The Golden Globe

But the big thing is John himself. Not many actors are good with scripts. John Valentine is certainly not one of them. Anyone can see after ten minutes in a story conference that Valentine's influence is entirely a negative one. Nothing could be clearer than that Sparky and everyone associated with it would be much better off if John Valentine suddenly left for an extended tour of Neptune.

But wait! Did I say Polly and Sparky are away from the center of creativity? Perhaps I was hasty. Looking more closely, we see the two are whispering and giggling. Polly is drawing in a big notebook. Peering over his shoulder—before she quickly, shyly, snaps the notebook closed—I can see the drawings are very good. Broad, assured strokes of the pencil. Cartoonlike figures. Do they have names? I ask, after spending a little time ingratiating myself with them. Why, of course they have names.

Inky Tagger. Arson E. Blazeworthy. Crimea River. Lionel Alibi. The law firm of White Wong. Identical twins Tess Tosterone and S. Trojan.

Some of these have already debuted on Sparky and His Gang. The rest I was only shown after promising to keep them a secret, except for their names. (See, Sparky? I told you you could trust me.) I'm allowed one example only, a character to be introduced in the next episode. Windy Cheesecutter.

Like most of the new faces at the old Sparkster's clubhouse, Windy has a big problem. A very big, very smelly problem. As drawn by Polly, Windy is a blimp of a boy, cheeks puffed, lips pursed, eyes bulging, huge sausages for arms and legs and fingers. As imagined by Sparky, Windy keeps blimping and swelling and growing alarmingly until he relieves the pressure. Hey, if Chaucer can make jokes about farting, why can't Sparky?

As you might imagine, this socially debilitating condition has made Windy a bit of an outcast, and damn angry about it. He goes around knocking down buildings with his exploding flatulence. He can clear out a church or theater in ten seconds. Not a nice boy at all, hardly the sort you'd expect to be a part of Sparky's rather uninspired, sometimes downright mealy-mouthed gang. So what does Sparky do about him? You'll have to tune in and see.

I'm sitting at the leper's end of the table with Sparky and Polly. John Valentine is nowhere to be seen. Over there in the next area code are Gideon Peppy and his highly paid writing staff, shouting at each other.

Let them shout. Down here is where the show is being created.

"Why don't you ask her?" Polly says.

"What's that?" I ask, looking up from my note taking.

"Go ahead," Polly says.

"Nah," says Sparky. "She wouldn't be interested."

"Of course I'd be interested," I say. "What is it?"

Sparky studies me dubiously for a moment, then shrugs, and looks at me with a perfectly straight face.

"Are boogers and snot the same thing?" he asks.

"Are..." I close my mouth. I am determined not to laugh. But pretty soon Polly starts to howl, and Sparky joins in. So I do, too.

"No, really," Sparky says. "We've made a list of thirty-five things that can come out of the human body. Without, you know, surgery."

"Only it may be thirty-six," Polly says.

"If boogers and snot are different things. See, we decided plaque, tartar, and calculus are different. But toenails and fingernails are the same."

"We're not counting babies," Polly adds. "And eight of the things are different kinds of hair."

"There wasn't a very good definition of snot in the dictionary."

"Or boogers."

So I think it over and I tell them I think they must be different. Polly looks smugly at Sparky, who sticks out his tongue. Polly gets back to her drawing.

"See," Sparky says, "we decided we need a really good bad guy. If you know what I mean."

I certainly did. The Sparky show had been limping along almost a year now, and that was one of many things that hadn't been very well-defined. Each week a new bad guy was trotted out, dealt with, and market research said the kids just weren't interested in him. If you've got a series about a bunch of kids who go around righting wrongs, thwarting evil, you need a good source of evil.

"What I thought was," Sparky goes on, "since Sparky is pretty smart, that maybe I'd make the bad guy. You know, like Frankenstein. One thing Sparky has to watch out for is, he's a little impulsive. Sometimes he goes ahead and does something without thinking about what might happen. So one day in his laboratory he decides to create a new friend. He thinks about... well, I thought about that song about a hank of hair and a piece of bone. So Sparky gathers up all the things that can come off a human body—and Polly helps, too, and they have to find some of it in other places, because only grown-ups can make some of this stuff, and they throw it all together in the laboratory and, poof! Here's this guy. Only—"

"He doesn't have a soul," I say.

Sparky frowns at his hands. "Maybe it's dorky," he says, doubtfully.

"No, I don't think so. It's true, it's an old story, but I don't think anyone's ever approached it from quite the... direction, or with the same kind of ingredients you do. What will you name this villain?"

And the face shuts down. Only the spark in the eyes remains.

"I haven't decided yet," he says. I know he really has, and is just not going to tell me, but that's okay. I've got my story.

After Sparky and Polly have been called away to shoot a scene, I hang around a little longer, try to be inconspicuous. And I see a curious thing. Over the course of the afternoon just about every one of the high-powered writers from the north side of the table finds an excuse to wander down to the other end. Gosh, has anybody seen my hat? Could it be under the table down here? Oops, looks like that drawing tablet is about to slip off the table. Let me just straighten it up here....

Casually, nonchalant, they saunter and stroll and amble and perambulate, holding their pens and notebooks and cups of coffee. What's this? Oh, it's little Polly's drawings. What's she been up to today, I wonder?

And they leaf through the drawings.

Whatever Gideon Peppy is paying these writers, it's not enough. Not nearly enough, to be willing to steal ideas from children, and put their own names on the ideas. No, sir. I'd want a fucking shitload of money to do that.

So there's the secret. While the creative staff bickers and shouts and hurls out one stale, derivative idea after another, the real stories are being made at the other end of the table, out of boogers, spit, snot, and farts.

And who was the last person I saw visit the far end of the table? I'll give you a hint. He wore yellow shoes, and was sucking on a lollipop.

from LUNAVARIETY

"The Entertainment Industry Daily"

VALENTINE TO NEPTUNE; TO HELM OPNT

staff-written

John Barrymore Valentine, King City resident and longtime thespian of the legitimate stage, has been offered the job of artistic director of the Outer Planets National Theater, effective January 1 of next year.

"It was a tough decision for me," Valentine said, at the press conference a