My latest film review 

Like blood for sharks: “Gone Girl”
rakes the headlines of Fox News

David Fincher’s new film “Gone Girl” is a faithful adaptation of the best-selling novel by Gillian Flynn, which earned the former Entertainment Weekly writer almost universal kudos for her smartly crafted thriller. Luckily for Flynn, the screenplay (which she adapted herself) wound up in the capable hands of director Fincher, who gives “Gone Girl” the same exacting treatment as his other recent films. I say luckily, because in the hands of a lesser director, “Gone Girl” could easily have come off as pandering as the Fox News sensationalism it employs as a target of mockery.

Even as “Gone Girl” poked fun at the American public’s tabloid tastes, the novel’s success hinged on delivering exactly the same kind of rewards as those “Kidnapped Coed” headlines the news media so dearly loves: Sex, shock, betrayal!  However cleverly the titillations were clothed in the book behind spunky post-modern prose, stripped down as a film, “Gone Girl” could have unraveled into the kind of potboiler that comes and goes without leaving much of an imprint beyond the smiles on a few studio accountants’ faces.

That is why putting a cool operator like David Fincher, with his dissection-lab sense of aesthetics, at the helm of the movie was either a stroke of genius or tremendous luck; I can think of no other working director who could have more nimbly prevented “Gone Girl” from becoming a trashy film version of a pseudo-trashy book (The novel, perhaps tellingly, battled it out for supremacy on the New York Times best-seller list with “50 Shades of Gray”).

I hardly want to delve into the plot of “Gone Girl” as the slightest giveaway will have filmgoers hurling “spoiler” epithets in my direction. In a nutshell, when unemployed writer Nick Dunne (Ben Affleck, looking suitably booze-bloated for the role) returns home to find his beautiful ice queen of a wife, Amy, missing (Rosamund Pike in an appropriately pitched performance), a media feeding frenzy ensues. Headed by a Fox News-Nancy Grace caricature (Missi Pyle), the war tom-toms soon lead everyone to suspect Nick as his wife’s slayer. But his devoted twin sister (Carrie Coon) and his thousand-dollar-suited lawyer (stubble-coiffed Tyler Perry) see otherwise — and soon the audience does, as well.

The film’s advertising touts the story as an examination of the deception that lies behind everyday marriage when, in fact, it feels more like what lies behind the doors of the C.S.I writers’ room. Bergman’s “Scenes from a Marriage” it is not. Hardly subtle, it is pleasingly tabloid, but luckily that is where Fincher stepped in.

Fincher is the new Truman Capote of the cinema, an artist who has perfected a balance of blending truth and fiction so seamlessly that something entirely new is born of the merger. What Capote called his “non-fiction novel,” Fincher has reversed, creating something along the lines of “non-dramatic movies.” That’s not to say Fincher makes dull films, far from it. But for all their brilliance, there is nothing overtly theatrical about Fincher’s recent films.

Dispensing with showy direction, he never uses his tools to emotionalize material and wrest a response out of the audience. Instead, his films tick neatly and precisely along as the Swiss chapter of Eurorail, with nearly the same dramatic weight being given to moments of epiphany as to moments of minutiae. He’s like a bastard child of Hollywood and Lar Von Triers’ Dogme 95 — a group of aesthete Danish filmmakers who have vowed to put aside special effects and melodramatic flourishes in the pursuit of a purer cinema. Unlike the Dogme 95 adherents, Fincher moves his camera and actors with studio perfectionism (and cuts equally immaculately), but tone of his films embrace the kind of kind naturalism that the restrained Danes admire.

Fincher never over-varnishes a scene with emotion, never lingers on a moment longer than is required. He’s so deft as a director that he’s  nearly invisible, moving through commercial thrillers like “Zodiac” as subtly as a documentarian. In comparison to flamboyant stylists like Wes (or Paul Thomas) Anderson and hyper-visualists like Kubrick, Fincher is a Shaker-furniture maker — keeping his films religiously simple, but honing them with such master-craftsman precision that he makes even a straight line feels exquisitely wrought.

One gets the sense that Fincher is first and foremost concerned with the structure of his films. He is superb at the logic of storytelling which, in filmmaking, generally means rigidly adhering to a script. (“Gone Girl” is being called Fincher’s “Hitchcock” film, and Hitchcock was notably famous for the vast amount of time he spent mapping out his scripts and storyboards with wife Alma Reville; so much so that the shooting process itself was almost perfunctory).

That may explain why Fincher’s films come off so intelligently on the screen: Fincher is a craftsman of story, rather than hyperbolic visuals. And that’s likely the reason why a garish tale like “Gone Girl” works so well under his control. “Gone Girl” was praised as a novel for rising above its potboiler storyline through clever writing, but normally there’s no hiding behind prose at the cinema. Take, for instance, Faulkner’s books adapted for Hollywood. With the poetry of their corn-whiskey patois stripped away, classics like “The Sound and the Fury” felt like little more than steamy southern gothics.

Fincher’s literary rendering of “Gone Girl” manages to capture the smarty-pants tone of Flynn’s novel which is vital, because without that tone the guilty pleasures of plot twists and slain lovers meant to satisfy the thriller-reading public would have sunk the film.  Consequently, “Gone Girl” is probably one of the luckiest collaborations to come to the screen in a long time, especially for  Flynn, whose tale was spared combustion under the xenon arc lights by Fincher’s cool-headed read. There’s no need to worry about Fincher going up in flames, because it’s always those thoughtful craftsmen who labor well into their golden years, and just keep getting better at it.

Let's get the straightforward stuff out of the way. Here's little sample of news/promotional writing. I love space.

Space Shuttle Endeavour Touches Down

By Brad Cheng

It was the end to journeys that eclipsed more than a hundred million miles in space.
It was a monumental undertaking on the terra firma of Earth.

When the Space Shuttle Endeavour made its dramatic arrival through the streets of Los Angeles to the California Science Center, it brought to a close the voyages of the last of NASA's orbital fleet. Over a nearly a decade, the Space Shuttle Endeavour navigated the vastness of space and fragile shell of our atmosphere on missions that illuminated both mankind's quest for knowledge and the measure of its heroics.

The Endeavour is one of the four remaining ships from the NASA space shuttle program which launched it's first orbiter in 1981. During Endeavour's career, the ship traveled more than 122 million miles in space, circling the planet 4,671 times as it crossed through the cosmic divides of night and day.

While the Endeavour once thundered from the launch pad at 24,000 mph to escape the grip of gravity, its trip to the Samuel Oschin Air and Space Center was made at a leisurely 2-miles per hour, taking a full day to arrive 12 miles from Los Angeles International Airport. Despite this less-than-thrilling velocity, the sight was still breathtaking for the hundreds of thousands who turned out to watch it arrive at its permanent home of exhibition. The Samuel Oschin Air and Space Center is honored to be the recipient of this magnificent gift from NASA.

On each of its twenty-five missions, the space shuttle carried a history of exploration spanning hundreds of years, by name and by tradition.  The Endeavour was christened after the HMS Endeavour, the full-rigged sailing ship captained by British Lt. James Cook in the 18th Century, who was sent forth by the Royal Navy on a scientific exploration of the South Pacific.

Just as Space Shuttle Endeavor's missions aided our understanding of the cosmos, chief among the HMS Endeavour's missions was an attempt to pinpoint our place in the universe. Cook sailed the HMS Endeavor to Tahiti to observe the 1769 transit of Venus across the Sun. The scientists of Britain's Royal Society hoped that Cook's record of the celestial event would provide astronomers the data needed to accurately calculate our native star's distance from Earth.

A complex $10-million engineering task was required to transport the Space Shuttle Endeavour and its 24-wheeled transport platform through the streets of Los Angeles. More than 1,200 police officers and firefighters were required to maneuver the shuttle through the city, sometimes guiding its 150-foot wingspan through obstacles with less than a credit card's width to spare. With a combined weight of more than 150 tons, hundreds of steel plates were laid along the route to keep the transport and its precious payload from collapsing streets. But with a precision calculations worthy of NASA, the Endeavour was at last safely brought home.

As the centerpiece of Samuel Oschin Air and Space Center, we hope your trip to see the Endeavour will help you appreciate its place in history of space flight and as a symbol of mankind's never-ending quest for knowledge. The Endeavour's last journey may not have finally taken it to the stars, but to a place where it will be shine as one on display for generations to enjoy.

Here is a fun editorial piece. I wrote this when Hurricane Rita was barreling down on Houston when I was the managing editor of a newspaper down there. It's written in that folksy, chuckle inducing style meant for middle-of-the-road newspaper readers. It was Texas. It's also meant to give you some idea of the chaos and confusion you can expect when the next disaster comes to your home town. Won't it be swell?

The Quest for Fire

By Bradford Cheng

I have to admit this is my first pre-disaster experience. The newspaper are spilling huge warnings in black ink across their front pages and the barrage of television broadcasts are enough to make one consider a monastery. Until recently, I had no idea a meteorologist’s formal education included ‘An Introduction to Method Acting,' but I’m trying not to be perturbed. 

I like to think of myself as a prepared person. I’m certain there are Band-Aids and a stained bottle of Mercurochrome somewhere under the sink. I have at least three half-empty cans of car polish in my Honda at all times, I buy paper towels and Cheetos in bulk and there are at least a half dozen cans of Campbell's soup somewhere my pantry, although their expiration dates are most likely past. At least, I think it’s been a long time since “Cream of Maize” has been produced.

I like to feel I'm a bit self-sufficient, but I’m nowhere near survivalist status. There’s no cache of ammo and salted beef in my spring cellar and my only knife is dwarfed by its toothpick and nail file. But I like to think that in times of sudden deprivation I might be able to grin and bear a few days like a trooper. 

Unfortunately, up until the arrival of Rita, I always assumed the real key to waiting out a disaster meant finally finding the time to finish “Madame Bovary” and, most importantly, maintaining a sufficient collection of DVDs. I assumed there would be nothing like a good movie to lightening one’s spirits as your neighbor’s KIA blew by the window.

But not today.

It wasn’t until today that reports of “power outages” and hundreds of “sold-out electrical generators” finally made me realize disasters are not made any easier by “The Complete Sinatra” on compact disc. And that “Enya’s Greatest Hits” would not soothingly mask wail of warning sirens. It turns out, that during a disaster I would suddenly find myself electrically-challenged. The key to beating a disaster apparently dates back to mankind's earliest efforts to keep itself from being extingished by the cold, hard universe.

The key is fire. 
The secret is light.

This afternoon I set out in Katy to acquire the real tool to survival during catastrophy, that miraculous device known as a flashlight. I pass up the opportunity to own one of these wondrous devices on almost a daily basis. They come small and large, in all colors. You see them printed in camouflage and football team logos at gas stations. They come hand-crankable, pen-sized, waterproof and built in steel casings sturdy enough to give a moose a concussion.

But not today.

As Rita looms down on Katy, these commonplace items have become more coveted than a position behind the camera at Jessica Simpson video shoot.    

Along Fry Road, the shelves of Walmart’s camping department are devoid of flashlights, lamps, lanterns and anything that gives off the faintest glimmer. I briefly consider illuminating my bedroom with a set of glow-in-the-dark Barney stickers, but I persevered and moved on.

Even more frustratingly, there is not a single “D” nor “C” sized battery to be found at any other store along Katy’s main shopping strip. If you want to replace the power supply in Timex wrist watch or a calculator, you’re in luck. Accountants, take heart. Almost teasingly, these tiny, utterly useless batteries litter the empty shelves instead of their larger brethren. But if you actually want to see the can of Spam you’re eating, neither Walgreens or H.E.B. have any flashlight-sized batteries in stock.

I found this doubly annoying as most of the time I’m bothered by having to look past these behemoth-sized beasts. Isn’t this the age of miniaturization? Can we not summon up the world electronically with our dainty fingertips? D and C-sized battery seem to harken back, semi-obsoletely, to the days of 65 pound boom-boxes and be designed mainly to roll and thump noisily every time you  open your child’s toy chest.

But not today.

Today they are gold.

The story was the same at Best Buy: Batteries and flashlights are long gone as the dodo. However, they did offer a handy power converter which would run on still-available AA batteries. Unfortunately they are limited to powering hand-held games. I suppose this should provide some comfort to die-hard gamers. In the time of apocalypse, they will not be deprived. However, when my windows blow in, brown water trickles out of my faucet like an sick airplane sink and the arugula in my refrigerator begins to sprout, I doubt I will feel comforted by beep of my 11-year old playing Mario Kart.

While it might have been the first place most survivalists would have turned to, I saved a trip to Home Depot for last. I’m somewhat embarrassed to go to that bastion of do-it-yourselfers. This is where real men do their shopping. This is where the legendary men of Texas, pioneers out there alone on a limb, would be shoring-up with their weapons of war against wind and tide. Walking into the store hoping to turn up a single D-sized battery or discount flashlight would be somewhat humbling. And I was right. 

There were SUV owners toting out massive coils of rope, inch-thick sheets of plywood, complex devices which may have been the artificial hearts of mobile homes for all I knew, and enough timber to have given the boys at the Alamo time to have sung “Utah Carl’s Last Ride” one last time. And here I was, pitifully hoping for enough light to finish “Madame Bovary."

And I shall.

Even though Home Depot has no flashlights nor batteries to power them, laying atop one depleted shelf, stickered with tantalizing signs like “Coleman lanterns” and “Eveready Emergency Lights,” I did find the single source of fire which shall tide my family through the coming disaster.  No doubt a clearance item which quickly surfaced to see Katy through it’s impending cataclysm, I snatched up and purchased my touchstone to survival. A key chain Disney "The Incredibles” Squeeze Light. Unfortunately, it’s only illuminated by a single red LED and barely provides enough rays to suntan a gnat. But, in the immortal words of Gloria Gaynor, “I Will Survive."

I bought the Blu Ray of "2001: A Space Odyssey" today. I'm still crazily in love with that movie; my favorite of all-time. I decided to create a little faux-ad tribute to HAL9000.  Bless his heart. I still need a computer I can talk to. Don't we all?

For the lazy cineaste who doesn't want to travel over to my Wordpress blog (http://filmbrut.wordpress.com/) for my film reviews (I really need to make more time for the movies), here's a transplanted one covering the most popular entertainment de jour.

Marvel's Semi-Precious Age: Guardians of the Galaxy.

When Disney first announced it was paying a king’s ransom to purchase the complete Marvel Comics canon of characters, there was some skepticism that once the Golden Age had been mined and the Silver Age melted down, there wouldn’t be enough left to cast a decent superhero belt buckle. Happily, “Guardians of the Galaxy” proves that you don’t always need a costumed icon to produce a bit of save-the-world fun. While many recent Marvel adaptations like the Avengers have set out clenched-jawed to prove the pages of those twenty-cent Marvel books actually contained high art, director James Gunn found his own beginnings with another decidedly low-brow story factory — the Troma school of filmmaking. Troma Entertainment, known for its “shock exploitation” films like “The Toxic Avenger,” seems like an unusual place for a $170M Disney production to harvest its director. But Gunn had proved his commercial viability by penning a successful pair of squeaky-clean Scooby Doo movies. And there must have been something about his continuing career fascination with superheroes — which outside the entertainment industry might signal a red flag rather than a ticket to wealth — that sparked a neural connection in a Disney executive, landing Gunn at the helm of “Guardians.” Luckily for audiences seeking summer entertainment, Gunn has dialed down the darkness of his recent projects, like the well-reviewed but still mighty creepy “Slither,” and the result is a satisfying uptempo comedy/adventure, even if the plotting often feels more like Scooby Snack-fueled foot-pedalling than thoughtful storytelling. “Guardians” story is barely-there laser blast fare — Star Wars minus the mythology — but the film ultimately pleases by following the fun as ragtag adventurers bond into a team of reluctant heroes.  As an action extravaganza, every penny of the film’s lofty budget appears on the screen. “Guardians” is a gorgeous-looking film filled with over-the-top makeup and sets, some of it quite stunning. It doesn’t strive for a moody, rain-washed authenticity like some other superhero films, but rather a garish cartoony reality, vaguely reminiscent of director Luc Bresson’s sci-fi work and those geniuses of perspective and four-color visual hyperbole: the Marvel artists. The story revolves around space scoundrel Peter Quill (played by actor Chris Pratt of the TV sitcom “Parks and Recreation,” on which he’s crafted a likable He-of-Light-Intelligence persona that he reprises here) and Quill’s attempt to recover a metallic orb containing an unworldly force just waiting to be harvested by half the baddies in the universe. Quill, abducted from earth while still a teen by pirate-like space mercenaries goes by the moniker “Star-Lord.” He’s grown into a punky rebel among these salty space dogs — prone to flipping off policemen, drop-kicking pesky space lizards and blasting his classic rock on a Walkman to liven up the soundtrack (a little too frequently, it’s a vaguely cheap trick). Pratt has described his character as “Hans Solo meets Marty McFly.” I would have preferred Hans Solo meets … someone further out of puberty. Pratt’s Quill is almost too much a boy-child to generate real gravity as the film’s lead. He wields a mean stun gun, but he makes an awkward leader and his moments of genuine heroics get lost behind the joking. The film ends, but he never matures. Still, he’s a likable lunk and the carry-over of his “Parks” persona gives Pratt cred as the Peter Pan of the Forbidden Zone. Zoe Saldana (Lt. Uhura in J.J. Abram’s rebooted “Star Trek” films) is his grudging new sidekick and presumed future love interest, a deadly assassin recently turned away from the darkside. Saldana works earnestly at her role and manages to provide some weight to the otherwise drama-light screenplay, although she’s a little too heavily burdened with the voice of reason. Professional wrestler Dave Batista is another member of Quill’s team of misfits. Saddled with the rather defining moniker of “Drax the Destroyer,” Batista provides some of the film’s best laughs as a humorless yet utterly forthright hulk. He’s Mongo from “Blazing Saddles” decorated in a paisley of ritually applied scars atop real-life muscles that outshine the special effects for pure astonishment.  Not fairing as well as supporting characters are John C. Reilly, managing to look his fuddy-duddy self, even in a neon-lit Buck Rogers uniform, and Glenn Close, as a civic leader with a Bavarian pretzel hairdo, who seems to have invested less thought in her character than perhaps what direction her Disney contract may be taking her. The final members of the Guardians are two CGI-rendered concoctions voiced by Bradley Cooper and Vin Diesel. Cooper is Rocket Racoon, a genetically rewired Daniel Boone hat-in-the-making with an Einstein-like brilliance. Unfortunately, Cooper overplays him vocally, imparting a grating character that is less quasar than quasi-Bowery Boy. In a film that seldom abandons its video game pacing, Cooper’s racoon character is the one reeks most of a video game performance. On the other hand, Vin Diesel, whose part almost entirely consists of the same three words, “I am Groot,” sprouts the film’s most poignant moments as a tree-man whose heart is far less hardened than his bark. His completely other-worldly appearance brings a needed whimsy to the space fantasy, unlike the slight color variations of its humanoids and that earthly racoon whose presence defies any real rationality. It is Groot’s laconic presence and the gentle moments he creates that lets the film pause long enough to show the heart “Guardian” could have used more of. “Guardians” is certain to please audiences with its all-cylinders firing action, but Gunn would have been well-served to let his jets cool down more between sprints. His failing to tug more at the heartstrings and have us fall for his characters is odd, as I have a sneaking suspicion that Gunn was more concerned with cementing them into a franchise and less with crafting a fully realized film. Perhaps with the thought of sequel-to-come firmly in mind, the film’s timing feels off. A prison escape chews up far too much running time, while some major plot points are barely given a comic book frame’s worth of mention. The result is a story that feels penciled in, but not fully inked. But by the film’s finale, Gunn achieves his goal and his cast melds into a gang you’ll be willing to spend more time with in future installments, Awesome Mix Tape Part Deux, which is all any studio could hope for … in this galaxy or the next.

AN ACTOR'S MONOLOGUE:  Having many friends who are actors, I've been asked to write them original audition pieces now and then. Here is one I wrote for my friend, Tom.

When we were waiting on the bench at the Greyhound terminal, my father told me that there were any number of vices in the world, and mine was not any worse than anyone's. He did not lay his hand upon mine, nor did he look me in the eye. He spoke his words slowly, as though dictating his confession to a courthouse stenographer.  He said, that as failings went, drunkenness would always be tolerated. Alcohol crept on the soul as surely as insanity and anyone who did not secretly fear their thoughts could not speak righteously against it. Crime and lying were merely frustrations laid open in his opinon. And pride and vanity were no more than natural. Intolerance, he said, was only wrong when you applied to yourself. My father was a man of old-world beliefs.

Over the bus terminal's loudspeaker, Dan Folkes rambled off half a dozen cities north of Kentucky. I can still hear him slaughtering their names: Charleston, Rockville, Lancaster, Trenton. The last name rang for me as clearly as our family name being called: "New York City." New York. How long I'd dreamt of visiting it. And now that I was headed there, I was terrified. It was then I remember my father performing his last protective act for me. He pulled my paper suitcase between his knees and I could see him draw his lip tightly under his teeth. Men, he said, continuing after a brief pause which burned us both, were creatures filled with fear. The grave moved them in wrong directions. Whether it be the bottle, or women, or gambling, or sin, no one could be blamed for his or her vices. 

And mine, my weakness, was as fair as anyone else's. 

He looked at me and said he knew when I was a boy there was a delicacy in me. A delicacy that would not be tolerated by the men of Harlan County and that, someday, I would be leaving and there would be talk, cheap snickering talk of the Jenkins who left. Of the Jenkins too weak for the mines, without the grit to cut coal, and that the blood he'd raised had no steel. And then, at that momnet, on that rough wooden bench, I felt myself suddenly ashamed and wrong. Ashamed for my father; ashamed of leaving; ashamed of myself and my space in this world. "Pa," I started to say, but he cut me off. He waved his hand, brushing off my unspoken words as needless; his hands black, always black, with anthracite dust. He looked at me full on and said, "Sometimes, when it's in you, when it's in the blood —there's no apologies can be made, cause there's no right or wrong in your soul. And no preacher, no gov'ment, no book cain't tell me otherwise. You're my son. You take care of yourself," and then he dropped his stare down upon the suitcase on the floor. That cheap suitcase, half full of my shirts and half full of his own. The call for the bus came again and behind us we heard the angry hiss of hydrolics braking on King street. 

He stood up and I rose beside him. We shook hands. And for the last time, for the only time I remember, he kissed me, and I walked away. 

Oh, the Grind

Ah, yet another book start I dredged up, in which I put forth a slacker anti-hero, who opens a diary debating meaning of it all: from honor and duty and, most importantly,  putting one's socks on in a timely manner.

TUESDAY, JANUARY 14, 2005

Oh, the Grind

Shall I do this daily?, he asked, wondering if diaries require the same devotion as an aging mistress. Well, I'll give it a run. However, be forewarned I'm extremely bad at comittment. You may be at the start of a story without an end. Amen.

You see, the older I get, the worst my devotion to duty seems to become. I'm quite content to "pass the buck" at work. I let licenses and electric bills lapse; I've never been able to follow a "mail-in rebate" to conclusion. I recently stopped putting shoelaces in my wingtips because they become untied during the day and I don't want to be committed to keeping them neat. Yes, people look, but I tell myself I'm flirting with being "an eccentric" -- like the aging professor, a mind busy calculating grander things like star clusters over the horizon, than tomato catsup on trouser pleats. I do work within the magnificent 200-year old stone walls of an ivy-enshrined university, birthing place of Presidents and assasins, and my father was a professor, of sorts, but, closer to the truth, I'm simply almost completely unreliable and unfocused.

Some say this state is what, sadly, happens to retirees no longer saddled with responsibilty. While still a few decades away, I'm absolutely ready to embrace that manner of being. The chance to let my brain turn to Hawaiian poi watching television while mass-consuming spearmint Altoids sounds blissful. Look to the lillies - those bastards have it just peachy in my book.

I now feel like I've shouldered a responsibility launching this diary and, God knows, I avoid that like the plague. I won't try and offer myself up as a romantic Tom Sawyer, shirking duty in the name of free-range mischief. He had the energy of a ten-year-old, whereas I once took 23 minutes to put my socks on (my wife timed me without my knowledge, and I'm told the first sock took eighteen of those minutes). Anyway, I doubt I would have enjoyed life along the Mississippi in 1876, even if life was simpler then. There were chores like 'toting buckets' and pressing calico with wood-fire headed irons. Yes, much too much work. But, today, there's no peace at all. We're all victims of someone's ledger or telephone directory. It's a different manner of 'chores'. It's our responsibility to someone named 'Mr. Torres at Service Electric Cable." At least you could hide from Aunt Polly.

BREAKING NEWS: My blog goes wild across social media! Here's the latest statistical analysis from Google:

I'm a hit in Alaska!

(I always figured there wasn't much to do up there.)

Ever wonder what exactly a copywriter does? I'd almost forgotten myself until I recently found some old faxes (Faxes? Yes, that old). I think in a nutshell, copywriters are given one idea and told to say it five hundred different ways. The process is excruciating, the discarded versions are endless, and the final result always seems terribly miniscule. As the address of this blog references, "the essence of wit is brevity," yet all too frequently the process of getting there is long and grueling. Here is some copy (both hits and misses) I wrote:

For examples of my work that did make it into print, please visit the online copy of my design portfolio at https://www.scribd.com/doc/241648880/Brad-Cheng-Portfolio  My copy for film posters and television ad campaigns appear in the Werndorf Associates section of the portfolio.

The Dennis Miller show

You listen to the news every day,

but you've never heard it quite like this.

The perfect killing machine.

Swims, eat, and make little remarks.

Is this the last man in America

with any common sense?

You can't argue with perception.

The most outlandish one-man 

judge, jury, and executioner

sentencing America today.

Taking a weekly, parting shot

at America's favorite targets.

Revealing the truth in a way

that makes the tabloids blush.

Part news.

Part commentary.

All out war.

The saddest thing about the truth

is more people don't laugh at it.

Watch him go on a rant

You may listen to the news

but you've never heard it like this.

They're raving about his rant.

He's all the rage.

Stark 

raving

brilliant

Rebel without a pause

Watch the news,

But tune in to the truth.

George Carlin

We’d like to print the seven little words you can’t say on television...

But we still can't. And you'll only hear them one place.

SIX SHOWS YOU CAN’T SEE ON TELEVISION.

He’s never minced words

cutting up society.

The first amendment 

guarantees free speech.

We guarantee it will be

 used to it’s fullest.

Taking liberty with language

America’s funniest figure of speech

Conceived by one man dedicated to hilarity.

Carlin past to present.

Still running counter to our culture.

Still only on HBO.

3 decades later

and he’s just warming up.

The biggest recycling effort

by other networks is their jokes.

Spawn

The war for heaven

begins in one man's soul.

Wanting to do good. Needing to be evil.

All hell breaks loose

The line between good and evil

is about to be erased

His soul is lost.

His battle  just beginning.

His toughest fight

is denying what he is.

Reborn to be bad

A heart trapped in darkness,

He sold his soul for love

Prepare to meet his Inner demon

Evil is going to have hell to pay

Too  mean to die

See what happens when you 

break your deal with the devil.

Even in blackest heart

burns the desire for good.

He must fight

what he has become.

The dawn of heaven’s darkest knight

Larry Sanders Show

(paired with positive reviews)

No matter what we do

they keep saying nice things about us.

The best part about being ruthless is

they have to say nice things about you.

There are plenty of people in Hollywood

we'd like to thank for our success.

But they'd know we don't really mean it.

You can accuse most of hollywood of egotism.

We deserve it.

When your guest's start turning up out of fear,

you know you've made it....

So many great guests.

So many kind words.

So much insincerity it's sickening.

It takes friendly guests and a lot of kind praise

to prove you're the meanest show on television.

We have the Hollywood elite,  

the critics' praise, and all the awards.

What we'd really like 

is our own parking space.

(alt.)

No wonder our lives 

still feel incomplete.

(alt.)

That doesn't mean we won't

be off the air by Tuesday.

When people in Hollywood  start saying nice things about you.

You're either doing a great job,  or they're looking for one. 

In a business founded on backstabbing, nepotism and deception,

We're very proud to continue the tradition.

The kindest words in Television are: "I love your show"

The most sincere praise in Hollywood is: "Please don't destroy my career"

The Larry Sanders Show is proud to have heard both.

Well, anyway, now you get the idea.

A while back, a woman was starting up a new magazine devoted to rats. Yes, that's right, those wonderful creatures city-dwellers with small children and Australian farmers equally love so well. She asked me if I would write something for her magazine, and I decided to do an advice column called "Ask Orson" hosted by a very bon vivant little fellow I made up. I managed to dig up a column and here it is:

Dear Orson,

We recently took the pack to see "Interview with the Vampire" and were shocked how rats where portrayed. Can you recomend any rat movies we can take the children to see?

—HouseMouse

Dear HouseMouse,

Housey, if there are—you let me know, I can’t recommend any!  Not since “The Life of Louis Pasteur” have I seen such recent carnage on the screen as in "Vampire."  I’d rather sit through “Born Free” again then watch another vampire movie portraying fine fromage-loving ratties as carnivorous sewer dwellers!  It's simply appalling! Keep the kids at home. If Hollywood wants us back in their theaters, they better turn down the sleaze and turn up the cheese!

Dear Orson,

Lately all my owner seems to be feeding me in rat chow. I know it's healthy, but it's getting boring. I'm dreaming of fresh carrots or the occasional bit of fruit. Am I expecting too much since he's the big provider in the household?

—Fed-up with Chow

Dear Fed-up

Talk about biting the hand that feeds you—but in your case, he deserves it!  Not only is the skinflint shaving the grocery bill, he could be hurting your health! We all need some garden fresh now and then! I say take drastic measures. Start by ignoring the food bowl when he pours in the cheapies. If that doesn’t work, dump it! If he still scrimps, get hold of his favorite Italian loafer and go continental! Chew, brother, chew!

Dear Orson,

My cage-mate in Manhattan, Ginger, had her relatives over to visit last weekend. Between her family, aunts and uncles, and her cousins, there were over eight hundred  sharing our aquarium! Her “fancy” (so they think!) cousins from England,  broke my exercise wheel. How can I tactfully ask her to cut down on their visits?

—Trapped in New York

Dear Trapped,

And they say no one believes in big families anymore!  I sympathize with your plight, but that’s rat life! Unless these visits occur often enough to really run up your water bottle bill, I’m afraid you’ll just have to gnaw and bear it. Remember, as Oscar Wilde said: “Relatives are people who never know when to arrive, or when to pass away!”  

Dear Orson,

It’s been a struggle, but thanks to my winning nature and a lot of hard work, I’ve recently been promoted out of my shoe-box office! I’ve finally got my very own couch! Until now I’ve only heard stories of such a treat, and I’m wondering: what’s your favorite way of eating a couch?

—Climbing in California.

Dear Climber,

Congratulations, career rat, you’ve made it!  I know takes a lot of  hand-licking make it to the top, but now the real fun begins!  Attack a sofa the same way you battled to become number one pet: start at the bottom and claw your way to the top! Bon apetite!

— Orson

While I'm on a roden theme, if you're a fan of "pocket pets," don't forget the "viral" video I worked so hard making. Viral to the tune of 150 hits, not exactly ebola. Party on.

Hmm. On a side note, I found this fragment while searching for this column. A fan of "Ask Orson" had asked me to expand the column into a kid's story. I'd completely forgotten about this partial effort.

The grandest house in Steepleville stood on top of Bumble Hill. The pretty brick house, which featured more inviting nooks and crannies than any other house in town, had belonged to the Flint family for several generations. It had been built many years before by Tobias Flint, an inventor. Tobias Flint had discovered how to make roof shingles that would last almost forever. Every house in Steepleville had been given a black, shining roof protected by Tobia’s magical tiles. There was not a single house in Steepleville that, even during the heaviest rains, was not dry and snug as a basket of fresh laundry.

Thomas Flint,  now master of the house on Bumble Hill, was a respected lawyer in Steepleville. He was small round man with bright red cheeks, but possessed of a deep and wonderfully comforting voice. When he wasn't arguing cases at the Steepleville Courthouse he would entertain at the library, bellowing out poems and tales of great adventure in his soothing baritone voice with a gusto that enchanted listeners. Mr. Flint lived quite comfortably and happily with his wife, Sandra, and his three children, Margaret, Patrick, and Tommy Junior within the walls of the great house.

There was another family that lived under the fine roof and thick wooden floors of the house. This was the Brown family. The Browns were a family of rats. The Browns had also lived on Bumble hill for many generations.  Although, over the years, members of the Brown family had been chased from the house by surly tom cats or conniving rat catchers; the Browns had always returned to make it their home. The Brown’s loved the cozy confines of the great house as much as the Flints did.

Orson Brown especially loved the grand house on Bumble Hill. Orson was the youngest member of the Brown family. Orson had four older brothers: Toby, Trevor, Tasker, and Bumpy, and three sisters named Bernice, Bedellia and Lucy. Orson’s mother and father, loved them all and they all lived comfortably under the floors and in the warm attic of the house.

Orson was a chubby young rat with a sleek brown coat that he kept so clean it always shined. His whiskers had just grown into quite fine things and he was proud of how much they made him look like his father. He was a very proud little rat. The only thing that he wasn’t proud of was his very long tail. It was at least an inch longer than his brother’s tails and, being boys and brothers, they frequently teased him about its length. This tail was quite often a bother to Orson, as it was always getting caught in things like crooked floorboards and the odd bits of string that his sisters collected to pad the family's nest. Orson sometimes wished that his troublesome tail would just all-together vanish.

It was six o’clock, on an evening in mid-October, when the tiny doors of a cuckoo clock sprang open and Orson Brown peered out into the Flint’s dining room.  Years before, a distant cousin had gnawned a hole through the back of the grand old clock and it had become a portal for the Brown family on the world of the others living on Bumble Hill. Orson looked out over the dining room and smiled. Everything about the world of humans seemed very grand to Orson. The room was huge and warmly lit by the setting autumn sun. Sandra Flint already had a lovely fire burning in a stone fireplace. There were ten chairs placed around a long oak table where the Flint family had just sat down to diner.

Tommy Flint, the youngest, sat at the dining table fiddling with the toy gyroscope he had received the day before for his ninth birthday. Orson licked his whiskers as he remembered the birthday. There had been mountains of cake, huge dishes of ice cream, and his sister, Margaret, watched her brother jealously as he wound a spool of brown string around the core of the gyroscope.

And there it ends. Ah, the world will have to wait for the further adventures of Orson Brown, I suppose.