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  andy [at] negrospaceprogram [dot] com

It’s so cool to work on a show that gets this kind of love from fans.

My new gig is writing for Community on NBC. If you haven’t seen this freaking awesome show, check out the Paintball episode. One of the best half hours of tv I’ve seen in a long long time.

Full Nelson is a web series I produced with my friend Adam Paul. Adam really makes me laugh, especially in the role of ambitious rat-in-a-maze, which he perfected for the short-lived Starz series Hollywood Residential. Adam plays a similar, but evolved character in Full Nelson. We shot this last summer with the help of some very talented and generous crew members, along with a great cast. All of whom worked for peanuts to help us get this off the ground.

Full Nelson is about the bizarre, yet very real world of indie wrestling. Once we discovered the world, we couldn’t look away. Hopefully you’ll find it just as compelling.

There are 7 episodes total, showing on koldcast.tv in the coming weeks. If we get enough viewers, we’ll get to make more. And then we can pay our cast and crew what they’re really worth.

Sons of Tucson has been pulled from Fox’s schedule until June. We shot 13 episodes and 4 of them aired. Presumably the rest will air in June. You’ll hear about it here last.

My latest gig is on this new show. It’s the best thing I’ve worked on since Malcolm in the Middle. And it shares much of that show’s sensibility. Premiers Sunday, March 14th on Fox at 9:30 pm, right after Family Guy.

Few Youtubes make me jealous. But damn I should have done this one.

A great video from my friend Adam Paul.

I wrote this for Vanity Fair online. With generous help from Nell Scovell, I got it published. Check it the hell out.

I believe it was Ken Burns who observed that documentarians are the most important people in the known universe. But as a humble member of the esteemed Documentarian Community, I’ve always had my doubts about that statement. Today, with some embarrassment, I must admit that my humility may have been misplaced. There is now overwhelming evidence that my award-qualifying 2003 documentary, The Old Negro Space Program, has influenced, if not goaded, President Obama into nominating General Charles F. Bolden. Jr. as the first African-American to lead NASA.

The original:

The response:

Mr. Gum is a book series for kids that is wildly popular in the U.K. and has just reached our shores here in the USofA. I have the honor of working with the author, a mad genius named Andy Stanton, on an animated series based on these wonderful books. Our project is in the very early stages and may never see the light of day. But why wait for us to succeed before you enjoy the magic of Mr. Gum? If you have a boy or girl age 9 to 12, you will not regret introducing him or her to these books.

As for me, not many.

17

My latest project is a new comedy on the Starz Network. Hollywood Residential gives you a picture of Hollywood that you will never see on “Entourage.” It’s about a man barely managing to hang onto the fringes of show business.

The man, Tony King, is the host of a low-budget cable show that does home makeovers for celebrities. Tony is a frustrated actor himself. A terrible actor. And only marginally better as a handyman. All he wants is to be an insider. But his celebrity guests treat him like the help. To make matters worse, Tony’s show has recently hired a co-host, a beautiful, charming woman who is instantly more successful than Tony. She’s on her way up. Tony is not.

Part of the fun of Hollywood Residential is that we shot with real celebrities playing themselves. Our eight-episode season includes Paula Abdul, Tom Arnold, Carmen Elektra, Jamie Kennedy, Chris Kattan, Cheryl Hines, John Cho and Beverly D’Angelo. They all had a blast making fun of themselves and Hollywood.

The other part of the fun is that, since we’re on pay-cable, we can have foul language and nudity. And yes, we took advantage of that. I have to say, shooting with naked people turned out to be much less awkward than I expected.

Watch Hollywood Residential on Starz. I’m proud of it.

A few years ago I took the audio tour at the Getty Museum. There I found what I still consider to be the greatest piece of found comedy ever. It is the audio description of a painting by Italian Renaissance artist Dosso Dossi. Never mind who Dosso Dossi is! It doesn’t matter! I didn’t know and you don’t have to either! Just listen!

When I heard this, I immediately dragged my friend Margaux to the same spot and made her listen to it with me. We obsessed over this thing. A few months later, we returned and ripped the recording by plugging a tape recorder into the audio guide. I play it now for your enjoyment.

You may ask, “Shouldn’t I see the painting before hearing the description?” Absolutely not! No no no. Don’t even google the painting. Your enjoyment of this recording will be far greater if you never see the painting. Just picture yourself standing in front of a painting, any painting, and listen to these academics explain to you why the painting is in a museum in the first place. It is a thing of beauty!

You will ask yourself, as I did that day, “How did it ever come to this?”

I considered transcribing the audio and including it here, but that would ruin it. Just listen. Marvel at the earnestness. The slight academic smugness. The outright futility of it all. And most of all, the timing. It’s perfect in every way.

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

As a member of the Writers Guild of America, I took to the picket line this week to strike for residuals on internet downloads of programs I’ve written. Here is my strike diary:

9:00 a.m. I arrive at the Sony lot in Culver City to sign in and pick up my free t-shirt. There are no more t-shirts available. I feel stabbed in the back by my own union. I forgive, but I will never forget.

9: 05 a.m. I am assigned to picket Gate 1, the executive entrance. My guild has placed me at the front line, to be the public face of the strike in the eyes of the people who count the most. I consider this my second stab in the back.

9:10 a.m. I can’t remember how many laps of this gate I have made. Four, maybe five. I’ve lost track. There is a burning in my calves like I have never experienced before in my life.

9:15 a.m. The distinct taste of rust climbs up through my throat with every wheezing breath. I desperately check the headlines on my iPhone, hoping against hope that this madness will end. That the people who have signed up for the next shift will not have to endure one minute of the pain I have now been subjected to for over seven agonizing minutes.

9:25 a.m. The brain plays tricks on one who is under this much duress. I think I see my father, who has been dead for 15 years. He smiles and offers me a five-foot cone of cotton candy. But when I try to lick it, I am told I am molesting one of my fellow strikers.

9:32 a.m. An older man stops by to chat, telling us that he worked as a teamster for many years and supports our cause. He reaches out to shake my hand. I have never been so afraid.

10:00 a.m. Every muscle in my body screams for mercy with every step. I begin to marvel at my own naiveté. For years I believed in God. Now I know for a fact that he doesn’t exist. He can’t exist. No God would stand idly by, watching this happen to one of his own children.

10:01 a.m. My momentary panic subsides when I think of the people of Darfur. I feel humble, even grateful, to realize that somewhere in the world there are people who may understand what I’m going through.

10:45 a.m. I find a volleyball, which I decorate with the blood from my own hand. I name it Wilson. I am told I am molesting one of my fellow strikers again.

11:00 a.m. A strike captain arrives with news from the front. The strike is getting great coverage in the press. At the NBC lot in Burbank, Jay Leno has shown his support by dropping off Krispy Kreme doughnuts for the strikers. But where is our Jay Leno. Who will be our Jay Leno? Jay Leno can’t help us here.

11:12 a.m. The minutes blend into one another. I have lost all sense of day or night. A policeman stops by to remind us if we parked on the street, we’ll have to move our cars after two hours. I fall to my knees and confess to the 1996 Atlanta bombing.

11:21 a.m. I receive a supportive text message from my wife. I weep, just like a contestant on Survivor, who wins a reward challenge and is allowed a five-minute AOL video chat with her mother, who, just a week earlier, was told her cancer had recurred, but who, during the video chat, tells her daughter she was right to stay on the show, and that she’ll be proud of her no matter what the result, and then, because the producers are so moved by her story, they give her a Pontiac Sunbird.

12:00 p.m. I beg to have my legs amputated.

12:19 p.m. A rumor spreads like wildfire through the line. Late last night, in a back-channel negotiation, our union leaders were also offered a Pontiac Sunbird. They turned it down. What were they thinking?

12:45 p.m. Some of the replacements are beginning to arrive. I see in their young faces something that I once had, but that I will never regain: optimism.

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