I like Mexico. The food, the beaches, the spirit of the people; I find them compelling. And I know a thing or two about our southern neighbor. Many years ago, I spent a lot of time there as a TV producer on the Mexico City Olympics.

Actually, I was the advance man for ABC-TV and started going to Mexico 18 months before the games. It was my job to get the right camera placements, requisite number of passes to all venues, schedule  events so they would coincide with prime time in America, find housing for our staff, etc. It was a monumental task but it was made much harder because for the first three months, I could get exactly nothing done.

And then I learned why. In two short words ‘no mordida.’ We all know what ‘no’ is, but mordida in Spanish means bribe.

Since I was getting nowhere with scheduling, camera placements, or anything else as a matter of fact; I went to the honchos at the network and said I needed money—and lots of it to get the job done. ABC had a lot riding on this telecast. It was in color (it was only the second Olympic Games telecasted in color). And on top of that, we were supplying the picture to the entire world.

After I presented my case, I met with a vice president who said he’d be taking care of things. And take care of things he did. Every week he descended on Mexico City with a black bag stuffed with hundred dollar bills, and then at my direction, we’d spread the wealth out. $5,000to change the route to the marathon, $10,000 to change the boxing schedule, and $20,000 to the honchos at Mexico Olympic Committee.

Black Power Salute

And all that money worked. It was a very successful telecast. It was also a very memorable one. It was at The Mexico City Games that John Carlos and Tommy Smith mounted the victory stand and raised their black-gloved fists in the black power salute.

The stadium erupted when that happened. I knew I had to get Howard Cossell to the site but the door to our remote truck was totally blocked by a screaming crowd. We couldn’t get out.The president of the network was yelling at me to get the shot. I realized I had to call the guy I had been paying off at the track and field venue. His last name was Renard, which means fox, which I always found to be rather fitting. Anyway, Fox-Renard came to the rescue. He dispatched a company of Mexican riot police and we cut through the crowd like butter and we got that iconic shot of black raised fists.

Without ‘mordida’ it never would have happened. In fact without bribes we would have had a totally different telecast…a far inferior one.

Which brings me to the topic of the day. Walmart. I have no love for the company and have always found their hiring practices despicable, but now I find myself coming to their defense. I know first-hand how business gets done in Mexico.

Walmart is a hydra-headed monster. Its tentacles are wrapped around the world. Mexico is one of their biggest cash cows, but they know how to do business there. It’s a seven letter word: Mordida.

And though Walmart is the shits, they are not alone. Unfortunately, in that beautiful country filled with great art, gracious people, the powers that be have their hands out. And to get most things done, you got to grease those greedy, outstretched palms.

So don’t blame Walmart. They are not alone. Blame the system.

At this point I’m beating the odds.  The average American male life span is seventy seven years and I’m deep in my eighties and overall I feel pretty good.  But in America once you’ve lived eight decades—they won’t leave you the hell alone.

Want proof?  Here is the list of letters (all of them unsolicited) that I got last month: The Neptune Society, Burial at Sea, The Eden Mortuary, A Jewish Cemetery, The Forest Lawn Cemetery & Mortuary, a non-denominatial resting place.  That famous final resting place that takes up a large swath of The San Fernando Valley which could be used for public parks, schools, home etc. also sent me a 4 color brochure which must have cost a fortune.  The Mountain Society was more discreet.  Their letter head had the outline of a stately peak deep in the Canadian Rockies which, after cremation, would be my final resting place.

I say no thank you.

In addition to  these kind offers I gets solicitations from lawyers who want to update my will, prepare a living will or just go over my will so that anything I have left (and I’m trying hard as hell not to leave anything) does not go into probate.

They make probate sound worse than death itself.

And on top of these epistles which are going to make my demise better, easier and fairer to my descendants (whom as I mentioned I don’t care a whit about) I constantly get daily reminders about my failing faculties.  Over the last month and a half I have received letters offering me a free hearing test, a glossy brochure that rivaled Forest Lawn showing me the smallest, unobtrusive hearing aid, a letter with a discount on prescription glasses, two letters from hospitals extolling their expertise in replacing hips and knees.  A warning about the onset of diabetes and a Health Update from the biggest chain of hospitals in California.

I also must include the letters I get about various contraptions. In the last thirty days I have received pamphlets about motorized scooters, wheelchairs, devices to help you get out of the bathtub and bed, reading lamps with magnifying glasses and canes with easy grip handles and no skid tips and, of course, walkers.

And I also get magazines. (Lots of them.)  Every month there is a “glossy” from AARP with loads of advice on how to delay disease and death.  You’d expect that from The American Association of Retired Persons.  But what gets me are the newsletters I get from my unions and guilds I belonged to when I was a working stiff writer and actor.  Unions which I whole heartedly support.  Unions which give me a pension.  Unions which I still take an active part in.  But unions who constantly remind me of my impending death.  On the back of their monthly magazines they carry pages outlined in black and in a curly cue font listing all the members who kicked the bucket in the past thirty days.  I try not to but I always peruse the list.  I always find people I worked with, people I wished I worked with, and people I liked or disliked.  I look at their age when they passed.  I figure how much longer or shorter they lived than I have lived….And I’ve come to the inescapable conclusion that there’s no rhyme or reason for death.  People I’ve actively detested sometimes crack a hundred and some great guys and gals go in their fifties.  It pisses me off.

Incidentally, I categorically refuse to go to memorials or funerals but those those reminders keep coming too.

And now for my final gripe.  I’m talking about the solicitations I get from retirement homes.  Everybody looks so fucking happy—grown men and women are grinning like idiots over their lusty full of health laughing white haired mothers and fathers who seemingly are in the prime of their life.  There seems to be no pain, no decrepitude and certainly no death in these holding facilities.  It’s such crap.  And along with the grinning inmates these institutions give me lists and lists of amenities they offer.  There’s Gourmet dining (which I know includes only pureed stuff that is easy to chew), outings to gardens and museums (I’ve seen them all) workshops in how to use a computer  (I know how) arts and handicrafts (I have no interest) weekly variety shows (I cringe when I think of ninety year old broads singing ‘That Old Black Magic’) but despite all these misgivings one day I checked a retirement home out.

My working days were in television and I was getting monthly missives from The Motion Pictures and Television Hospital and Retirement Home asking me when I was coming aboard.  Finally I felt it was time to pay them a visit.  The Motion Picture Home is just off Mulholland Drive a few miles east of Malibu.  It’s an idyllic setting and its’ grassy lawns, well kept grounds, large movie theatre (where the studios show their new releases gratis) heated swimming pool, well stocked gym, airy dining  room and small but efficient and immaculate living quarters are all first rate …and all in all it’s one of the better places to go and die.  And I support them wholeheartedly but if only they’d stop sending me mail—-I’m not ready yet…and when I do I know how I’m going to do it.  Auto-asphyxiation.  That’s my route.  Hanging myself in the closet while I masturbate.  They say that’s the greatest high you can get. (Ask David Carridine—if you could.)

But I’ll put that off for a while.  But when I pull (sorry for the pun) it off, you can do anything with my body that you want to…Forget all the burials in the mountains or at sea.  Forget the earth burials—or  scattering my ashes to the winds.  I suggest leaving my withered old body where you found it—in the closet with a rope around my neck, my hand on my crotch and a smile on my face.

Right now we are forever being put on edge by these 21 individuals and their never ending warnings about impending attacks, possible annihilation, global warming, high school dropout stats, the ever burgeoning national debt, the dismal condition of our highways, energy depletion—not to mention Muslum terrorists, narco terrorists, nuclear meltdowns, cyber attacks, water, air and land pollution, tsunamis, hurricanes, earthquakes, draught, cyclones and new lethal strains of the swine and bird flues.

Now all these things are indeed troublesome…and they are all something we must face.  But with 21 ministers and their countless minions constantly keeping us in state of anxiety their message is sometimes muted. (How many times can you worry about things coming at you from different directions.)

I say we should concentrate.  One or two catastrophes a day is enough to keep us all jumpy and nervous.  And I propose adding one more cabinet position to make all this happen.

I have a title for this new cabinet level position, it’s called The Minister of Scaring The Living Shit Out Of US.  It is this cabinet minister’s job to gather all the impeding catastrophes, boil them down to their essentials, issue the proper warnings, (in fact lets go back to color codes, they were quite effective) and report to us three times a day—at 9am, 6PM and midnight.  After that we are left alone …so we can get a little sleep—all-be-it it will be a sleep with troublesome dreams.

But it’ll be worth it.  On top of making impending doom more concise and therefore punchier and more worrisome, having A Scare The Shit Out Of US Minister has a number of other advantages: You receive your daily scare quotient in just one place.  That saves manpower and saves money.  Not to mention the overall saving in broadcast band width, newsprint, REM, disk space—in fact I could go on and on….But here’s the best part of creating A Minister To Scare The Shit Out Of US.  Having such a cabinet post gives the other 21 ministers a lot more time to issue press reports and write speeches and appear on Face The Nation where they can do what they were originally hired to do–

And that’s to scare the shit out of the rest of the world.

Rossides was my man because he lived on my block and I idolized him and we both went to Erasmus High School.  Joe Paterno was the enemy who played for Erasmus’s nemesis Boys High.  But the two quarterbacks had a lot in common.  Both were first generation Americans as were most of us kids.  Both guys were small.  Imagine a five foot eight quarter back weighing a mere 145 pounds with arms like howitzers.

And both, besides being stellar athletes, were good students.  After high school they both attended Ivy League Schools.  Joe went to Brown and Gene went to Columbia.  And both brought football glory to their respective schools.

That’s what I like to remember about those guys….and I like to remember their cameradie though they were die hard opponents during the school year during the summer they often practiced together.

I remember both of them playing touch football in a vacant lot…sometimes I could even get into the game.  One time I caught a game winning touchdown thrown like a rifle shot by Paterno….

That’s how I want to remember JoePa.  A little guy with a rifle for an arm and a smile as wide as his face.

And that’s the Joe Paterno I will never forget.  Not the defeated old man hounded by the press, crumpled and disgraced (way out of proportion to what he had done or didn’t do in the Sandusky matter).  But I remember a guy who was a real hero, self effacing, humorous, bright and who would throw a bullet pass to little kids and knock them on their ass…and then he’d haul them to their feet and tell them, “nice going.” That’s the JoePa I remember—-a hero, a mench, a guy who could throw two sewers!

The story begins when I found myself training to be a Special Agent in The Army Counter Intelligence Corps.  Three quarters of my class were guys from Ivy League colleges…and the remaining were doing graduate work at institutions of higher learning….except for two people.  Me and a tall guy who went to The University of Wyoming on a basketball scholarship.  The Basketball player’s name was Noel Behn, and he was the funniest, the most astute and the most eager student in the entire group.  He was great at interrogations.  He could tail people on foot and in cars and never get caught.  He was also a whiz at lock picking, he could unravel codes and bug rooms in half the time it took everybody else and he was great at disguises.

In short, Noel was a spy genius and when we graduated he got the best assignment; he was put on the tail of a would be saboteur and trailed him around the world reporting directly to Washington.

I lost track of Noel after I was discharged….until one day I saw him hunched over walking quickly down a New York City side street. When I caught up with him he took off but I raced after him and was able to grab him.  His face was ashen.  “Oh my God,it’s you.”  He said.

I asked him who he was expecting.

“The cops.” He said.

“Why are you runnin’ from the cops?”  I asked and he told me it was a long story.  I had plenty of time and said.  “Tell me about it over a drink.”

“I can’t be seen in public.”  He said.

“You’re in public right now.”  I said.

“I had to get some air.”

“OK, then let’s go to your place and talk.”

Noel looked up and down the street and said, “Follow me at a discrete distance.”

I trailed behind Noel as he hurried with head down and parka pulled up around his ears on a run to his apartment.  When we were safely in his pad, which was in a dingy five story walk up, he triple locked the doors, made sure the blinds were pulled and we sat down in semi darkness and over a beer he related his story:

After the army he told me he took an inheritance, which he told me was sizable, and opened a drama school.  I knew he was always interested in show biz but I asked him what possessed him to do that. “Hubris.”  He said “Plus it seemed like a fun thing to do.”

“And you’d meet a lotta girls.”  I said.

“You could say that was part of the equation.” He said. “And in the beginning everything worked great.  I started out with a few students and suddenly I had classes full of would be actors and that’s when the trouble began.  I expanded and bought a building, and on top off that I hired additional instructors and advertised.  I even threw a block party when I bought the building…and then I hired Richard and Liz.”

“Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton?!”

“Sure.  It was just for one lecture to kick the year off.  I got a lotta publicity out of it but after a while students stopped coming and I owed a ton of money, to everybody.

“To Liz and Richard too?”

“To them and everybody else.  They all got together and hired the best lawyers.  They got me for fraud, misappropriation of funds, lying under oath and child molesting.”

“Child molesting!”

“Yeah, she swore she was eighteen years old…she was sixteen.”

“So you’re looking at jail time.”

“Ten to twenty.”

“Have you thought about going undercover.”

“That takes money…besides I’m real tired of running.  I think I’ll turn myself in.”

“When?”

“Soon….”

I had just gotten paid and I peeled off a bunch of twenties. But Noel wouldn’t accept them.  “It would just delay the inevitable—“ He said, “But you can do something for me.  Drop by sometime and bring me a Reuben sandwich before I go to Sing Sing.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Knock five times.” Noel said, “That’s the signal.”

The next afternoon I arrived at Noel’s apartment with two Reuben sandwiches  and a six pack.  After the requisite knocks Noel opened the door.  He had a book in his hand which he tossed into a corner of the room and we sat down and ate semi warm sandwiches and drank beer in his dark apartment.  We had gotten through half the six pack when there was a knock on the door—actually five knocks and Noel opened the door to one of his buddies.  I immediately recognized his guest, as Robert Webber an occasional leading man on Broadway.  After we were introduced Robert asked Noel what he thought of the book he had just lent him.

Noel pointed to where he had thrown the book and said, “It’s a piece of shit.”

“It’s a fuckin best seller.”  Webber said.

“It’s still a piece of shit.”

“How you can say that?”

“I can say that because I know something about the subject.”

“Fawcriss sake you spent two years tooling around making believe you were a spy.  This spy novel, which incidentally I thought was great and which I was kind enough to lend you has already sold one hundred thousand copies!”

“It’s still shit.”

“Could you do any better?”

“I dunno, I never wrote anything.”  Noel said.

“I’ll betcha ya can’t.”

“I don’t have money to bet.”

“Ya gotta buck?”

“Just about.”

“OK, I’ll bet a hundred bucks to your buck that you can’t do better.”

“With odds like that you’re on.”  Noel said.

And here comes the rest of this implausible story.

Noel wrote the first one hundred pages of his novel that very night.  The next morning he left the pages in front of Robert Webber’s door.  A week later he got a letter from Random House Publishing.  Webber had given them the hundred pages and they were enthusiastic.  The publishing company offered him ten thousand dollars as a down payment which was truly extraordinary for a first time writer.  But they had faith.  And they were right.  Noel went on to finish his novel, The Kremlin Letter, and Random House put a binder around the last two hundred pages of the book.  If the binder wasn’t broken the reader could return the book and get the purchase price back…there were very few readers who didn’t break the binder to finish the novel which sold over a million copies.

On top of that John Huston made a block busting movie out of it…

And none of this would have happened if somebody hadn’t come along with odds that Noel couldn’t refuse.  None of it would have happened because Noel never thought about writing.  In fact none of it should have happened—-but it did.

And on top of this implausible story Noel went on to write many other novels and screen plays.  He was an A list writer in Hollywood for many years…he lived in a manse with a full basketball court, a beautiful wife and they had kids. dogs, ponies the whole megiillah.

As I said none of this should have happened.  But it did.  It happened because one night a writer who didn’t know was a writer sat down and wrote.

And, oh, in case you’re wondering about the child molesting, Noel married the girl as soon as she turned eighteen and they lived happily ever after.  He also paid off his debts from the proceeds of his first book.

And in case you’re also wondering if Bob Webber paid off on the bet.  In the payee line on the check he wrote: To Noel Behn, A Guy Who Didn’t Think He Could Write.

Noel never cashed that check.

He framed it and put it over his desk.

I don’t mean literally with a scissors or a scalpel…I mean they should be castrated chemically.

I know what I’m talking about. I have been chemically castrated twice!!!

No, I’m not a rapist or child molester…rather I have had the misfortune (like three quarters of the men of my age) of having prostate cancer.

But in the last thirty years medical science has made some remarkable advances in treating this disease. Because the cancer is driven by testosterone one of the ways to control this potentially life threatening ailment it is to stop the body from manufacturing the male hormone.

I can’t say that chemical castration is a pleasant experience. You have to take three pills (Casodex) and an inoculation (Lupron) once a month. And here’s what happens. You gain weight, at times you’re so exhausted you can’t get your butt off the couch—- and then you—formerly a red blooded fully functioning male go through menopause! Yeah menopause with all the hot flashes and hourly sweats your wives, girl friends and daughters have been complaining about. And on top of all these indignities you have no sex drive!

At first this actually can be rather pleasant. You’re no longer led around by your dick…but after a while you realize you’re missing something…no longer are you craning your neck or surreptitiously checking out women every chance you get, instead when you look at women you’re looking at dry wall. That’s right—when your testosterone is zero even the most gorgeous, sexy impossibly beautifully women look like a blank wall.

And to make matter worse when your testosterone is in the cellar you suddenly become more attractive to women…somehow your pheromones—that is if you even have any left are sending signals that you’re totally harmless. Women actually come onto you—they find you endearing, intelligent, understanding instead of being the ogre you were previously were when you were constantly ogling their butts.

So all in all chemical castration is an awful pain in the ass but it does save your life. Even though at times a life without sex seems like it’s not worth saving.

When I was diagnosed with prostate cancer I was sixty nine. (A prophetic number don’t cha think?) My wife was twenty years younger and was a very sexy—and I might add adventurous lady. I was totally enthralled with her and even at my advanced age we had sex—and plenty of it.

But a month after Casodex and Lupron I could no longer get an erection. This sad state of affairs lasted for thirteen months. That’s the length of time you have to be on these damnable meds…after that there is an agonizing slow revival of your id…but it’s never is the same…

But over all that may be a good thing— cause as I mentioned you’re still alive.

And now to why I think chemical castration is the humane way to treat sex offenders. Currently they live in the shadows with all kinds of restrictions…restrictions which, if they violate end them back in the slammer where they get butt fucked incessantly and occasionally killed by moralists in The Aryan Nation or The Mexican Mafia.

And if they don’t land back in jail or dead they spend their lives in shadow communities with an electronic collar around their ankles.

I say give these buggers Casodex and Lupron and let them live anywhere they want to. They’ll be as harmless and celibate as priests—oh, I better think of another analogy…

Any way I think chemical castration for sex deviants is a lot better than having them hanging around school yards with uncontrollable urges and pocketfuls of candy…Don’t you?

When Romney was knocking on doors informing dubious citizens that God had left golden tablets in an upstate New York parking lot, I was the coordinating producer for the world wide telecast of the Winter Olympics in Grenoble France…

But so much for my bona fides now back to Mitt who says that while he in France he often went to the bathroom in a bucket or a hole in the ground. It’s true that during the Middle Ages the French often deposited their intestinal remnants in a bucket which they often threw out the window— but that practice stopped about the time they beheaded Marie Antoinette. In fact The French became habituated to the glories of indoor plumbing at roughly the same time as we Americana did.

However the French did have something that lasted well into the twentieth century—which like their ubiquitous bidets—shocked many a visitor. It was called Un Cabinet Turc or Turkish Cabinet. (The French do have a tendency to blame foreigners for some their unsavory practices.) But the Cabinet Turc wasn’t too bad. It was a room lined in porcelain which indeed had a hole in the floor instead of a toilet, but the cabinet had amenities—including grunt bars to hold onto and toilet paper. Of course sometimes they ran out and one was forced to use yesterday’s newspaper but when Mitt was fruitlessly proselytizing and badgering the mostly atheist French, Turkish Cabinets were were pretty much a thing of the past. At most Mitt may have shit in them once or twice, other than that he had it pretty damn good. Here’s why; for most of his time in France he lived in a mansion in one of the ritziest sections of Paris. His digs were owned by The Mormon church and according to Christian Euvard, the 72 year old director of the Mormon-run Institute of Religion in Paris, who knew Romney, “The building had beautiful, gilded interiors and a Spanish chef who cooked delicious meals five days a week.” In today’s money the building is worth 12 million dollars. For money like that besides bidets which the virginal Mormon missionaries undoubtedly thought were for washing your feet, you get flush toilets.

Romney may know all the stanzas of America The Beautiful. He can believe in The Angel Moroni and the powers of magic underwear—but he admits to something which the French, who are on the whole one of the most animal loving people on earth would never condone. They take their pets wherever they go– to restaurants, bars, cafes, markets—but they don’t stuff their dogs in a crate tied to the top of their car as The Romney Family did when they went on vacation….

Mitt Romney, man of the people, payer of 15% income tax that is immoral and disgusting. I have nothing against your giving millions of dollars to The Church of Latter Day Saints but for God’s sake man, pull up your pants and give a yearly tithe to The ASPCA as penance for what you did to your dog. It was far more revolting than then depositing your cordon bleu, catered dinner into a hole in the floor which I doubt because I like I said I bet the manse in France had toilets….and probably ones with heated seats.

I admired him a lot.

One day my friendly neighborhood pornographer asked me if I wanted to write a porno for him. I leaped at the chance! I was between assignments, a position I frequently found myself in, and I grabbed an old Kojak script and morphed the formidable, homicide detective into a horny, old goat who had Priapism. Priapism is a debilitating disease in which the sufferer sports a constant hard-on. Because of this ailment, Kojak demanded all kinds of sexual favors from everyone he busted. But after he finally achieved orgasm—which always took extensive foreplay—he was a good guy and let the person go.

Over all, I was pleased with my work.

And my pornographer neighbor was ecstatic about it; but asked for a change. He wanted me to add a break in the action exactly two minutes before the end of the picture. When I asked why, he said it was so the audience could zip up.

After I handed in the script with the “zip up” break, everything fell apart. The pornographer neighbor told me there had been a change in plans and that he was no longer going to make my movie! I was crestfallen, but reasoning was he had just gotten the receipts from his latest venture and it was breaking records! The King of Smut said his picture, TABOO, would soon out gross Deep Throat! The year was 1982 and people were flocking to pussy cat theatres and he needed a sequel to fill the seats. So instead of Kojak Visits A Whore House, I began writing TABOO the sequel.

Before I started, I screened the first TABOO. It was immediately apparent that the pornographer had ripped off the classic Greek tragedy, Oedipus Rex. But instead of a mother inadvertently making love to her son and then plucking out her eyes in horror, the mother in the TABOO 2 was well aware of who she fucked. Moreover, she kept her eyes wide open during the process so she could see her son’s eleven inch dick. Then, after exhausting every possible sexual act with the kid, she batted her deep brown orbs and went after the rest of the family.

Over all, I thought it was a pretty good script.

And the pornographer neighbor loved my work, but there was a problem.

“What?” I said. “I put in the zip up break where it should be.”

“You did great.” He answered, “But I need a location. I haven’t had time to scout for one. How about we use your house?”

“My house! My girlfriend’s got two teen-aged kids livin’ there.”

“It’s spring break, I’ll send them to Palm Springs . . . on me.”

“I dunno. I’ll ask my girlfriend.”

“There’s an extra two grand if we can use your house.”

I repeated that I’d ask my girlfriend.

Luckily my average looking girlfriend had a more than average sex drive. She was also very curious and on top of that, she was overjoyed to get rid of the kids for a week. A deal was struck. I made my porno. It was a while ago but the rules are the same. Here they are:

Rule #1: Give your porno a professional look. Scratchy iPhone shots of your girlfriend getting hammered by a police dog are a thing of the past. They are now shooting porn in 3D and Cinerama is on the way. So when you shoot your porno use the latest techniques.

Incidentally when I did mine, though it was years ago, it was state of the art. TABOO 2 had the same production values as anything shot at a network, and that’s as it should be because my crew came from Little House on The Prairie.

So put a good crew together. During these uncertain economic times everybody’s moonlighting.

Rule #2: Stagger the start times. Women in high heels with pierced nipples, guys in tight jeans showing their pack, and strings of honey wagons being pulled up to your door; have a way of attracting attention. Always schedule production people first, then cast and make sure that both groups park down the street.

Rule #3: Have moisturizers handy. Male stars have to be ready at a moment’s notice. On TABOO 2, there was always a gaggle of guys playing with themselves while they waited to go on. Of course some dudes use fluffers, but for the most part, keeping dicks stiff was a personal affair. Incidentally, the favorite emolument was Nivea cream, it was best for the glide.— as one of the male porno stars informed me. So, to avoid halting production, be equipped with a lot of the stuff.

Rule #4: No amateurs. Though you have buddies who want to be in the movie, DON’T DO IT! Being a porno star is a calling, a knack, a God given talent. Amateurs come too soon, or don’t come enough or are unable to come at all. Using your friends is a waste of time, money, and your female stars’ patience.

Rule #5: Use very little dialogue. The average porno star can’t handle it. They’re ok at grunts and groans but anything more than “Fuck me in the ass!” is beyond them.

Rule #6: If you have young daughters, don’t film in their rooms. When I made TABOO 2, we shot scenes in my girlfriend’s daughters’ bedrooms and they were horrified when they saw what was performed there. Especially because it all happened under The Osmond Brothers, whose poster was hung over their beds.

Rule #7: Don’t fuck the porno stars. I made that mistake. A buxom brunette seemed to like me—especially after I took the time to coach her through two and a half lines of monosyllabic dialogue. When she finally got the lines straight, she blew me out of gratitude.

Unfortunately, my girlfriend caught us and she raised holy hell and shut the production down. “The King of Smut” was beside himself and never spoke to me again. But worse, he refused to pay me. But he finished the project someplace else and when I got around to watching it, I noted with dismay that he listed my name in the credits. It came up right after the zip up break! And it was s full screen!

The King of Smut had gotten his revenge.

Rule # 8: Don’t use your real name in the credits. You may go on to great things in life. You could solve the debt crisis, come up with the cure for cancer or bring peace to the Middle East—But if your name is associated with a porno you won’t be the person who brought prosperity to America, cured cancer or brokered a peace deal. Instead you’ll be known as the slime ball who made Butt Plug Afternoons or April’s Golden Showers.

Of course if you’re the kind of person who wants to see his name in lights no matter what—make sure your name is at the end of the picture. The audience is more attentive then….they’ll be zipped up.

But I’ve digressed. There actually was one actor that once impressed me. He was the redoubtable, Oscar winning, all-around good guy, Mr. Jack Warden.

I didn’t meet Jack professionally, but we were introduced on a tennis court and soon became buddies. I’ve never met an actor like him. He was without artifice and accessible to everybody, probably because of his background.

Jack was born in humble circumstances in Hoboken, N.J. When he was 18, he was shipped out in the Merchant Marine and spent the next 10 years in the world’s oceans. He once told me there wasn’t a deep sea port on earth in which he hadn’t got “stinkin drunk in.”

Somehow during that rough and tumble time he realized he was made for something other than fighting, drinking and drifting around the world as an able body seaman. He realized he wanted to be an actor, even though he had never even seen a play!

Jack quit the Merchant Marine and took odd jobs around New York City. At one time he was a salesman at Bloomingdales, a Salvation Army Santa, and of course, he worked sporadically as a waiter and cab driver like most actors do. But unlike those want-to-be actors, he clicked right away and started getting small parts that kept getting bigger and bigger.

I know why he was almost immediately successful. He approached acting as he did life—honestly. I mean, who can forget him as the coach in Heaven Can Wait?

But there was more to Jack than appeared on stage. I remember taking a bus with him after his car broke down. His fellow passengers were immediately aware of his presence. There was the usual stifled “ohs and ahs” and sly stares and hard stares, and finally, one of the passengers spoke up. She was a little, old lady with a foul mouth.”What the fuck are you doing here, Jack?” She asked.

“The same thing you are dear,” Jack said, “Ridin’ the bus.”

“But why?” I think she actually said, “But why the fuck are ya doin’ that?”

Jack answered truthfully. “Because I have too many DUI’s and they took away my license.”

“But you should hire a fuckin’ chauffeur.” The old lady said.

Jack replied, “I don’t go in for that fancy fuckin’ stuff.”

And the entire bus, including the driver, broke into applause.

One time, I too applauded Jack in public—or kind of in public. We were at his beach house in Malibu when a contingent of 20 picnickers showed up at his front door— steps from the Pacific Ocean. Jack’s house in The Malibu Colony was patrolled and guarded. It was a safe haven for the movers and shakers and stars of Hollywood. Jack’s then wife, who was termagant of the worst order, went crazy. She got on the phone to the guard shack and demanded that a contingent of rent-a-cop come to her rescue and rid of the offending sight of “50 Mexicans eating tamales in front of my window.”

Jack immediately cancelled that order and he and his harridan of a wife had a terrible fight. I’d never seen Jack this angry, but he won, and that’s when I applauded. The harridan wife then demanded that I leave the house. Jack would have none of that. He said, “My buddy stays right here.”

And his wife said, “It’s either him or me.”

“That’s no contest. He stays and incidentally I’ve invited a few friends for dinner,” said Jack. And with that, he opened the doors to his house and invited all the interloper picnickers inside.

By the way, the tamales were delicious. And shortly after that picnic, Jack filed for divorce.

When Jack was 80, he quit acting and moved to North Carolina and lived with his extraordinarily beautiful and understanding new wife on the beach. I never visited him there, but I’m sure if any stray beach goers camped in front of his beach front door, they were welcomed.

That’s just the kind of a guy he was. Jack died a few years ago and the theatre and movies goers, bus passengers, and beach wanderers are missing a great man.

And so am I.