Jack O’ Hare In Film Noir: A Poem

September 4, 2017 at 7:15 pm (Comedy, Crime, Detective story, Entertainment, Humour, Mystery, Poetry, Radio) (, , , , )

Jack O’ Hare In Film Noir: A Poem

It was on the other side of San Francisco Chinatown
lived the man called Emmanuel Gold Brown
He got electrocuted when the radio fell into his bath one night
with the result he died listening to Inner Sanctum but not from fright
The water was still bubbling when police and ambulance arrived
causing the lieutenant to quip this place is hotter than a jazz jive

Electrocution was the cause of death ruled the city’s coroner
no surprise- unlike the plum in pie of little Jack Horner
The question was who threw the plugged radio into the tub
leading to murder most foul- aye, there’s the rub

Now Jack O’ Hare was a private eye in town
one who knew a verb was different from a noun
The other eyes in town didn’t have much of an education
so bad- they could have been Congressmen planning legislation

It just so happened one hot and sultry night
as a lonely carrot succumbed to Jack’s bite
that Jessica Rabbit came strolling through the door
wearing an outfit that sent most men dead to the floor

Jessica’s tight fitting dress caused Jack to hyperventilate
but that would not be the extent of this bunny rabbit’s fate
for Jessica knew who had slain Emmanuel Gold Brown
the dashing night club owner and man about town

How do you know? Jack asked in between munching on carrots
he wondered why the building next door was loaded with ferrets.
I was there in the bathroom at the time
answered Roger Rabbit’s wife who was dressed to the nine.

Jack choked on his bottle of Avocado 🥑 and Grapefruit mix
he didn’t drink bourbon like those eyes in the Sticks.
What were you doing in the bathroom when the man was taking a bath 🛀?
This remark caused Jessica Rabbit to laugh and laugh.

Said Jessica, We owe the IRS a lot in back taxes
far more than Lizzie Borden gave her parents whackses
Now Roger’s acting career doesn’t pay much when it comes to loading the dice 🎲
In fact it doesn’t even pay for a take out order of rice 🍚
So I, sighed Jessica, have to make a little money on the side
which often involves taking men for a ride

That means you’re an —–? Jack paused on his paws
“Escort is the word I prefer,” Jessica said, “The service called Ma’s.”
“I just thought Mrs. Barker made apple pie,”
Jack rubbed the carrot juice out of his eye.
“Oh, Mrs. Barker has plenty of pies galore
as well as all sorts of cats coming in and out the door.”
“It’s a real cat house then?”
Jack caught an egg from a hen.
The hen ran up the fire escape
It was how she kept in shape.

“You could very well say that,”
Jessica spoke setting the trap,
“Now come along with me
to the wharf by the sea
and you’ll meet Brown’s killer
for real- not like in a Thriller.”

“And why would I want to meet Brown’s killer?” Jack asked,
“I’d sooner meet the Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“Because I’m paying you to,”
Jessica adjusted her dress tight and blue.

“Paying me to meet a killer?”
It did sound like an opening line in a thriller.
Jessica showed Jack her diamond ring 💍
as the nightingale in the alley started to sing 🎶
“These carats could buy a lot of carrots,” Jessica suggested
as she lowered her dress top showing she was amply breasted.

“Indeed they could,” Jack rose to the occasion
He didn’t need any more persuasion
so Jack and Jessica headed to a wharf on the Bay in San Fran
A foggy night where people get lost just trying to find the can

Jack and Jess got out of the car in time before it headed off the dock
With the splash, Jack sighed, “There goes my favourite sock.”
He really should learn to drive with his shoes on
either that or stop walking bare feet where the salmon spawn.

“Good evening, Mr. O’ Hare,”
said a voice most sinister,
“I’ve been expecting you.”
“Have you seen a floating red sock pass through?”
Jack O’ Hare was anxious to know
before he felt the urge to go.

“I killed Emmanuel Gold Brown,” the man grinned
to deed he’d admit but wouldn’t confess he sinned
“And why did you do that?” Jack sounded like the BBC’s Detective Foyle
while he sat and waited for his tea to boil

“Why are you boiling tea on the dock?”
This man wondered if Jack’s private eye reputation was all a crock
“Because I’m thirsty,” replied Jack
pulling out biscuits for a snack,
“Your voice sounds very familiar.”
The bunny waved aside Jessica’s offer of a Pilsner.

“It should sound familiar,” the man frothed, “for I am the voice of The Shadow.”
A ship 🚢 sailed by carrying llamas for cargo.
“You don’t sound much like Orson Welles,”
Jack found on the pier a book of spells.

“Ever since Welles played that role, the public won’t accept another voice for the Shadow,”
into his handkerchief the man his nose did blow.
“Them’s the brakes,” Jack remarked as a car spun out of control off the dock
Jessica wondered if she should go home and change her frock.

“So,” Jack scratched his whiskers, “why did you kill Emmanuel Gold Brown?”
“Because,” the man said, “he wasn’t listening to me- Lamont Cranston wealthy young man about town.
He was listening to Inner Sanctum Mysteries told by Raymond your host.
For that mistake in radio programming, he’s now a ghost 👻.”

The man took out a gun and aimed it at Jack,
“I wanted to get my reputation back,
to kill the world’s greatest private eye like meat 🍖 on a rack
but whoever told me about you was smoking too much crack.”

“Smoking is bad for your health,”
said Jack whose advice was medical wealth.
The man clicked the gun, “I’ll shoot you like a dog in my pyjama,”
It was then he was run over by a fleeing llama.

The Shadow was buried the very next day
while Jack was hopping through farm fields and hay
Jack thought of the night before and of Jessica Rabbit, he really should have kissed her
He sighed, went home, put the radio on and listened to The Whistler.

-A Jack O’ Hare poem
written by Christopher
Monday September 4th
2017.

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Orson Welles Meets Belvedere

November 1, 2016 at 3:47 pm (Film, Ghost Story, History, Radio, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , )

Orson Welles Meets Belvedere

It was the autumn of 1938. Orson Welles was sitting in a radio studio working on the finishing touches for a script for his radio show The Mercury Theatre On The Air.

The script was to be a radio stage play adaptation of H.G. Wells’ famous book The War of The Worlds about a Martian invasion of Earth.

As Welles worked on his script, he suddenly noticed the ghost of a ghost white salamander sitting on the monitor in front of him.

“Saints preserve us,” Welles spoke in an Irish brogue (for he had recently travelled across Ireland only a few years back), “it’s the ghost of a ghost white salamander.”

“Ah, you can see me,” Belvedere seemed pleased, “you must be a great artist for generally only great artists be they writers, poets, actors, singers, musicians or painters are able to see me.”

“Well, I try my best,” Welles answered, “you say only great artists are able to see you?”.

“Yes,” Belvedere nodded, “I once surprised Vincent Van Gogh while he was shaving around his ear at the time. I’ve tried not to appear suddenly to people ever since.”

“A wise decision,” Welles flipped to a passage in the Book of Ecclesiastes, “have you always been the ghost of a ghost white salamander?”.

“No, I was once human,” Belvedere sighed sadly, “but a gypsy turned me into a white salamander and then shortly thereafter, I got run over by a covered wagon heading west and I became the ghost of a ghost white salamander.”

“Sounds like an intriguing story,” Welles smiled, “it might make for an interesting movie.”

“Are you thinking of making movies?” Belvedere asked.

“Yes, I have an idea for a movie about a megalomaniacal newspaper publisher,” Welles answered.

“Where did you get the idea for that?” Belvedere inquired as some of his ghostly ectoplasm dropped on a poster of William Randolph Hearst lying on the floor.

“Oh, I find inspiration everywhere,” Welles winked.

“Good for you,” Belvedere smiled, “how will your movie about the megalomaniacal newspaper publisher begin?”.

“The publisher will die in bed uttering a single word Rosebud and then a reporter will interview people who knew the newspaper mogul in life and see if he can discover what the word meant,” Welles explained.

“Sounds like an interesting concept,” Belvedere sneezed which was unusual for a ghost but then Belvedere was an unusual ghost, “how will it end?.”

“I haven’t quite figured out the ending,” Welles replied.

“I’m sure something will come up in the meantime,” Belvedere raised a ghostly white salamander leg to scratch a ghostly white salamander itch.

“So as the ghost of a ghost white salamander,” Welles inquired, “do you have any regrets in life?”.

“Well I regret never having had a sled as a child,” Belvedere sighed, “it would have been fun to go sledding down snowy hills. Not of course that we had any snowy hills in the bayous of New Orleans.”

“A sled eh?” A glint entered Welles’ eyes.

“That’s right,” Belvedere wept crocodile tears even though he was a salamander.

“Well, I must return to my script,” Welles smiled, “an adaptation of H.G. Wells’ The War of The Worlds.

“That will be on the radio tonight?” Belvedere asked.

“It will,” Welles smiled.

“I’ll tune in,” said Belvedere.

. . .

Later that night, Belvedere jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge after listening to a series of news bulletins on the radio describing a Martian invasion of Earth taking place that apparently started in New Jersey.

As Belvedere hit the water, his last thought was, “Why would anyone begin an invasion of Earth by starting in New Jersey?”.

Since he was already a ghost and could not die a second time, his next thought was, “This is a serious argument against the existence of intelligent life on Mars.”

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Sunday October 30th
2016.

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Orson Welles: A Poem

October 10, 2015 at 7:49 pm (Culture, Entertainment, Film, Movies, Plays, Radio, Stage) (, )

Orson Welles: A Poem

From an adaptation of MacBeth set on the island of Haiti
to a rich man dying for his childhood sled
from a Haitian Cain to a Charles Foster Kane
he traversed the realm of human character.
Whether it was the Martians landing in New Jersey
or a magnificent Amberson getting his comeuppance
he traversed 20th century mediums from stage to radio to film.

Whether it was chimes at midnight for a Sir John Falstaff
or an escaped Nazi getting stabbed in the back by a moving clock piece on a clock tower in The Stranger
Welles traversed the sands of time from medieval Europe to 20th Century New England.

Whether playing an Irish sailor on a boat for a lady from Shanghai
or a gangster named Arkadin flying solo in a plane in the air above Spain
Welles transported himself through nationality and locale with ease.

From a mysterious third man in Vienna to a shady police captain on the U.S.- Mexico border
Welles mixed a touch of evil with a slice of lime
and like a cat with 9 lives, he revises a dead film character on radio.

From playing the Shadow on radio to casting a huge shadow on techniques of film making
Welles was a giant
and pygmies do not take well to giants
Like a Swiftian hero under Lilliputian ropes
Welles found himself tied by Hollywood moguls
for Welles created great art and not massive profits
he honoured Apollo the god of the arts
and they honoured Mammon the god of money
He reverenced Shakespeare
and they reverenced a rising investment portfolio
He loved the language of the Bible
and they loved the numbers that grew in account book ledgers.

So the only magic Welles would perform in later years was on stage in front of live audiences
instead of magic on the screen in cinemas in front of moviegoers
performing tricks of sleight of hand
instead of tricks of sleight of camera

He did TV commercials for Paul Masson wines where he sold no wine before its time
to doing radio ads showing the absurdity of peas growing in the snow in Lincolnshire in July
to fjords in Norway where the cod gather in great shoals and grow “crumb, crisp coating”.

That final interview on the Merv Griffin Show 30 years ago tonight
Welles reconciled with warthogs and the spirit of his late former wife Rita Hayworth
and then would go home and enter eternity.

-A poem written by Christopher
Saturday October 10th 2015
30 years to the night after
the death of Orson Welles.

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