Film and Television Rights from happyrobot - updated 6/9/2026 3:08:58 AM https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp en-us <![CDATA[Albums. Landlines. Square television.]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=10220 I'd go back to those days in the time it takes to pop a cassette in a boom box. I used to write letters to people. I made and received phone calls. I miss those days.
]]> <![CDATA[I don't love anything, not even Christmas]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=10219 ]]> <![CDATA[My favorite place in the world]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=10218 My favorite place in the world was the backseat of my Dad's car--behind the backseat actually, a little nook above the warm engine. Those little VWs purr and growl like animals. I'd sleep atop the tartan blanket he kept there, it may have been a horse blanket I don't know. For some reason when I think of my Dad I think of plaid. I'd lie back there, look at the moon and stars, the shadows of the trees. Wake briefly across his shoulder, then settled in my huge adult-sized bed that my mom was so shrewd in buying for me just after I left the crib. "He'll have it his whole life. Solid oak!"

I can't imagine myself so small, smaller and younger than my son now, that I'd fit there in that little car's space to sleep. It was a different time, of course. The air was different, the stars. People were taller, more glamorous and handsome. And soon it will be a different time than now.

After kindergarten, at pickup, I was to ride with him to Mt. Airy, to my grandmother's, on an errand. Three hours round trip. My friend David was bragging about his new blue space gun, the kind that shot the plastic-colored disks--they'd fly twenty feet, spinning and curving. I can see them now, seemingly slow and effortless, yet spinning through the air, rounding the corner of the long hallway at David's, one after another. They were beautiful. We never grew tired of them as evening came. David's mom shut us in the back of the house as it got dark; I could hear low voices; the telephone rang several times, and there were headlights in the driveway.

]]> <![CDATA[How do you Plea?]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=10216 Instead of admitting my guilt or pleading my innocence, I request to defer to the judgment of the lower court. Thank you, your honor.
]]> <![CDATA[Rashy]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=10205 All our days on earth, microscopic animals are attempting to eat us alive, creeping across the vast landscape of our flesh, looking for a safe haven to inhabit in the pits of our arms, behind our ears, the webbed expanse between our fingers. When our immune system dips south, these beasties sometimes get a foothold, and you have to break out the cortical steroids.

As we age, and our immune system becomes increasingly difficult to maintain, the medicine cabinet will fill with the cremes, lotions and ointments! Smell the age! Rub it in!

Given the opportunity, when we die these invisible creatures eat us until we are reduced to our primal origins, and they in turn, will call out to their compatriots, the cats, with a siren's chemical wail, and live out the rest of their existence in the warm bellies of those furry creatures.

I think of these things as I put my Dove 'Light Radiance' scented deodorant (with moisturizer) on each morning.




]]> <![CDATA[Eeyore]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=10203 The one cartoon character I always most closely identified with. I just now realized his name is the sound an ass makes.



Watch Eeyore's Tail Tale in Animation  |  View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com]]> <![CDATA[Some head injuries aren't so bad]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=10193 During a game in high school, the sharp elbow of the opposing center came down square on my head, and it was as if my scalp had a lovely old zinc-coated spout and I was situated behind a soda fountain pouring rose-colored cherry phospates for a gaggle of teens. It was really a perfect injury. It stopped the game, allowing us to take a breather, the center got called for a foul; it didn't hurt, bled like hell, and was wonderful for a few minutes, knowing that at any moment our insides can burst out and splash on everyone's expensive basketball shoes. It felt good. Once it stopped, I was back in, and played as hard as ever, and I suspect remorse got the best of the other guy, as he kept his elbows to himself. We won.

On the floor, just after the game ended, heading to the locker room, my mother called to me from twenty feet away. She'd been in the stands with her friends, a fairly rare event. After my horrid performance pitching a little-league playoff championship, I suggested she stay home from then on. I don't think she listened. But regardless, she didn't come to many games, as she usually had to sleep, she worked third-shift at the nursing home. (Yes, I was alone at night, which was mostly great in my teens, not so much in adolescence.)

Anyway, my mother could not resist making a motherly display, or a nursing display, whichever it was. I ignored her, turned and followed my team into the locker room.

She screamed at me most of the way home. She woke me up later that night and screamed at me some more. I'd humiliated her. It was awful, the screaming. Dredging up every embarrassment, every bit of neighborhood gossip, betrayals, just what had I been doing with my whore of a girlfriend--who had I mentioned what pills mom took to and did they tell their parents, and on and on. It was insane. It was not the everyday norm, but not unheard of behavior either.

Sometimes I put myself back in the head coach's office, the next year of varsity, the exact moment I say the words "I quit." I quit because my girlfriend rented her own house and drove a Chevy Nova and drank Jack Daniels straight from the bottle, or because I discovered I liked to smoke and drink, or that I was arrogant and wasn't getting played enough, or the recruiters weren't calling, or the coach had been a point guard, and ignored me in favor of the guards, or my mom was driving me crazy bouncing around because of the social status a potential basketball star held in our hick town, because because because. I wanted to play basketball so much it was too much.

I go back there to that office and instead don't quit. I nod my head yes and listen to the coach. Then I try and play my life out from there and wonder if I'd be more of an asshole now or less a loser, have better memories or worse, I don't know.

But when I put myself back on the floor after that hard won game the year before I quit, when for a short time I felt a bit like a man, that I'd seen my own blood, I took my lumps and gave them in return, and my mother is standing there with her friends, calling me, a concerned look, beckoning half-smile, and I turn and stop and stare back at her and glare, and do the exact same thing again. I turn and walk away.
]]> <![CDATA[The Internet Sucks]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=10180 The Internet sucks because little Joe Mande was brutalized by the big kids and jocks in the public schools of suburban Minnesota. Sexless, tiny, braces, and chronic diarrhea, lawyer parents always prosecuting a trial. The bitterness and vitriol festered. He went to Emerson college, became a comedian, found his outlet, and moved to the Williamsburg neighborhood of Brooklyn sometime in the 00s. Taking a page out of a well-known handbook, to exact revenge he started a Tumblr he updated daily, (I won't say it, it's a cruel name), to make fun of what he perceived as the popular kids around him, the kids who went to parties, that had sex. The site itself became popular, and to his dismay it was much loved by the jocks and the frat boys enraged by anything outside the status quo, threatened by anyone sexually ambiguous or weak or small, angered at any pretense or aspiration, anyone, really, like Joe Mande. And the ridicule reached a fever pitch. And a book followed that is now sold at Urban Outfitters.

The Internet sucks because too much porn will make you weird and creepy. The Internet sucks because once seen it can't be unseen.

The Internet sucks because we have generations of smirkers and sniggering jagoffs. Or more than we had before, certainly.

There are more reasons why the Internet sucks. One of those reasons the Internet sucks is because I don't want to know why the Internet sucks, but I do.

The Internet sucks because we know more about the people around us, even with a passing, casual interest in their lives, we know them, we know their intimate details, but we don't know anyone, and we are more alone, more than ever before in the history of the world, and that is why the Internet sucks.

]]> <![CDATA[I Didn't Hear Nobody Pray]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=10172 ]]> <![CDATA[Three Musicians and what their parents did for a living]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=10160 I've been thinking a lot lately about work and ideas of class.

There was a trend in music a bit ago that seemed to irritate a bunch of people where a band embraced the upper middle class or something. I get it, the idea is no one ever has a fortunate, comfortable childhood and has anything important to say. Of course that's not true.

For a number of years I worked in rock clubs, and I know musicians have a hard life, filled with grand ambitions and constant rejection, the grind of the road, inevitable debt, and everyone stepping out of the woodwork to lie to their faces about what they can do for them. Then again, I can think of no musician I knew whose parents weren't comfortable. Instruments, lessons, almost always require disposable cash. It doesn't make it easy. Although, easier than not.

I started thinking about this after seeing The Pixies documentary. Then reading Black Francis helped pay for their first demo with $1,000 borrowed from his father. I love The Pixies. Would you have heard of them and enjoyed their music if Charles Michael Kittridge Thompson IV (Black Francis) hadn't been able to ask his dad for $1,000? Maybe not. In 1987, when I was in college, could I have borrowed $1,000 from anyone? No. I'm not bitter—I'd have blown it on pizza, beer and games of The Golden Axe. I was not in a band with Kim Deal or any band at all, plus I have no musical talent.

1. Bob Dylan's parents, the Zimmermans, owned a successful appliance store in Duluth, Minnesota, and were leaders in their community. At young Robert Allen's bar mitzvah, the guest list was 400, the largest in the town's history. Dylan attended the University of Minnesota before dropping out and moving to Greenwich Village.

2. Mac McCaughan (born Ralph) of the bands Superchunk and Portastatic as well as co-founder of Merge records, which has given the culture some of the best music of the last two decades, is a graduate of Columbia University, the same as our current president. Mac's father is a successful attorney focused on estate planning and estate law. Among other titles he's Associate University Counsel for Duke University. Superchunk toured relentlessly when they were starting out. It was the only way for a band to get noticed at that time. When their van broke down in the desert and they rented a car instead of limping back home, did anyone help them? I don't know, it's rude to ask. Would She & Him be signed to Merge now if someone had not helped young Ralph Jr. buy his first amplifier? I doubt it. Does this mean he hasn't worked his ass off and done a great job? Not at all.

3. Leonard Cohen is arguably one of the greatest songwriters of the 20th century. He attended McGill University and Columbia Law. While he was starting out as a poet and a songwriter, he lived on an inheritance left to him by his father, in Greece. Yes, he was a trust-fund kid. He lived modestly as all he wanted to do was write and play music. Would he have been able to otherwise? No. Am I glad of it. Yes. Here's his childhood home.

What am I saying? Truly rich people are far removed from the middle-class, even the upper-middle class, and I think all these examples fall into some strata of the middle class. But to someone whose father pawns his trumpet I suppose those distinctions are lost. I guess the root of all this is we assign some strange nobility to perceived poverty coupled with artistic endeavors. When strangely, historically, we've condemned poverty as a spiritual failing and are suspicious of artistic ambitions.

There's a long history of people making a pretense of downward class status, an embarrassment of riches. Not that my examples are making a pretense of anything other than the icon of entertainer. It happens in politics, literature, music, broadcasting, sports. It annoys me. I don't know. It all seems meaningless and small, a decoration, but I'm curious about it.







No nudity in this post. Nothing to see down her.

]]> <![CDATA[So You Want to Write a Novel]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=10123 ]]> <![CDATA[Casio Keyboard]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=10089 ]]> <![CDATA[Goodbye, Bernie.]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=10074 ]]> <![CDATA[I hate anonymous online comments.]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=9980 I propose a service utilizing the talents of our out-of-work former military intelligence operatives, collecting data on offending individuals, then taking out ads in their local paper with a photo and a bit of personal history above a sample of their online hating. Then sending the clipping and a very polite letter to their house. 
Here's a sample:
JOHN BALL
John lives on the Lower East Side of NYC and likes to go running in East River Park in the late afternoon, wearing his headphones and board shorts. He has a master's degree and has been a pet owner for most of his life. His first dog was an English Setter named Charlie. As an adolescent he attended youth group, and uniformly beat the associate minister in ping pong. He currently has an unpaid parking ticket, and just enjoyed all of season one of Rob Thomas' Party Down.

On June 12, 2007, responding to an article on the website Aintitshoenews.com, he wrote under the moniker, "Harrison "Harry" Buttz" the following:

"Who uses the word "twee" other than someone already too dainty for work boots, huh? Answer me that boy wonder. I bet your mother wears combat socks. BB Walker Shoes Rule! You're (sic) reasoning is so flawed--glue just called and wants it's (sic) cap back. It's in your nose!"
 
The writer of the article for Aintitshoenews, Samuel Marsden, a freelance journalist in Poughkeepsie, NY, reported that after reading the comment, felt momentarily sick, which turned to anger and irritation, because he didn't understand what Harry Butz was talking about. He was also reminded of an older cousin who had difficulty with an inhalant addiction and was institutionalized for a time. Then added he was hesitant to send his article to his parents, for fear the comment would upset them. It was his first paid work of journalism. He earned fifty dollars for the article, and had worked on it for roughly ten days.

 

My two cents. Seriously. Let's change the internet.

Sincerely,

John Ball (not my real name)



]]> <![CDATA[Biff Rose's "Molly"]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=9970 ]]> <![CDATA[Downtown San Jose, April 2010]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=9969 ]]> <![CDATA[On tour with the kids]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=9963 ]]> <![CDATA[Just popped 100 photos up over at Flickr]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=9960 Here.


]]> <![CDATA[Coming to NC]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=9945 Hey, we're driving down to NC today, staying in Carrboro for the better part of this week, then stopping on the way back in DC. Here's Joanna's reading schedule to promote the paperback release of A Fortunate Age if you can make any of the dates--starting tomorrow night in Chapel Hill. And the full schedule is here. Come by and say hello!

March 27
Flyleaf Books
752 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd
Chapel Hill NC 27514
7:00pm

March 28
Park Road Books
4139 Park Road
Charlotte NC 28209
2:00pm

March 31
Bull’s Head Bookshop
207 South Road
Daniels Building
Chapel Hill NC 27599
3:30pm

April 1
Arts Club of Washington
2017 I Street Northwest
Washington DC 20006
With Dylan Landis (Normal People Don’t Live Like This)
7:00pm
(Reception to follow)
]]> <![CDATA[In Memoriam]]> https://www.happyrobot.net/words/tvmovierights.asp?id=9936

Betty Simmons Smith,
born March 14, 1940, died November 12, 2001

Her personal motto listed under her nursing school yearbook photo read, "Hell is other people."
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