, with the tags still on them, and be still.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #306
Zen and the Art of Sitcom
I have been writing sitcoms for twenty-five years. During this time, I have learned a few things. Practical things. Do's and don't's if you will. For instance, do hire actors based on talent not looks. Somewhere between take eight and take fifteen, you will be hating both yourself and the gorgeous, but clueless ingenue who got the job because she looks exactly like what you imagined the character looks like... or worse, like the kind of woman you could live happily ever after with. Don't waste time with a marginal joke that forces the actor to twist him or herself into a pretzel in order to make funny. It's much better to work a little harder and write a great joke that the actor can do in their sleep. This also allows the actor to be well-rested when it comes time to renegotiate his or her contract. Do try to be kind to the power players. The movers and shakers. The people who tell you how to do your job. After they fail in network TV, they will remember you fondly while they're busy tanking fledgling internet companies. But perhaps more important than do's and don't's is learning to trust in the mysterious power of intuition. The soft inner voice that guides you to a better outcome than experience and logic could ever provide. This is what I call the Zen of Sitcom. The willingness to allow transcendence to play a part in the making of a TV show. Try it sometime in your own job. It can be the source of great inspiration. A word of warning though: it's not foolproof. If your business collapses or you wind up getting fired, you're probably hearing the same voice I listened to when I created Grace Under Fire, Cybill and four or five TV pilots that now function as landfill. If it's possible, try not to listen to that one. As inner voices go, it's kind of a douche.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #305
For Your Emmy® Consideration
Suzie Q for her startling, gender-bending performance as "Jim"
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #304
I have to assume that there's an evolutionary advantage to having a brain which keenly remembers the bourbon-soaked magic carpet ride, but not its puke-on-the-shoes, please-God-help-me-find-my- car aftermath. The same holds true for romantic relationships. The dreamy, eye-gazing moment of transcendent intimacy is recalled with perfect clarity, while the sleepless nights on a bed with enough room between the two of you to park a car is but a dim memory. My theory for this mental preference is that the brain is hard-wired to push the organism toward pleasure and away from pain. It's actually designed to cherish the good times and discard the bad. I can't think of another explanation for why I'm always amused by the "drink responsibly" tag at the end of alcohol commercials. Sure. What other way to drink is there? It also explains why, whenever I call my lawyer, he starts the conversation with "please tell me you're not getting married again."
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #303
FAMOUS QUOTES
"Sometimes my life seems to be a never-ending succession of unhappy women."
Friedrich Nietzsche
"Restaurant bathroom doors should be identified with the words, "men" and "women." Silhouettes and cartoon drawings of sombreros, bowler hats, puffy skirts and pretty mouths do not provide enough information for drunks."
Teddy Roosevelt
"Jesus" Last Supper was clearly not organized to encourage conversation."
Catfish Hunter
"My memory of you is better than you."
Lao Tzu
"Erectile dysfunction commercials cause erectile dysfunction."
Words of a prophet,
written on a subway wall
and tenement hall
written on a subway wall
and tenement hall
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #302
Too homophobic to drink from a straw,
Richard lifted the milkshake to his lips.
The result was vanilla ice cream dripping
off his chin, which only served to reinforce
his initial concern.
Richard lifted the milkshake to his lips.
The result was vanilla ice cream dripping
off his chin, which only served to reinforce
his initial concern.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #301
CENSORED
IT'S NOT HBO, IT'S CBS!
In tonight's episode, Alan has an unfortunate one-night stand with a woman dressed in an S & M Nazi outfit. The unfortunate part is that he wound up blind-folded, hog-tied and with an indelible ink Hitler mustache on his lip. That's pretty much how the story was described in every draft of the script, and, as you just saw, was what we filmed in front of a studio audience (with several happy CBS executives in attendance). Now here's where this gets interesting. Five days before tonight's episode was to air, I was informed by a high-ranking CBS exec that the swastika armband on the hot, crazy girl and the Hitler/Charlie Chaplin mustache on Alan were unacceptable for broadcast. In other words, eighteen years after Seinfeld went to a Neo-Nazi rally, forty-two years after Mel Brooks unveiled "Springtime for Hitler," forty-five years after Hogan's Heroes, and seventy-five years after Bugs Bunny and Donald Duck poked fun at the Third Reich, some genius at CBS who will remain anonymous (Marty Franks), decided that Two and a Half Men had crossed a line. If it were me, I would have saved my censorship scissors for upcoming episodes, like the one where Alan chronically masturbates in order to amortize his erection medication. Or maybe the one with the cute subplot in which Evelyn complains about having a dry vagina. But okay, to each his own, right? Anyway, after many exhausting phone calls, I managed to keep the mustache scene from being cut in exchange for digitally turning the swastika on the girl's armband into a happy face. Yeah, that's right. A fucking happy face. (They actually wanted the entire armband to be digitally erased, but I convinced them nothing makes a Nazi sadist more endearing than a happy face.) After my blood pressure settled back to 280 over 1000, I asked some big shots at Warner Bros. and ICM who Marty Franks was. No one had ever heard of him. Oddly enough, that filled me with hope. It meant that, infuriating though it was, this entire incident had allowed me to stumble upon the secret identity of a real life superhero. Somewhere, deep within the labyrinthian corridors of CBS-Viacom, walks a man sworn to protect us. A stealthy man who performs his work in corporate shadows, seeking no credit, no reward, no applause. He does what he does simply because it's the right thing to do. Sleep well, America. Marty's on the job.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #301
That's right. After proofreading tonight's vanity card, I realized there was no way CBS would air it, so I might as well censor it myself. Long story short, they gave me so much grief over material in tonight's episode, I vented my frustration by writing a card that was not terribly flattering to the network. People were mentioned by name, etc. As always, should you want to read the actual card, you know where to look. Just wait until Mike & Molly is over.
Wednesday 16 November 2011
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #300
300. An auspicious card. To me. At the very least it represents my having had a hand in writing and producing three hundred episodes of television. Some of which were pretty good. Some of which were... in color. Additionally, it means that on three hundred separate occasions I tried to turn my one second of network time into a form of entertainment. Or, if you prefer, a form of inflammation. Some of the vanity cards were, like the TV shows preceding them, pretty good. Others were... grammatically correct. But still. 300. That has to count for something, right? That's gotta be worth some kind of attaboy. I'm certainly not being paid to write these things. In fact, there are several people at CBS and Warners who'd probably pay me to not write them. (Mental note: Look into setting up a blind auction predicated on the idea that, for the right price, I would permanently change my written vanity card to a cute picture. Maybe a photo from my most recent colonoscopy. Let's see what the market fetches.) Anyway, this is my three hundredth vanity card. I really wanted to write something that was as important as the number seemed to imply. I'm pretty sure I've failed. Attaboy!
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #299
Keeping in mind that decades are arbitrary divisions of time, I thought it might be nice to take a moment to look back and reflect on some of the major events that took place in America during the first ten years of the twenty-first century.
We began the 0's, ominously, with the dot com meltdown, followed by the tragic suicide of the pets.com sock puppet dog.
Except for the nineteen scumbags dying in several plane accidents, nothing good happened in 2001. (If they're spending eternity having sex with virgins, we can only hope they're catching, not pitching.)
Shortly afterward, we knocked over a statue, accomplished a mission and shared the gift of democracy because that's just how we roll.
Except for Jon Stewart, nothing much good happened for the next few years.
Balloon mortgages for poor people turned out to be a bad idea.
Steve Jobs brought us the iPhone which, other than being a lousy phone, is extremely cool.
The last presidential election proved that we are capable of change.
The following two years proved that while we are capable of change, we won't.
We began the 0's, ominously, with the dot com meltdown, followed by the tragic suicide of the pets.com sock puppet dog.
Except for the nineteen scumbags dying in several plane accidents, nothing good happened in 2001. (If they're spending eternity having sex with virgins, we can only hope they're catching, not pitching.)
Shortly afterward, we knocked over a statue, accomplished a mission and shared the gift of democracy because that's just how we roll.
Except for Jon Stewart, nothing much good happened for the next few years.
Balloon mortgages for poor people turned out to be a bad idea.
Steve Jobs brought us the iPhone which, other than being a lousy phone, is extremely cool.
The last presidential election proved that we are capable of change.
The following two years proved that while we are capable of change, we won't.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #298
I recently discovered that the writers of Two and a Half Men had used their free time to compile a 'bucket list.' Here it is, unabridged:
Have sex with a bucket.
Draw a face on a bucket and have sex with it.
Fill a bucket with popcorn, drill a hole in it and go to the movies with your best gal.
Fill a bucket with popcorn, drill a hole in it and go to the movies by yourself.
Fill a bucket with water, line the edge with paper, then take a dump in it.
Put a bucket on your head and go skydiving.
Have sex with two women while holding a bucket.
Fill a bucket with apple sauce and pretend you're having sex with an extraterrestrial woman.
Join the circus, dress up like a clown, fill a bucket with confetti and throw it at the audience, surprising and delighting them in the process.
I'm trying to cut down on their free time.
Have sex with a bucket.
Draw a face on a bucket and have sex with it.
Fill a bucket with popcorn, drill a hole in it and go to the movies with your best gal.
Fill a bucket with popcorn, drill a hole in it and go to the movies by yourself.
Fill a bucket with water, line the edge with paper, then take a dump in it.
Put a bucket on your head and go skydiving.
Have sex with two women while holding a bucket.
Fill a bucket with apple sauce and pretend you're having sex with an extraterrestrial woman.
Join the circus, dress up like a clown, fill a bucket with confetti and throw it at the audience, surprising and delighting them in the process.
I'm trying to cut down on their free time.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #297
Everywhere I look I see Ned Beatty. Not literally Ned Beatty. What I keep seeing appears to be his doppelgänger, or his evil twin, or a Ned Beatty wannabe, or simply some paunchy, red-faced, middle-aged sonuvabitch who has either the great misfortune or great good luck to look just like Ned Beatty. I would also venture to say that if you were to casually glance over your shoulder, you too would see -- not now, wait until it's cool... okay, now. See it? There are a suspicious number of Ned Beattys wandering around this country. If one were conspiratorially- inclined, one might even think that someone is growing a secret army of the rotund little bastards. Why? To what end? Retribution on an apocalyptic scale for the lifelong mocking the real Ned Beatty endured after appearing in the sodomy scene in Deliverance? Whatever the purpose, there's ample reason to be afraid. The only reassurance we can have is the knowledge that it's not nearly as scary as a whole bunch of Warren Beattys running around.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #296
The Wannabe Prayer
Oh Lord, let me look upon your children and, in their eyes, see my reflection. Let my name, for good or evil, be incessantly chatted and blogged about by those who are not themselves worthy of being chatted and blogged about. If it be thy will, grant me a cable reality show because my life is just so ca-razy! If that's not thy will, then how about arranging for me to fornicate with a famous person so I can casually say to my friends, "Guess who I'm banging?" Whatever, just free me from the bondage of anonymity so I might be recognized in a nightclub, or trendy eatery, or courtroom, or on line at the DMV. For in that recognition lies my salvation. My eternal reward for looking heavenward and proclaiming, "I have no actual skills, nor the time, talent or patience to learn one, but people still have to look at me when I walk in the room and murmur, 'Hey, isn't that somebody?'" Amen.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #295
GOLF IN THE KINGDOM
PART TWO
PART TWO
According to press reports, the fatal orgasm had cost him seventy- five million dollars. Not surprisingly, he tried to make himself feel better about it by doing a little mental amortization. His wife had only caught him the one time, but during the course of their marriage he'd probably had about one hundred illicit encounters with miscellaneous cocktail waitresses, pole dancers and bitter real estate agents. These encounters led to, best guess, one hundred and fifty orgasms. Running the numbers that way, he was able to whittle his per orgasm costs down to roughly five hundred thousand dollars a piece. No pun intended. Or maybe it is intended. Anyway, no amount of math gymnastics helped alleviate his depression over the settlement. His short game also suffered.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #294
"We are one blink of an eye away from being fully awake."
Pema Chödrön
"Blink already, dammit!"
Chuck Lörre
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #293
When one considers the many missteps that one has taken over the course of a lifetime, like, for instance, blowing off a college education in order to be a second-rate guitarist in third-rate Ramada Inn bar bands that play unfortunate renditions of "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown," or throwing away almost an entire decade trapped inside a religious cult that promises to turn one into a happy, super-duper spirit ala Casper the Friendly Ghost all while one is dying of ulcerative colitis, or blowing up a perfectly good marriage because one is just stupid, or creating sitcoms that star actresses who are unhappy about the size of their penises, well then, it's easy to see how one might come to believe that "what doesn't kill us, makes us bitter." But it's still no excuse for referring to oneself as "one." That's just obnoxious.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #292
When I was a child I was taught the saying, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me." At the time, I saw the sense of it. Words, being intangible, have no ability to inflict physical harm. Whenever another child said something mean to me, I would loudly recite the saying at them, using it like a magical incantation that would protect me from getting my feelings hurt. I usually said it with tears running down my cheeks. As an adult I've come to see that the saying is, like many things taught to children, a lie. The truth is that bones heal, while the damage done by words can last a lifetime. I bring it up here only to remind those who write about television of the power they wield. And that is the power to wound with words. The power to be mean. They have absolutely no power to affect ratings and the likely success or failure of a TV show. In that arena they are laughably impotent. Unengorged. Limp. Flaccid, if you will. Forever poking, but never really penetrating. But I should tread carefully here. I don't want to now become the very thing I decry. One who uses words to hurt. Having been a victim of verbal abuse, I certainly wouldn't want that on my conscience.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #291
I didn't go to my 40th high school reunion. I agonized over the decision. Part of me wanted to go simply to take a victory lap. Part of me thought that to be a most unworthy motivation for traveling across the country in a private jet with a full head of hair, a 32 inch waistline and a beautiful woman almost half my age. Part of me wanted to see how my classmates turned out after decades of life. Part of me was simply frightened by the mortality issues implied by "decades of life." Part of me did not want to revisit memories of that sad, alienated kid whose best idea for attending the Sadie Hawkins Day Dance was sitting on the handball court swilling Southern Comfort and then blundering into the gym until a teacher threw him out on his ass, after which he threw up on his shoes. Part of me was simply worn out from work and feared the reunion would culminate with a debilitating, schadenfreude-enducing stroke near the punch bowl. Part of me truly wanted to enjoy the company of the people I grew up with. Part of me feared being judged by them, even if the judgment was positive. Well, it's too late now. The reunion is over. Now there's a part of me that has quietly begun to agonize over going to the 50th. And a part of me that regrets not going to the 40th in case I'm dead by the 50th. And a part of me which is thoroughly exhausted by the part of me that worries and thinks too much. But that part of me writes sitcoms and vanity cards so the exhausted part of me just has to suck it up. And yet there's still another part of me that merely watches all the other parts with tender, paternal amusement. Part of me thinks that's my spiritual part - the loving, non-judgmental, ever-present witness. Part of me thinks that if I'm still alive for my 50th, that part would have a good time at the party. Re-reading this card now, part of me thinks I should be heavily medicated.
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #290
August 13, 2010
Dear Diary,
Yesterday was day one of having all three shows in production. Well before lunch came I knew with a terrible certainty that I was screwed. Producing three sitcoms at the same time is an impossibility. It is my hope that I can keep this information from CBS for as long as possible. Once they start panicking there will be an inevitable domino effect of fear, confusion and regrettable decisions. Emergency meetings will be held. Ideas to "fix the shows" will be bandied about. Perhaps it's time for the characters on The Big Bang Theory to use their knowledge of science to solve crime? What if on Two and a Half Men, Charlie and Alan went into business together? Maybe opened an upscale restaurant with a funny chef and sassy waiters. Even better, what if it was all filmed like a documentary so they spoke directly into the camera? Wouldn't this be a good time to get rid of Charlie's bowling shirts and shorts? For sweeps, what about a heart-warming story where Alan struggles with a secret learning disorder? And Jake... what if we learn Jake is gay? GLAAD award! And hey, as long as we're alt-lifestyling, how about if the characters on Mike & Molly break into song in each episode? Just spitballin' here, but who else is visualizing a big production number ofQueen's "Fat Bottomed Girls" with thirty or forty chubby dancers? Ooh, even better, Elvis' "Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love"?
September, 14, 2010
Dear Diary,
So far so good. No one suspects a thing.
Dear Diary,
Yesterday was day one of having all three shows in production. Well before lunch came I knew with a terrible certainty that I was screwed. Producing three sitcoms at the same time is an impossibility. It is my hope that I can keep this information from CBS for as long as possible. Once they start panicking there will be an inevitable domino effect of fear, confusion and regrettable decisions. Emergency meetings will be held. Ideas to "fix the shows" will be bandied about. Perhaps it's time for the characters on The Big Bang Theory to use their knowledge of science to solve crime? What if on Two and a Half Men, Charlie and Alan went into business together? Maybe opened an upscale restaurant with a funny chef and sassy waiters. Even better, what if it was all filmed like a documentary so they spoke directly into the camera? Wouldn't this be a good time to get rid of Charlie's bowling shirts and shorts? For sweeps, what about a heart-warming story where Alan struggles with a secret learning disorder? And Jake... what if we learn Jake is gay? GLAAD award! And hey, as long as we're alt-lifestyling, how about if the characters on Mike & Molly break into song in each episode? Just spitballin' here, but who else is visualizing a big production number ofQueen's "Fat Bottomed Girls" with thirty or forty chubby dancers? Ooh, even better, Elvis' "Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love"?
September, 14, 2010
Dear Diary,
So far so good. No one suspects a thing.
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