Let's pretend we're a '70s Detective Show

I'm a Quinn-Martin Production.

I'm Lee Meriwether

I'm the computer used by a villain. Big as a room, with spinning tapes and blinking lights that never stop.

I'm the woman with a gun, who ALWAYS has to hold the gun with two hands to steady it.

I'm the super-helpful police lieutenant. Unless you're Rockford, in which case, the cops all think you're an opportunistic parasite, and they won't give you the time of day.

I’m the glass eye.

I’m the cigarettes everyone smokes everywhere.

I'm the massive, black (or sometimes dark brown) four-door sedan, frequently described as a "late model"

I'm the tube top, used by the wardrobe department to indicate that a woman is a hooker.

I'm the Stepin Fetchit of the 70s, Huggy Bear.

I'm the funky bass line and shoop-shoop of cymbals in the ultra-catchy theme song.

I'n the guest stars, anounced alphabetically during the opening credits.

I'm the tight, tight, TIGHT pants on the young men. The wardrobe department had to paint them on the actors.

I’m the SPECIAL guest star.

I’m the tape that will self-distruct in 5 seconds.

I’m the phone booth you have to use to make a call while out of the office.

Being Barnaby Jones is tough. Old and slow. Better at being Uncle Jed.

I'm Cannon looking foolish trying to run.

I’m Jack Lord’s hair.

I'm Columbo

I'm the 1977 shit brown Chrysler Cordoba driven by the hip detective.

I’m the hooker in the above tube top. I’ll be killed after agreeing to meet the detective to tell him a clue.

He’ll find me after the commercial break.

I'm Mark Shera, who somehow managed to be hunky and dorky at the same time.

I'm Kojak's lollipop.

I'm the Equalizer. The asshole will not be fucking with you anymore.

I'm the old school chum who's in town for one episode and becomes a suspect. Don't worry, I'm innocent, and you'll never see me after this.

"Good morning Angels...good morning Bosley."

I’m the long tracking shot showing the detective leaving a location getting in his big ass car, starting it, pulling out in traffic, driving to wherever he’s going, parking when he gets there, turning off the car, getting out of the car, walking up to his destination and knocking on the door. Sometimes someone is there sometimes not.

I'm James Hong. I'm guest starring as the owner of the restaurant in Chinatown where the aforementioned hooker was murdered just outside.

Next week, I'll be playing a martial arts instructor when our detectives decide to take up karate.

I'm either Anthony Zerbe, or James Farentino. Doesn't matter which, cause we're on pretty much all the shows.

Zerbe with his greasy locks and Farentino with a rug.

I'm the socialite who married well, I drive up in my 450SL wearing a cute little tennis outfit, my husband doesn't know I'm cheating with the tennis pro who later plans on blackmailing me.

I'm Jim Rockford, his bookie friend, Angel, his golden Firebird, his mobile home, his snarky incoming answering machine messages and that fantastic Michael Post theme song.

Rockford Files was the best!

I'm McGarrett and these kids are strung out on smack.

I'm Rockford's dad, and I wish he'd find a safer profession.

I'm Kham Fong as Chin Ho.

I'm the suits, shirts and ties all the police wear on Hawaii Five O.

I'm a dingy office with dark paneling

I'm Hawaii Five-O, where every guest star from William Shatner to Jack Dodson (Howard Sprague, for God's sake!) got to do a shirtless scene, but co-star hunky James MacArthur couldn't!

I'm Frank Cannon's Lincoln with the adjustable steering wheel to accommodate my paunch.

R17 you crack me up as that's always what I thought every time I watched the trippy Hawaii Five-0 opening credit sequence.

I'm the loyal and efficient secretary, who keeps the office running smoothly, so my boss can spend his time solving cases. Occasionally, I'm kidnapped or shot at, but all in a day's work

I'm Michael Douglas in The Streets of San Francisco. I used to be handsome before I turned into an old woman.

I"m the wet bar no stylish detective could do without.

I'm Peggy, Mannix's secretary. Everyone wonders what is really going on with us.

I'm the new Chrysler Cordoba luxury sedan in the commercial break. I have rich Corinthian leather.

I'm a leisure suit.

I'm Kate Jackson. I'm the one who does all the work, while Jaclyn and Farrah stand around looking pretty.

I'm Dan Tanna's ("Vegas") hot T-Bird!

I'm a few scenes from next week's episode.

I'm the woman the hero is madly in love with. Unfortunately, my evil ex/drug dealers/spy will try to kill/kidnap me. But never fear, I'll be rescued by the hero and the episode will end with a happy reunion. Then I'll disappear, never to be mentioned again.

I'm Los Angeles City Hall. Martians blew me up in "War of the Worlds". But I got better!

I'm one of LA's two downtown skyscrapers not City Hall. Occasionally a helicopter will land on me. And sometimes the other one.

I’m that weird music cue that signifies a victim is being followed by and probably about to be killed by a psycho killer.

I'm that little romance on the side, which keeps getting delayed because of urgent work.

I'm the 1960s ring of that office phone.

I'm the phone call that ends with, "I'll be right over," and no other words before hanging up.

I'm various shades of the color brown. Hi! We'll be spending some time together.

I'm the cardboard boxes and garbage cans left on the curb, waiting for our big scene when the detective's Impala will jump the curb and scatter us over the car's hood and the sidewalk as he races to the climactic showdown.

I'm tits.

I used to be big.

[quote]I'm Cannon looking foolish trying to run.

I'm the oxygen tank kept handy for William Conrad whenever he has to run.

I'm just one more thing.

I'm the little joke in the last three minutes to lighten the fact that we've just spent the previous hour being entertained by somebody getting murdered.

I'm Act IV.

I'm an abandoned warehouse. The detective will get lured into me, then ambushed.

I’m the Ford Motor Company. We provided the Lincoln Continentals, Ford Torinos, Mustang IIs, LTD Country Squire wagons and Pintos driven by various characters in the production. No GM products allowed to be seen, even in parking lot shots.

I'm the Epilogue, R65

I'm the docks, where something big is going down tomorrow night.

I'm a briefcase full of crisp C-notes. After I'm given to the bad guy, he will open me, fan one of the bundles of cash, and allow himself an evil little smile.

So true, R67

FoMoCo really had a lock on providing vehicles for those shows. Usually every character had a Ford of some kind.

It got better with more sophisticated shows like Columbo or McMillan and Wife. and their were cars from all over the globe on those shows.

LOL when Columbo was revived in the 80s, the couple that bought the old Peugeot from the original series still had it in its (as they put it) "deplorable condition".

I'm the bad guy's accountant and I'm in way over my head. I want out. I'm balding, I sweat a lot, and my tie is loose and unkempt.

I'm the decadent nightclub consisting of eight people doing the frug.

I'm the karate chop to the neck that instantly renders anyone unconscious.

I'm the shitty chase scene because we couldn't afford a non-shitty one.

I'm Miss Sheree North as a world-weary ex-whore.

I'm the look the two male co-stars give each other when they realize that the sexy woman has been the criminal the whole time.

Not quite: "fuck, I guess we are gay" than "ask me at the end of the series", but somewhere in between.

I'm Miss Teresa Graves's festive Dynel wig wardrobe, consisting of everything from "Wholesome Recent College Grad" to "Call Me by My Swahili Name Afro."

I'm Colombo's wife. He mentions me in every episode but no one has ever laid eyes on me.

I'm the golden-age actress playing the respectable but long-suffering mother of a no-account dope fiend.

I'm Susan Saint James' eyebrows in McMillan & Wife.

I'm the drive the detective takes, alone, just to think.

We're the Venetian blinds. To solve a mystery, stare through us pensively.

I'm the detective's arch nemesis, back for the 7th time during the series.

I'm the Haymarket Lacoste shirtdresses Mildred from McMillan & Wife favours.

I'm the police detective who has disdain for the private eye's disregard for police procedure, but secretly admires his effectiveness and toughness. He might even have a little man-crush going on there.

I'm the big brown desk. I'm in the Lieutenant's office. He sits behind me when he informs the detective that as far as the mayor is concerned, this is an open-and-shut case. The obvious guilty party has been arrested, and the Lieutenant doesn't need the detective poking around, ruffling feathers -- so the detective is off the case, and that's final.

I'm McMillan and Wife's housekeeper. I'm also Rhoda's mother in my spare time.

I'm Boston's empty skyline in Banachek

I'm a pinky. I'm dipped in white powder and touched to the tongue, followed by the words, "It's pure, all right."

This is my favorite "Let's pretend..." thread ever, because I was right there in front of the TV set every night. Keep 'em coming!

I'm Crocker.

CROCK -AH!

I'm a plucky reporter and for a few years, there are very few moral authorities higher than me.

I"m the bookkeeper for the Mob, and I'm in WAY over my head..

[quote] I’m the Ford Motor Company. We provided the Lincoln Continentals, Ford Torinos, Mustang IIs, LTD Country Squire wagons and Pintos driven by various characters in the production. No GM products allowed to be seen, even in parking lot shots.

My older brother always made fun of this, something along the lines of "the suspect has been spotted going west in a late model Ford Galaxy with deep plush pile carpeting, opera windows, ..."

I'm the purse every woman has to grab before leaving the house or office...and it's obvious that there's nothing in the purse.

Seriously, why couldn't the prop people put something in the goddamn purses?

I'm Cannon's mobile phone, obviously ahead of my time!

I’m Lois Nettleton, Sharon Acker, Madelyn Rue and Katherine Justice.

I'm the voiceover and I say "Tonight's Episode: Death is a Double Cross."

I’m the shoulder. Along with the upper arm, I am the only part of the detective’s body that is vulnerable to bullets.

I"m a daytime soap actress, trying to break into primetime by playing a flight attendant who has two lines before she is murdered.

I'm the victim who is being held hostage by the perpetrator, who inexplicable tells me to answer the phone or door. I try to communicate my situation to my friend/detective/cop in a clever way without tipping off aforementioned perpetrator.

I'm Marcia Rodd, and I apparently merit "Special Guest Star" billing over Larry Hagman, for some reason.

I'm Dick Wesson, the stud who announces this is 'A Quinn Martin Production'.

I’m the Girl Friday who is always kidnapped, stalked or held hostage.

I'm the tabloid newspaper that someone holds up angrily and slaps with the back of their hand disgustedly. I show how much pressure is on the cop to solve the case.

I'm Jim Rockford's dirty underwear. Ironside loves to sniff me.

I’m the detective show with a black actor in the lead role that never seems to make it to the second season....

I'm the Twin Towers. I'm always noticeable. Sometimes by my absence, because I haven't been built yet. Sometimes because I'm half-built and still taller than anything else in Lower Manhattan. And sometimes I'm noticeable just because I'm there. Seeing me panning by gives New Yorkers a little stab of sadness.

I'm the swagger of all the male protagonists in 70s cop shows. Only Karl Malden was written as "sexless" ,but I dare say that even as Males hadn't fallen for the cult of "cute " then, he may have been a little too hard to finesse as such by any high as a hippie production/writer team.

I'm the bad sound effects editing of squealing tires as the detective takes off to chase the bad guy.

I'm the backlot of Paramount and Universal, allowing you to suspend your disbelief and REALLY believe we filmed in San Francisco, or New York or downtown LA.

I'm the book.

The Chief wants this case done by me, do you understand? And before it's all over, I'll be thrown at the perp.

I'm that parking spot Joe Mannix always finds right in front of his destination.

I'm cigarettes. Kojak smoked me in the first season, before the lollipops, but no one seems to remember that.

I'm the Condor strip club in San Francisco. Originally a seedy, creepy dive when it appeared in "The Streets of San Francisco" opening, now just another tourist trap.

r72 r94 Hello George Wyner!

I'm the Lincoln Continental with the brake line that was just cut.

I’m the tense pause after the narrator intones, “Tonight’s episode”

I'm a plaid sport coat.

I'm the messy deli sandwich half eaten at the detective's desk and then hastily tossed in the trash when the important call comes in we've been waiting for.

I'm the disgruntled businessman being blackmailed over the fact that I've been embezzling money from my father-in-law's company, for which I work.

I'm the heiress. It doesn't matter if I'm a WASP or Italian, if my father was in the mob or a senator, I am precious.

I'm your arm. The suspect has a rap sheet as long as me.

I'm the conscientious, young junior detective who's going to law school nights. I'm cute, but incredibly nerdy.

I'm the hula dancers' rear ends, swaying in slow motion in the opening credits.

We're two sweaty guys in an unmarked van, messing with electronic equipment. We're joking around as we listen to the mobsters talk shop through the tapping devices. Then we hear them say something that snaps us back into focus.

I'm the car that goes over the cliff that explodes for no good reason way before I ever hit the ground.

I’m the tough, hard-bitten landlady. I ain’t seen the suspect since maybe 3 weeks ago, skipped town in the middle of the night. I call after the cops that if they see him, tell him he owes me 2 months’ back rent.

I'm a strikingly beautiful Hawaiian woman who turns to the camera in a four-second fast-cut shot. I'm in my 80s now, but will forever be 28 and exotically beautiful to millions of people who tune into DECADES TV.

I'm the line. The detective has to stall and keep the kidnapper on me until the call is traced.

I’m Dick Wolf. I keep a photo of Quinn Martin in my wallet.

I’m the effeminate artist, sculptor, or photographer who looks the detective up and down and clearly finds him wanting. The detective and his partner question me as we walk through my studio. My answers are catty but helpful. I may or may not make a suggestive remark about the younger detective.

I'm the goofy thing that happens in the EPILOGUE that either makes someone do a spit take, or makes someone shocked, or makes people completely crack up laughing, as the screen freezes!

I'm the closing credits with Efrem Zimbalist driving past various DC landmarks in a brand new Thunderbird.

I'm the ubiquitous worm's eye shot of the front end of a car, usually a car screeching to a stop.

"Marijuana is the flame, heroin is the fuse, LSD is the bomb."

I'm the tennis whites worn by the senior partner and his wife when the detective comes to the club to question them about the death of the other partner. I symbolize comfortable, established wealth and a certain WASP hauteur.

I'm the word "groovy," and I get tossed around a lot whenever the script requires someone to seem hip.

I'm a revolver. I can be fired upwards of a dozen times before I need reloading.

I’m the producer or director, long since dead, who is obliquely exposed in an Enty blind item as a horrific sexual predator, way worse than Weinstein.

I'm the claim, accompanied by a baffled demeanor, that the deceased had no enemies. Sometimes I come with an assertion that everybody loved him and/or that he was a pillar of the community.

I'm Kim Basinger. I'm this one of this week's 'Guest Stars'. You may not know my name but you might someday.

I'm Mark Richman. I'm another guest star. You just know that whatever role I take that I'm a bad guy.

I'm Tony Zerbe and the only reason you're seeing Mark Richman playing the heavy this week is because I was busy !

I'm a potential love interest for Baretta or Starsky or Hutch. I'm a bit of a wild child ho bag mess in peril caught up with the bad guys. I'll wind up dead or will cheezily part ways at the end of the show.

R28, Usually Kojak or Columbo

I'm the sound of typing and carriage returns you hear whenever a scene is shot at the station.

I'm the grimy glass on every door at the station on Barney Miller.

I'm country diva Lynn Anderson trying to promote my new album by playing a fictional country star who's being stalked on "Starsky and Hutch". Seems like a lot of work just to push an album. Couldn't I just go on the Merv Griffin Show?

I'm the guy collared by the junior detective after I confess to the murder. He's overjoyed at cracking the case till an older, grizzled cop tells him that I'm a nut who confesses to every high-profile crime.

I’m the rubber gloves nobody wears when touching evidence or dead bodies or bloody items. Dentists and doctors don’t wear me yet either.

I'm an airport. I don't have a shred of security and pretty much anyone can waltz into the boarding area and onto the plane without so much as a second glance.

I'm the board game. I win!!!

I'm the bouncing bulges, hairy chested towel scenes and homoerotic undertones that seemed perfectly normal and perfectly natural.

I wonder if all those games have the same rules?

I am Barbara Luna and I think I'm supposed to be a native Hawaiian.

I'm the police chief who tells the detective to hand in his badge because this time he's gone too far. I've got the commissioner breathing down my neck and the mayor on my back dammit!

I'm a city location shot of a disused crumbling industrial or dockside area that causes severe cognitive dissonance when I'm viewed decades later. People who live in that city can recognize where I was shot based on various clues, but there is nothing, not a trace left of anything I caught on film. There are probably enormous condos there now.

I'm the streetwise kid who's seen a lot but ain't no snitch.

I'm the skel being questioned on the street. I won't answer any of the cop's questions till he grabs me by the collar and threatens to run me in for some petty crime I'm obviously guilty of. My bravado collapses and I spill it all.

I'm the ubiquitous character actress who specializes in "blowsy".

I'm a laughing hooker who really digs cops. My dialogue varies, though. Sometimes the laughing is genuine, other times it's bitterly ironic.

I'm Robert Blake. It's impossible to watch me now without looking for clues that the crazy was somehow there all along, hiding in plain sight.

I'm the three bourbons the lead characters just drank before driving to meet a witness, this being long before Mothers Against Drunk Driving.

I'm the adorable kid whose father is on the run from the mob. The detective is stuck with me while he tries to locate my dad. I bring out the soft side of this hard bitten P.I.

I'm the insolent teen pothead. Look, man, I'm doin' my own thing, dig?

I'm Laurie Prange as an emotionally fragile hippie.

I'm the African American actor playing a criminal with a huge afro, saying things that the white writers think make me sound really hip and bad-ass; they make me sound lame and idiotic.

I'm Abe Vigoda, already looking like I have one foot in the grave. And yet I lived for 40 more years!

I'm Anjanette Comer, going from show to show as the one-episode love interest.

I’m the fake hair.

I believe that would be the "lovely" Anjanette Comer.

I'm Sian Barbara Allen. I play the retarded girl.

I’m the sassy, street-wise Black chick. I work at a sleazy adult arcade but I ain’t a ho. You come to me because I know what’s going down on the streets.

We're the detective's skull and shoulder. Our detective has been regularly bashed into unconsciousness every few episodes ( for example 55 times for Mannix spaced over 194 episodes ) and I am praying hospitals soon hear abut this new CAT Scan thingie. Meanwhile our detective has been shot in the shoulder 15 times, but each time it was only a flesh wound and he can still holds his highball glass, but I'm hanging by one shredded ligament.

I'm the groundbreaking episode about elder abuse.

I'm Zohra Lampert. I won an Emmy for playing a crazy Gypsy on an episode of Kojak, but ended my career selling Goya beans on TV.

I'm the Special Guest Star whose only claim to fame is being a Special Guest Star.

I am the ‘to be continued’ that makes everyone pissed they have to wait a week to see who killed Tommy. Damn them!

R133 & R157, thanks for the belly laughs. I'm Kathryn Janeway running one of Lt. Paris' holodeck programs in which I play a Mrs. Columbo in a simulated 1970s earth setting. It takes my mind off running a starship in the Delta quadrant.

I’m the stoic, nun biting my tongue when the Detective interviews Father O’Brien. She knows he’s not telling the whole truth. Those poor boys. May the Lord forgive me.

I'm the sweaty, paunchy, combover guy in the button-down short-sleeve shirt with the wide lapels and the too-short, too-wide maroon tie. I'm wearing brown doubleknit Sansabelt pants. I seem to be the most senior, most outspoken, and yet the most cowardly of the hostages. I look like the bank vice-president I probably am. My emotional instability threatens to throw off the delicate negotiations the detective is having with the hostage-taker, who asks for the detective by name and insists on only talking to him alone.

I'm the rookie uniformed officer you haven't seen before. I'll be injured before the episode ends -- but don't worry, I won't die. This is the 1970s. We don't kill cops in prime time.

I am the last ten minutes of the episode during which it gradually dawns on the alert members of the audience that there's no fucking way the plot is getting resolved in the remaining time and I'm going to culminate with the dreaded R180.

I'm the freeze frames that interrupt the fast-paced opening credits so that people have time to read the star's names. On the main stars, I'm usually a concerned look or action shot. On the sidekicks, I'm either an eye-roll or shrug.

I'm the statement, "Sure, I'm glad he's dead -- but I didn't kill 'im."

I'm the roadside hot dog stand down by the beach where the partners stand and eat a dog when the bad guys just happen to race by going 90mph.

I'm the shag wall-to-wall carpeting that has no blood on it, although a person shot at close range fell on me.

We're a thinly veiled butch–femme dyke couple who run an assisted-living center where the residents mysteriously disappear after they move in.

I'm an expensive Cuban cigar in a fancy desk humidor. I'm offered to the detective by the oleaginous villain in his plush office, accompanied by the explanation that they are unobtainable by ordinary means and he has them imported especially.

The detective declines.

I'm Danny Williams and it's because of me that there is the iconic television catchphrase "Book 'em, Dan-O."

I’m the 49 year old business executive, who has status in the community. I work for a well known financial firm. I earn very good money, I have a lovely wife, Sylvia and two pretty teenage daughters, named Patty and Lisa.

I’m balding, a bit paunchy, I’m a heavy drinker and am totally used up, burned out, tired, and disillusioned with my life. I’ve ceased to give a damn anymore. I hate my life, my clients, my friends and my sterilized life, which is trapped in suburban hell. Life cheated me.

I seek comfort with my mistress, Bambi, who gets caught up in a marijuana sting. Detective Mannix, puts the heat on me to testify against her. My whole life will be ruined and I plan to throw myself out the window in my 13th floor office. I’m standing on the outside ledge, just ready to jump and my wife appears, she gently persuades me to come back inside. The cops rescue me as I’m about to slip. The men in the white coats appear and take me to the mental hospital. Nurse Dixie McCall, (played by the lovely Julie London) admits me to the hospital.

I come clean. Bambi, age 23, in a yellow sun dress, is enraged that I blabbed to the cops. She sends secret tape recordings of our lovemaking to TV news. She then runs off with her drug dealer boyfriend, as they head to Mexico. My wife is still by my side as I face an uncertain future.

After the detective pleads for more time, I'm the grudging ultimatum from the Commissioner: "You've got 24 hours. Now get out before I change my mind."

I'm the leather jacket worn by the lead that squeaks when I move.

I’m the “exactly one phone call allowed” after a perp is hauled off to jail.

I'm polyester.....

I'm Botany 500 and I had a great thing going until r197 came along. I'm defunct now. Goddamn those slobs.

I'm the matchbook dropped by the perp. I may contain cryptic numbers or words. The meaning of these won't become clear until 8 minutes to the hour, when suddenly the light dawns and the detective has to jump in his car and screech away to stop the climactic crime already in progress.

I’m the sassy over the hill waitress, with a huge bouffant hairdo, at the local diner. I wear a pastel colored waitress uniform, and my cap encased on the top of my big hair. The cops stop in for coffee and I flirt with them. I hold a special place in my heart for Detective Joe Mannix. I’m secretly in Iove with him and I hope he marries me and takes me to Hawaii.

I’m Telly Savalas. I look like him, and that’s the truth. Underneath my Botany 500 suit, is my big, thick, Greek cock. The chorus boys, hanging in Times Square drool over me.

I’m the black desk phone with a rotary dial. I have 4 stained “hold” buttons, and a twisted phone cord. Beside me is coffee in a lidless, white styrofoam cup.

I'm the guy walking toward the camera, swinging a flashlight around, and highlighting in its beam shows such as McMillan and Wife, Columbo, and McCloud. Which one will be this evening's NBC Mystery of the Week?

I’m the tiled linoleum floor in the police room, installed in the late 1940s. I’m still there and will last until year the 2037. I was never removed due to budget cuts.

I'm Jim Rockford's answering machine. At the tone, leave your name and message. I'll get back to you.

....

I'm Sgt. "Pepper" Anderson. Tonight, I'll be going undercover!

[quote]I'm either Anthony Zerbe, or James Farentino. Doesn't matter which, cause we're on pretty much all the shows.

Don't forget us!

We're "Hec Ramsey", "Madigan", and "Faraday & Company", a few of the lesser-known shows of the NBC Mystery Movie. Hell, we can't ALL be "Columbo"!

I'm David Soul's cracked tailbone:

Fuck you, R208!

Reply 205: "Hello, Mr. Rockford, this is the Santa Monica Police Department, Stolen Vehicles Division. We're happy to tell you that we recovered your '74 Firebird. Unfortunately, there was a dead body inside of it. Could you call us back, please?"

I'm the kid who witnessed the crime. Who will get to me first -- the cops or the criminals?

And fuck YOU, r211!

I'm the plucky young dispatcher, who jokes with all the cops, and doesn't get bent out of shape when the lieutenant calls me "Honey".

And R207 that’ll be undercover without underwear.

I'm the lawyer the prime suspect never hires. You will especially never see me on an episode of Columbo.

I'm Earl Holliman. I'm Pepper's boss, and I'm a big queen who is pretending to be straight! My secret boyfriend, Anthony George, will even guest star on an episode!

I'm Bruce Solomon, trying my hardest to play nighttimes' first Rabbi detective, with Art Carney showing me the ropes, but no one wants to watch it and the show only lasts a handful of episodes, after which I go crawling back to 'Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman' so they can give Louise Lasser a storyline to leave the show.

I'm the former child star all grown up now and trying to keep on working. This appearance could get me more roles or it could be the end of the road for my acting career.

R90 Go! Go! I want more! More!

And I'm the black leather gloved hands seen in close-up only. Opening a safe slowly with the assistance of a phillips-head screwdriver. I'm now reaching into the safe and grabbing a black velvet bag. Out of that bag comes two diamond necklaces. Light glitters on them for a moment. An off-kilter flute plays. I thrust the jewels back in the bag. Take the bag. Shut the safe door. Turn the lock half way. I'm gone.

I'm Kate Jackson getting screwed out of the film I was just cast in--KRAMER VS. KRAMER! Aaron Spelling is holding me to my fucking contract so I can't do this leading role in KRAMER VS. KRAMER! Meryl Streep will play the role in which I was originally cast! I would have been bigger than Meryl if not for Aaron Spelling! I would have been bigger than Jobeth Williams if not for Aaron Spelling! Wait, there is this other picture that wants me---MAKING LOVE. HA! It'll be way bigger than KRAMER VS. KRAMER I bet! So screw you Aaron Spelling! And get your fucking little daughter off the set please! She's a pig!

I'm Harry-O with my bloodshot eyes and my silvery wing-tipped sideburns hopping off of a plane. If you pay close attention you can see my wad jiggling as I bounce down the steps.

I'm the plastic model kit of the cool car the detective uses to drive up the scene of the crime and various sleazy bars Luckily the kit has no real engine since the real car's v8 gets four miles to the galleon. Oddly enough you never see the detective in the gas line waiting for his odd/even day oil embargo fuel ration.

I'm the wrestling match where the detective fights the culprit over a gun, which goes off. Who did it kill? You're not sure until the culprit slumps to the floor mortally wounded.

I am Tony Baretta's Parrot

I’m the Remington Deluxe manual typewriter, which firmly sits on a gray colored metal desk, in the police room.

I’m Pepper Anderson’s white, spriral staircase. Angie Dickinson’s beautiful legs glide down my steps.

(((((I LOVE YOU ANGIE!!!!!)))))

You're under arrest, Sugah!

We're Meredith Baxter Birney, Mariette Hartley and Kay Lenz. If Anjanette or Sian Barbara don't get that Special Guest Star role, one of us is likely to.

I'm the pretty lady who offers a hitchhiker a ride in my Ford Pinto, only to discover (too late) that he's actually a wanted murderer/rapist/armed robber/crazed drug addict.

My money would be on Mariette, r230. She defined the word "ubiquitous".

I'm the black militant professor from City College being framed for the murder of the white racist millionaire whose business I led demonstrations against. If I'm unfairly imprisoned my students will make the city burn and the streets run red. Luckily the detective proves the murderer was his unfaithful wife and her lover, his partner. This is the first honkey I know I can respect Maybe the system DOES work.

I'm the eternally perky Joyce Bulifant, taking time off from Match Game 73 to show the world my true range, but still bitter that I could've been Carol Brady.

But at least I still look great at age 80.

I'm the guest villain of the week on Columbo. I'm played by a veteran actor who is having a lot of fun hamming it up!

I'm the seatbelts no one bothers to wear.

I'm the rich perpetrator whose impatience and disgust with Colombo's bothersome questions escalates during the episode culminating with my arrest.

I'm the evil hippies. Marijuana somehow makes us murderous rather than hungry.

I'm the closeted gay actor guest-starring as a transvestite killer to show my 'range'.

I'm the "daring" episode about homosexuality!

I'm Dennis Weaver riding a horse through Manhattan.

There you go

R210 Oh god that was awesome! I had the biggest crush on Starsky as a kid.

I'm Vito the barber, frantically trying to keep Mannix' white roots from encroaching on his inky black hairline. I keep trying to get him to go au naturale but he won't hear of it.

I'm Barbara Rush and I didn't do it!

We're Arnold Schwarzenegger and Hilary "I am NOT Sally Field!" Thompson, stars of the funniest murder scene in detective-show history:

R234, how can she be eternally perky when she's plowed through 5 husbands, including stealing one from DL fave Jo Ann Worley?

R246 I always thought of her as Hilary “I am NOT Margot Kidder” Thompson.

One week I am the Italian waiter offering the detective or cop the wine list at the elegant restaurant, but he instead abandons his date with the gravity resistant bosoms to run off and chase down a clue. The next week I am the poor but honest Mexican agricultural worker being intimidated by company thugs and rescued by the detective or cop. Either way I play the accent for all it's worth.

The detective or cop regards me either way with benign contempt and amusement but I don't care, I work more steadily then any other member of the Screen Actors Guild.

Love this thread

I'm the unspoken sexual tension between Danno and Steve McGarrett

I’m a crucial piece of evidence. When I am finally found, the detective will say, “Well, well, well. What have we here?”

I’m the phone receiver dangling in the phone booth, indicating that the informant has been killed just as he was about to snitch to the detective. You may hear a faint “Hello? Hello?” coming from the phone.

I’m the pencil used to pick up the gun by the trigger guard.

I'm the deceptively delicate sound of a gunshot muffled by a silencer.

I'm the static electricity from the polyester slacks rubbing together. I am occasionally mistaken for gunfire.

I'm sexism.

I'm the list of priors a jr. detective is ordered to run on an early suspect. I contain nothing, not even a parking ticket!

I’m a theme song so funky, played over a montage so action-packed, that the show itself could never live up to it.

r249 I once saw Vito Scotti do some of the best acting ever on an episode of Columbo where he played a tailor who was measuring Columbo for a suit. The amount of 'business' he was able to do in the scene was phenomenal. As a child of the sixties and seventies, I always made it a point to watch any show in which he was doing a guest appearance. His scene at the beginning of The Godfather was also exquisite.

For r259:

I’m a pathologist making a very quick appearance. Since this is the 70s, my topline report will be to-the-point and light on the medical lingo. The producers of the show believe viewers want action, not a bunch of poindexters spouting 5-dollar words.

I’m the biker or counterculture type referring to a beautiful stoned-looking young girl with long, straight hair as “my old lady.”

I'm Christine Cagney, and I"m an alcoholic.

I’m an actual, physical phone book. You’ll gasp a little when you see someone use me, and you remember how things used to be done not so long ago.

I'm a 40-year old mistress in a filmy matching nightgown and robe set with marabout feather trim, drinking a martini and waiting for my Mafioso/extortionist/assassin/embezzler boyfriend to meet me at the motel.

I'm a bottom-feeding reporter who leaked information the cops were trying to keep quiet, causing an angry riot outside of police headquarters.

I'm "Aquanet" and I'm everywhere, baby.

I’m a room that’s obviously been ransacked. Drawers are pulled out and clothes and objects are strewn everywhere. I make the cop say, “Looks like someone got here first.”

I wish we had the option of "liking" posts. I would have liked about every post on this thread.

I’m the phrase, “Why? Is he in some kind of trouble?”

I'm the bottle of Chivas Regal stashed away in everyone's desk drawer. I get around........

( This Is The Best Thread Ever)

[quote] I'm the static electricity from the polyester slacks rubbing together. I am occasionally mistaken for gunfire.

Which would account for so many white guys with Afros.

I'm Kim Darby dowdily resplendent in a pink, brown, orange, green, and white plaid just above the knee potato sack dirndl hybrid frock and black patent leather pilgrim buckle flare heeled pumps. My two year old child has scarlet fever and was kidnapped by my crazy Mansonesque ex so I'm feeling frazzled and at the end of my rope. My rich estranged father coughs up the ransom money and there's a shootout.

I’m the suspect’s ex. When they track me down, I’m slumped at the bar in a dark dive. I’m obviously still carrying a torch for the bum, but I try to act like I don’t care when I tell the detective I’ve heard the suspect’s taken up with some chippie who works at the Kit Kat. I mistake the detective’s look of compassion for interest and clumsily, halfheartedly proposition him. I’m disappointed but not surprised when he excuses himself quickly.

I'm Banacek, and you will never meet a bigger douchebag.

I’m the random attorney sitting silently by while my client confesses at the police station. Sometimes I’ll say “don’t answer that,” but I will never actually stop the interview which, of course, I could do at any time.

I’m the prime suspect. I didn’t do it.

If I’m the ne’er-do-well son of a prominent father, my father did it.

I'm helmet-head, and I'm present on nearly every caucasian female character over the age of 35. (The ones younger ones usually go for the long-stringy-hair, parted in the middle look, and the African American ones go for the Angela Davis Afro.)

I’m a credit card, probably a Diner’s Club or Bank Americard. I can be used to jimmy nearly any door lock.

I’m the floor nurse in the short skirt and the white nurse hat, running after the detective, saying, “You can’t go in there!” as the detective and partner stride manfully past and into the hospital room.

I am the father of Timothy Hutton...

I'm Beverly Hills. A suspect lives in me but the detective isn't impressed.

R249 as soon as I read the first line I knew you were reffering to Vito Scotti.

I'm the butler at the Beverly Hills mansion where the murdered tycoon lived. I'm silently judging the detective as I lead him out to the pool, where the much younger, not-so-grieving widow is lounging around in a bikini, but I'm British, so I judge everybody.

I’m the dried out California bushvelt that is supposed to be New England.

Not sure if this is a coincidence or someone at MeTV being cheeky but tonight's episode of "Mannix" is "Who Will Dig the Graves" followed by "Cannon" with "He Who Digs the Graves."

I'm 1945.

I never really left.

I'm the character obviously based on some contemporary celebrity tweaked just enough that a lawsuit is unlikely - although, just to be on the safe side, I will never be the actual killer.

Tonight I am Hef Hughner!

I'm the cheap Sarah Coventry jewelry adorning the tacky fortune teller who gave the detectives a hot tip. She affects a vaguely Eastern European accent in public but has a Bronx honk in private.

I’m “blackmail.” I’m such an... [italic] unpleasant[/italic] word.

I'm Starsky's chest, with big solid pecs and lots of sexy dark hair, so unlike Hutch's bland, slack, smooth torso.

I'm the little yappy dog owned by a killer's target. I yap and yap and yap as the killer enters the apartment. WILL THE KILLER KILL ME?

/commercial break

Here I am, still yapping. The killer has killed my owner, but not me. Somehow.

/rest of episode

Here I am at the end, jumping up into the arms of the regularly-appearing female cast member and everyone goes "aww!" and pets my head in a manner that suggests I have found a new home.

I am never seen again.

We're Starsky and Hutch's nuts and we need air...we can't breathe in here!!!

I'm an elaborate kidnapping plot involving the innocent young child of a visiting Japanese multi-millionaire!

I'm Lauren Bacall.

I want my motivations back.

I'm the cheesy name of a Quinn-Martin production episode, portentously delivered by the opening announcer. Tonight I am "Web of Deceit"!

I'm special guest star Eve Plumb, as an emotionally tortured blonde teenager. Might I have murdered my stepmother?

We're the Parliaments, Pall-Malls, L&Ms, Viceroys, Marlboros, Benson & Hedges, and Silva Thins smoked by all and sundry.

I'm the foot chase for several city blocks because we're 70s network TV and can't afford a car chase.

I'm the society matron's side corkscrew curls. I bob slightly when she angrily announces to the detective, "I'm not used to being questioned in my own home!"

I'm a Pappagallo-shod foot that floors the gas on a 1973 Imperial and mows down a prominent city councilman in a parking garage.

*Opening credits begin*

I am a Malibu hot tub. Occasionally the sexy female suspect is interviewed while sitting in me, apparently naked, although in fact it's just camerawork and a flesh-colored top.

I'm the victim's female roommate/sister/friend/ex-girlfriend whom the detective comes around to question. I am young, beautiful, and always just getting out of the shower dressed in nothing but a towel and not interested in putting on a bathrobe.

'I'm Roddy Mcdowell in a cravat, and I'm not sure I like your TONE, Detective!'

I'm the grudging respect given the detective by a pretty young hippie-ish informant close to the murder victim.

"When you first came around here asking a lot of questions, I thought you were, you know, a square!"

We're a bunch of dead rabbits bitching posthumously about how we ended up as coats for the ugly street hookers on tonight's episode.

I'm the cop/detective' s open mouth awe at the arrogant rich attorney's $1500 home fax machine. It can transmit a thousand word document anywhere in the world in less then 45 minutes. The log of faxes sent will include a critical clue.

I'm a made-up newspaper, like the [italic]Los Angeles Standard[/italic] or the [italic]San Francisco Gazette.[/italic] I make things worse for the detective by giving away tips in print to the killer about the ongoing investigation.

I am the eye-popping Art Deco or Modernist building used in one scene. Nobody notices me. Soon I will be torn down in real life. You won't fucking believe it.

I am a giant felt hat, in bright red, yellow or purple. I exactly match a giant open long coat also worn by a black male actor, and we are both worn so the white suburban audience knows he's supposed to be a pimp.

I am Gretchen Corbett as the detective hero's pleasant blonde girlfriend. I'm not seen much, but just enough to I remind you he's not gay.

I'm the gorgeous, hairy chest of Daniel J. Travanti on full display during the last scene of every "Hills Street Blues" episode, where he's in bed discussing his day with his D.A. wife.

I'm the '72 FORD LTD driven by the bad guys.

I'm the yummy trio of costumes worn by this week's guest star Nancy Kovack !

I'm r313, bizarrely thinking "Hill Street Blues" was somehow a '70s Detective Show.

I’m Georg Sanford Brown and Clarence Williams, III, we both fucked Tyne Daly. She has a thing for black actors who played cops on TV.

I'm Huggy Bear and I am 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 pissed Tyne Daly won't return my calls.

I'm Rock Hudson, cruising the male extras on the set of McMillan and Wife

I’m the serene and expansive rural land through which Columbo drove to get to the suspect’s ranch that is now crammed with shoddily built and overpriced houses.

I’m Telly Savalas’ deformed index finger. He doesn’t hide it the way Gary Burghoff hides his on M*A*S*H*. Telly and his BDF have no fucks to give.

I'm the Queen of England, Elizabeth II. My favorite American television show ever is "Kojak."

Really.

Apparently I am hypnotized by Telly Savalas's BDF and his raw sex appeal.

I am the Queen's bean.

I can confirm that back in the day she was known to flick me to the above.

As the young people are wont to say ...

I'm the Hollywood Sign. Sometimes I am visible in episodes/shows set in New York.

/photobomb

I’m a nihilistic young criminal of no specific subculture — my generation is post-hippie, pre-punk. My character owes a debt to Andy Robinson as Scorpio in Dirty Harry, but unlike him, I will show a redeeming sign of humanity or pathos toward the end of the episode.

I'm a sweet but confused old lady in a neat straw hat that can't give a full description of the killer. Mostly I'm Helen Hayes, but sometimes I'm Mildred Natwick. As it turns out ....I AM the killer!

I'm the big black cat that lives in the filthy apartment of the detective.

Fucks, I haz dem not.

I'm Lt. Chapman. I'm a smarmy, douchy asshole, who resents this two-bit, $200-a-day(plus expenses) PI, who keeps showing my department up. I'm caused Becker, my best detective to have an ulcer, and I have fewer redeeming qualitiess than dryer lint.

I'm a folded wad of chloroform soaked gauze used by an unknown figure to commence in the abduction of a supporting cast member in order to brainwash the person into killing the main star of the show.

We're the three secretaries obviously on our lunch break, walking abreast & laughing in a pedestrian mall and right IN the damn way when a footchase comes through. The suspect never knocks any of the three of us completely over, and one of us always mouths "Hey!" in outrage. The detective following spins on one foot to ask if we're okay and keeps running. Then we start pointing after the hot pursuit and the camera cuts abruptly.

I'm the guy standing near R331's scene. I yell very sternly "Hey come back here!" to the fleeing suspect. Never in world history has this line ever worked.

I'm Moosie Drier in the role of "The Kid"; while riding by Schwinn through the vacant lot, I stumble across a vital piece of evidence that could crack the case wide open. I'm happy to help out the detective, but not without adequate financial compensation of course. I may be eleven, but I'm no dummy, and those comic books aren't gonna buy themselves.

^ "While riding *my* Schwinn..."

[quote] I work more steadily then any other member of the Screen Actors Guild.

Fuck you Vito. You're just the comic relief. I work as much as you do but I play professors, judges, mayors, sheriffs, and doctors, and I 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 resort to that accent shtick. And as for the Screen Actors Guild, my forehead and I were elected the goddamn president of SAG.

Y’all, on Columbo right now Vera Miles is going over the top in a bad wig giving you Kim Novak in Vertigo realness. Also starring Vincent Price and a very young Martin Sheen and Sian Barbara Allen. It’s all about the cutthroat cosmetic industry. Seventies galore!

I’m a hood who’s done time. When the detective comes to question me, I complain that I’ve gone straight, and why don’t the cops leave me alone? The truth is, I’m not guilty of murder, but I am up to no good. In time, my unrelated crimes will give the detective leverage to squeeze important information out of me.

I’m the tape/ chalk outline on the floor where the dead body was.

I'm statuesque redhead Barbara Rhoades, and thanks to my Universal contract, I will have a small role in nearly every '70s detective show made by that studio. I may look like a typical bimbo, but my sassy, brassy manner says I'm not just another pretty face.

[quote] I’m the tape/ chalk outline on the floor where the dead body was.

Not just floors.

LOL^

I'm the scene at the end of every Columbo where Peter Falk reveals how he outsmarted the killer

I'm the aging stars of yesteryear, no longer able to get a role, other than playing the occasional murder victim, killer or witness, in the years before "Love Boat" would come along and began rolling us past like we were floats in a Tournament of Roses parade.

Being Remington Steele, is intended to sound macho, to drum up business. But I'm just a pretty gal to appeal to straight, male viewers.

[Quote]I have 4 stained “hold” buttons, and a twisted phone cord.

Phones only have one hold Hutton, the red one. All of the others are different lines.

[Quote]I'm Christine Cagney, and I"m an alcoholic.

You're quite early, Chris.

I'm the 1959 Peugeot 403 Cabriolet. My owner is very proud of me, even though he and his wife have another car. That car is nothing special, though, just transportation.

I'm pre Fantasy Island Ricardo Montalban. I'm offended when the detective comes snooping around my mansion and exotic garden to ask me awkward questions. In fact, I'll be so offended that as soon as the detective leaves I will lift a telephone and say I want something taken care of. This task will usually fall to Richard Lynch or William Smith..'

I'm the complete lack of references to contemporary politics although every third victim/suspect/killer will be a senator or a senator's wife/daughter/mistress/estranged one of the previous three.

I'm Harold Gould looking surprisingly fit in a bathing suit, in a similar scene to the one described in r348.

I’m the small matter of the bill.

I'm the multiple sets of tire skid marks that you see ion the road in the instant before the detective brings his car to a screeching stop before the camera and leaps out gun in hand.. The drunk asshole kept missing his mark and put us 2 hours behind the shooting schedule.

R350, I thought Harold Gould was incredibly sexy when I was a '70s gayby. Remember his detective show with Miss Stefanie Powers, [italic]The Feather and Father Gang[/italic]?

I'm the fat guy wearing my Jack Nicklaus plaid trousers, accompanied by the complementing white belt, while lounging in my Broyhill Naugahyde recliner, lusting over Angie Dickinson's character, "Pepper Anderson," in "Police Woman."

Angie must have felt pretty safe with Earl Holliman as her leading man.

You can be other then a fashion-impaired fat white guy to lust over Angie Dickinson's character, "Pepper Anderson, .

r355, Earl just never found the right girl!!!!

That's MISS Angie Dickinson, R354.

I'm Rockford's Firebird, irreparably destroyed by the end of an episode, and miraculously restored to new without explanation the following week.

I'm the telephone call being "patched through" the police radio.

I’m the detective’s niece or nephew, improbably somehow in some kind of peril, to add a fresh spin and extra emotion to this week’s plot.

I'm an underboss for the Genovese family and one of my outfits is a studio where musicians who owe our bookies and loan sharks can make "small" restriction by recording bad covers of television themes. We're upfront these aren't original artists, but most buyers never look past the pretty pictures to read the fine print. Caveat emptor capishe? And royalties to the copyright owner and artists? You're funny. These cleans are 98% pure profit.

I'm the home intruders cutting the phone lines before breaking in, during the pre-cell phone days.

I'm the slightly grubby handkerchief held over the mouthpiece of the phone to disguise my voice when I'm making my ransom demand.

I’m the important businessman who is very put out by the detectives coming to my office to question me. I tell them to get out and move to call security, but then they tell me we can do this the easy way, or they can question me downtown. I glare at them for a moment, then push a button and tell the secretary to cancel the 2:00.

I'm the ransom note, made from a collage of words from magazine clippings.

I'm the Halloween episode where the detectives find themselves trapped in some bizarre mansion and facing what may be a supernatural killer. But no, it's just some heiress-gaslighting asshole wearing a sheet.

Some of these are GREAT!

Right now, looking at you, R365!

I’m the “exotic “ Mexican food eaten on the run. Mexican food isn’t that well known outside of California and the Southwest in the 70s.

It has to be said. Op opened a winner. Most "let's pretend" threads are real duds.

R370, you’re so right. Thanks, OP!

I’m a Chicago reporter whose irascible editor somehow tolerated me spending all my time on paranormal mysteries. Without me, there would be no X-Files... yet I’ll always be best known as Ralphie’s dad in “A Christmas Story.”

I’m the middle aged gay man. I know secret information but I’m afraid to tell the cops. I’m being blackmailed.

No one EVER says the word “gay” or “homosexual”. It’s implied. The cops arrive at my beautiful L.A. home. A very handsome, younger houseboy answers the door. He escorts the cops to the patio, which contains an a large, rectangle pool. The handsome, blond “pool boy” is scrimming the pool in his square cut, aqua blue swimsuit. I’m laying on a lounge chair and I’m wearing a burgundy colored silk smoking jacket with silky white ascot. I’m smoking a cigarette through an elegant, black cigarette holder. While talking to the cops, I pause to look at the gorgeous pool boy.

The cops give each other knowing looks, which tells the audience that I’m queer.

We're moustaches.... and we're EVERYWHERE

I’m a tire on a speeding, careening Torino. It’s trivially easy to shoot me out with a police-issue .38 at a distance of 100 yards.

I’m a cut brake line that gives no indication of having been cut until the car is going very fast, preferably toward a busy intersection.

I'm the earthquake. I consist of the camera being shaken back and forth and everybody crawling under tables while bits of Styrofoam are dropped from above. After me either a crucial piece of evidence has been destroyed or the lead suspect is dead.

I'm Quincy's sailboat and I'm always full of real foxy chicks, despite my owner being a septuagenarian.

I’m administrative leave, or “vacation.” I’m what the detective is placed on when the Lieutenant is getting heat from the Commissioner. He’s told he’s “too close” to the case and needs to cool off for a while.

I'm the big, elaborate hairdos that would take hours to produce that even characters like harried waitresses have to endure.

R378 Every fucking time!

I'm the grubby but authentic diner. The blue plate special is three bucks-fifty, and comes with soup or salad.

I'm the blue plate special. I get ordered a lot. No one ever eats me because something just came in over the radio. They rush off and stiff the waitress. She gets mad and dumps me in the garbage.

In my previous life, I was Hitler.

I'm the word "Very". I work as an intensifier for the Special Episode. Later I briefly had a solo career and made an appearance in "Heathers". Winona was sweet but Shannon? "Fucking bitch" does not begin to describe it.

I'm the weaselly balding short fat suspect with impressively thick eyeglass lenses sobbing like a child screaming "I got my rights!", to which the detective sneers "So did little Mary Smith", just before he throws the perp down two flights of stairs. There is a loud thump on each individual step but no injuries.

I'm a map of metropolitan Vancouver, British Columbia, on a wood-panelled wall behind the "Seattle" detective the Malibu shamus visits. Sheets of rain are dumped in front of a facade and people are wearing cool-weather overcoats so you can tell it's supposed to be Seattle in June.

I'm The Docks. The deal is about to go down here. This is because all the deals go down at The Docks.

[quote]I’m administrative leave, or “vacation.” I’m what the detective is placed on when the Lieutenant is getting heat from the Commissioner. He’s told he’s “too close” to the case and needs to cool off for a while.

It was called a "suspension" back then.

Speaking of suspension ,I'm the shot front end springs on some five-ton Detroit lemon. Watch me buck like a Times Square sex act when the driver brings me to a gentle halt.

I'm Alex Cord; the truth is, there was only *one* moustache, r373 -- mine.

R389 Goddammit! I'm gonna kick your ass for that, ya young punk !

I'm the WHUBBADUBBBADUBBADUBBADUBBADUBBADUBBADUBBA of the helicopter as it lands.

I drown out the conversation two characters are having as they leave me. The resort to waving their arms around aggressively so the viewer knows they're not trading fruitcake recipes.

I'm Dennis Burkley. You never know if I'm going to play a bad guy or a good guy, but my scenes will always be as memorable as my size.

We're the fabulous vintage fragrances arrayed on the vanity table of the other woman as she goes about her glamorous toilette ... before a knife-wielding hand swoops down and stabs her in the back.

I'm a can of PAM. I'm sprayed liberally on car tires so that they smoke when the driver peels out.

PAM?! Oh, goodness NO!

I’m an ethnic stereotype that answers a few questions for the cops. I could be a Chinese laundry guy, an Italian fruit stand guy, a Greek coffee shop guy, etc. I’m “local color.”

If the show is set in New York, for certain occupations like cab driver, butcher, and truck delivery guy, I will only be a stocky white guy with a stereotypical NYC accent. Flat cap and stubbly cigar optional.

R394 I never knew that. Badass.

I'm Joan Collins, overacting in her "Police Woman" guest spot!

I’m a hooker. Better than even odds I’ll be in the background getting booked at the station house when the detective marches in with the suspect. I’ll look over to see what’s happening and may have a sarcastic comment to make.

I'm that fabulous costume choice of Earrings. Kaftan. I'm worn by lots of glamorous guest stars from Judy Anders to Joan Collins. When the 70's ended I was a little lost , but then Datalounge was invented and I found a fabulous and permanent home

I'm the swirling abstract painting the turban-wearing older woman "artist" suspect is working on in her sun-flooded conservatory-like studio when the police arrive. i am what she has instead of family. In fact - she would kill for me.

I'm Suzanne Pleshette and sometimes I'm a call girl, sometimes a stripper, but usually the 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 woman. I may be a naughty girl with a husky voice who can leave men with their tongue hanging out, but I have a heart of gold. I wish I could do more then one episode of a series but I'm routinely killed the last last few moments redeeming my earlier misconduct.

And I should wear more sweaters.

I’m Farrah Fawcett

I'm Frank Drebin.

I’m Jack Klugman’s spittle flying everywhere when he apoplectic in every episode yelling at whoever happens to be in his view or earshot.

I’m a concussion. I can have long-term, serious consequences, especially when I occur frequently due to repeated knockout blows to the head with fists, iron pipes, or other hard objects.

The detective will never experience me even if he’s knocked cold nearly every week.

I'm a gin & tonic. I usually cost around $1.25.

I'm a warehouse getting trashed. Forklift ramming shelves. Boxes and drums tumbling every which way as Alejandro Rey drops a match on a maze of poured gasoline.

I’m the lipstick used to scrawl something on the vanity mirror in front of the dead woman.

I may be a clue or I might be trying to throw off the detective.

I’m the skeevy, abusive boyfriend. Unlike in real life, I’m never the killer.

I’m diminishing returns.

I'm the color brown and I'm everywhere!

I'm the slightly past my prime country singer trying to jump start an acting career by guest starring. Somehow I'll work in a song, whether it makes sense or not. Unfortunately for me, it won't work, and I'll disappear from the public eye.

I'm a young actor making my debut on this show. I'll be nominated for an Oscar in the 80s.

I'm an anonymous murder threat, deliverd over the phone in a voice somewhere between Darth Vader and the late Phyllis Diller.

I'm the teddy bear being clucthed by a young, brunette Kim Cattrall on Columbo

^ I meant clutched. Ugh!!!!!

I'm the iconic N.Y. coffee cup on the detective's desk next to the half-eaten deli sandwich.

I'm the crinkling sound of the detective's car being driven up a gravel driveway to let the view know that the suspect is old money.

I’m the butler who suggests the detective should have used the service entrance.

I'm the dummy used for stunts involving high falls. I'm on screen for about half a second, long enough for you to realize someone fell, but too quick to tell I'm not an actual person.

We’re the stock shots of cities, landmarks, office buildings, banks, hospitals, planes taking off and landing. We establish location and save a bundle of dough, even though the film stock we’re shot on is sometimes noticeably different from the rest of the show.

R417 WE knew what you meant...

I’m the suburban, middle aged housewife. Joe Mannix and a mastachioed, sexy cop arrive at my lovely home. I offer them coffee, which is poured from my brand new “Le Cafe” percolaor.

I'm some random twisty clifftop road up in Northern California. Those ocean views below sure look great.... until the detective looks in the rear view mirror and sees the bad guys in their Ford Pinto......

I'm Patrica Arquette in "Lost Highways". Granted, I am not in a '70s Detective Show.

But I should have been.

I'm the one season of Delvecchio. My dull as can be intro replete with nauseating theme music probably had too many folks getting off of their keisters to change the channel.

I'm a Lalo Schifrin theme from "Mannix" which sounds vaguely familiar to a theme he used in "Mission: Impossible."

God, I miss 70s TV

^ Start watching CoziTV and all the other oldies channels

I'm Meredith Baxter Birney as one of Pepper's lady cop friends on Policewoman. Even though I wasn't out as gay back then I still ping in this episode!

R383, how very.

I'm the jive turkey.

"Mannix" and "Cannon" are on MeTV in the wee hours of the morning (2-4AM) Mon-Fri.

MeTv also shows Columbo

I'm the secretary's untrimmed bush growing wild under her Leggs support top pantyhose.

I'm the blood free and painless murder. A quick gunshot, and the victim falls over dead right away. There's not a drop of blood in sight.

R427 That was perfection! Practically the entire thread summarised in that clip

I'm the technique of shooting "day-for-night." The French think I'm cool but really I'm just a cheap camera trick.

I'm an enameled aluminum drawstring drapery rod with celery green sheers perched atop of sliding balcony doors in a high-rise apartment. A physical skirmish in progress results in someone taking a plunge off the balcony.

I'm a dimly lit no tell motel efficiency with simulated wood Mediterranean decor. The crook and his junkie girlfriend are counting heist money spread out on the bed while arguing over their next move.

[quote]MeTv also shows Columbo

On Sundays. Though right now their in the middle of the run that began in the late ‘80s through the early ‘00s. The final episode of Columbo from around 2004 features Matthew Rhys as the killer.

Cozi TV has the ‘70s episode. Two every Saturday night.

I’m a wet sidewalk, reflecting lights and adding some noirish visual interest to a night scene in a city location. Odd, because nothing else is wet and it doesn’t look like it’s rained...

R443, look, when you gotta go, you gotta go.

[quote]drunk guy staggering away from bar with fly unzipped

That was actually a plot on Police Story!

I'm the silly brainstorm some producer had around 1976-ish to start saying "A QM Production", rather than saying the words "Quinn Martin" in the openings, apparently to make increasingly old fashioned-appearing shows like "Cannon" and "Barnaby Jones" seem a little less unhip, compared to more sexy competition ("Starsky & Hutch", "Charlie's Angels", etc.).

I'm Ironside's wheelchair.

I'm the earth-toned polyester.

I'm The Street. Unlike my good friend 'The Docks' I'm not where the deals go down. I'm just where they keep The Word

I love you R449.

I’m the sexy chest hair exposed by shirts unbuttoned nearly to the navel

I'm the gold chains. Meters and meters of gold chains.

I'm the gum that every hooker chews, open-mouthed and knowingly grinning . . . except when she's asked a question by a detective or officer that makes her uncomfortable, at which point I get a little break while she pulls it together & decides what to say. I am generally forgotten in the backseat armrest ashtray with the flip-lid after she earns some money & scrambles out in a hurry.

I'm Kolchak.

R450 I'm blushing..! This thread is the best ever, though.

I’m a teleportation portal. I allow crooks and cops to run around a corner and end up on a parallel street 10 blocks away. I allow cars in a chase to speed down a 2-block stretch for 3 minutes, or turn right on a southbound boulevard onto another southbound boulevard across town, or screech across a 4-lane highway to exit 5 and emerge in a neighborhood 2 miles away.

I'm the climatic shootout between the good guy and the gangster. One of them takes cover behind an empty aluminum trash can, the other behind an unmarked empty cardboard box. This is what I sound like until the villain runs out of ammunition and throws his gun overhand.

Neither the trash can nor the cardboard box will show a mark.

Hi R456! Love your work. I'm the various buildings that locals realize make hash of the supposed geography of whatever city this is supposed to be. For example, sometimes i am the Flatiron Building across the street from Coney Island. Other times I am the block that separates Pink's Hot Dogs from the Beverly Hills Hotel.

I'm an old school desk lamp. I'm the only thing still illuminating the dark office when the junior partner comes in very late to check on the senior detective. He's got his head in his hands or he's running his hands over his head. The junior partner expresses surprise to see the detective still there, perhaps by saying, "Burning the midnight oil, eh?" The detective explains that he's [italic]sure[/italic] there's a connection between [clue] and [suspect], if he can just figure out [confusing evidence]. My stark light casts harsh shadows, as if to suggest that the detective is the only light illuminating a dark underworld.

I am the detective's neck tie. I am tragically short, ending midway between the center of his chest and his belt. I'm usually pretty ugly, too.

R460, admit it. You're also fat around the bottom.

I am four right turns. If the car behind you is still there once I'm complete, you know you're being tailed.

I’m the total lack of peripheral vision people have when the criminal, usually the killer is stalking someone.

I'm Dario Argento, taking notes.

I'm sideburns. Big sideburns. I'm seen on everyone from the balding executive to the "black power" dude with the afro, to the drug-adulterating hippie pusher.

I'm the way white writers think all non-white people talk.

I'm the mousy secretary to the handsome hunky evil lawyer or businessman. The detective's questions make me realize my boss's freedom relies totally on whether or not I provide his alibi. And I SHALL be the best alibi of all time, just as soon as this Playmate fucking stud promises to give up all the other women and marry me.

We went to a fancy restaurant and I gave him my terms and he AGREES. We're so obviously happy the waiter Vito Scotti even gave us a complimentary bottle of champagne. Tomorrow I sign the alibi affidavit and tomorrow night we run up to his hunting lodge at Lake Tahoe. Yes I know I can't swim but what harm can come from a little wading and splashing? I'll be happy the rest of my life.

I'm the ranking detective you haven't seen before this week. I'm on the take or involved in a murder conspiracy. And you won't see me after this week, 'cause I'll be "going away for a long, long time," as the hero says at the end, shaking his head in disgust.

I'm the fishes. Rat out and you'll wind up sleepin' wit' me, like they did to Ernie Kasloff last June.

I'm the lam... I provide excellent and speedy transportation for criminals. Anyone who's anyone in the underworld is on the lam at some point.

I'm shitty lighting. I'm why everything looks like a diner place-mat.

I'm the suggestion of a heterosexual past and the occasional flirtation with some guest star who will never be seen again but there's a REASON our detective prefers hanging around with all alpha male characters.

I’m the occult episode. Not to be confused with the Halloween episode, I’ll have some cockamamie plotline involving covens, Satanists, or voodoo. I’m a growing concern of the fraus watching at home and only getting bigger.

I’m the Mafia don who has to step in at the end of the episode to rein in a young gangster who was running amok in an unauthorized way that displeased me. I’m truly sorry for the inconvenience that was caused. However, don’t forget that even though I may be charming, I’m also a killer, even though I won’t be killing anyone — well, not the detective or his friends — today.

I'm the inconvenience that was caused.

I'm the Mark VII Limited Productions logo, the sound of which you now hear on Adult Swim.

I'm Oscar-winner and DL-fave Gwyneth Paltrow, making my acting debut as "concealed fetus" in the "Etude In Black" episode of Columbo

Hey you dicks, we're the Snoop Sisters. We are little od ladies who solve crimes from our Gramercy Park home with our chauffeur Barney and the handsome Bert Convey a NYC police Det. I think he is our neohew. We were part of the NBC Sunday night mystery rotation. We has an episode with Alice Cooper.

*old* sorry we are old.

You sound addlepated^

Go take your nerve pills.

I'm screen and stage legend Helen Hayes, making a cameo as my real-life son James MacArthur's mother on "Hawaii Five 0".

R478 "Hey you dicks, we're the Snoop Sisters. We are little od ladies who solve crimes from our Gramercy Park home with our chauffeur Barney and the handsome Bert Convey a NYC police Det. I think he is our nephew. We were part of the NBC Sunday night mystery rotation. We has an episode with Alice Cooper."

I am Mildred Natwick and I endorse this message!

I am a man's business slacks and shoes, and the bottom of a trench coat. You see us creeping around in the near-darkness while suspenseful music plays. Then you see the man who's wearing me commit a heinous crime. When the criminal is finally caught, imagine your shock to find that I was worn all along by -- A WOMAN?!!

You probably know my cousin, Motorcyclist in Leathers. After a bunch of badassery, Motorcyclist in Leathers will stop the bike, step off, and remove the face-covering helmet to shake out a cascade of beautiful long hair, revealing -- hang on to your seat! -- that she was a WOMAN all along!

I am smog, I think.

I am the daring sexual innuendo that would, in real life, be considered completely lame by the standards of a typical PTA meeting of the era.

I'm the girl in a bikini being questioned poolside.

I'm the neon signs reflecting on the windshield of the detective's car in an early sequence so we know he's rolling through the seedy streets of the Big Mean City.

I'm cigarette smoke.

I'm the "clever" episode title.

I’m the crushed velvet upholstery and shag carpet.

I’m a street that you think that maybe you should be able to identify but can’t. Lankershim? I’m probably in Burbank.

I'm the episode with the gay character. Sometimes I'm done really well, (The Rockford Files) sometimes I'm done as a stereotype, (Kojak) and sometimes I'm done terribly, (Beretta). But more often than not I'm a killer who dies in the end.

Which episode of Rockford has a gay character?

Thanks to this thread, I’ve been recording Rockford Files & Columbia from Cozi to watch when I get home from work. It’s great seeing all the references in this thread being played out.

Carry on...

I'm that actor you recognize from that other show but couldn't name with a gun to your head.

R493 that would be "Requiem for a Funny Box".

And also "The Empty Frame".

There was a gay-themed Police Story episode that wasn't too bad (for the time)

Death Orders Pizza.

I'm the oddly fascinating closing credit.

After the crime is solved and that week's evildoers have been punished, I'm the creepy feeling you get when you hear this ominous warning with no context: "It's 10 PM. Do you know where your children are?"

I'm the enormous tarantula, tipped out of a jar by the killer into the target's bedroom. Watch me stomp aggressively over the bedspread to their sleeping face where I will chomp them with my poisonous fangs. In fact I'm docile-natured, slow-witted and about as dangerous as a mosquito bite. They keep on having to spritz me with with water mist to keep me moving. I have no idea what the fuck is going on.

I'm the middle-aged detective's paunch and I was perfectly acceptable until Starsky and Hutch came along flaunting their abs.

And asses and bulges in tight jeans^

I'm the easy, unconflicted, unapologetic high-testosterone masculinity and swagger that makes men born in the 1920s-40s so goddam attractive, especially when playing a detective or tough guy. I may be flaunted or I may be subtle, but all the polyester, wide collars, and flared pants in the world can't hide me.

I'm the Mafia informant who discovers at 60 MPH that his breakeline was cut. My Buick Century flips over into a ravine, and I'm knocked out cold, just as gas is shown leaking from the tank onto the ground. The star detective finds me and pulls me from the wreck, to safety, just as the sedan explodes into telegenically brilliant flames, all ultimately leading to a commercial.

I'm the normally docile detective who on a few rare occasions gets angry and you see a rage that you didn't know I had.

I'm the Ming style vase that gets smashed during the climatic fight in the well-appointed wood-paneled office or elegant-but-chilly living room of the murderer.

I'm the 1977 Tavares disco song, "Whodunit," which namechecks some of the most popular TV detectives. "Hey, Baretta, won't you please go get 'er?" "For cryin' out loud, somebody call McCloud!" "Kojak, won't you bring her back?"

^^^My God that was a fun song!

I'm Columbo's left eye and I couldn't give half a fuck what his right eye is looking at.

I'm the querulous yet accusatory question "So, are you going to kill me?" asked by the annoying yet perky heiress of her kidnapper.

I am the response to R511: "YES! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU, YOU FUCKING DITSY BITCH!"

I'm the studio backlot, which has the fakest "big city block" set you've ever seen - and will see again and again, in every network TV show of the decade.

I am the T-shaped intersection in that fake studio back lot. I'm often supposed to be in Manhattan, which has virtually all streets and avenues with long sightlines and virtually no T-shaped intersections other than those with highly recognizable landmarks like parks or museums.

I'm especially jarring when I'm set up with actual location shots, then suddenly used when a shootout or car crash occurs.

I'm the grainy 1966 stock footage of traffic on a Manhattan street, featuring mostly late '50s and early '60s cars, still being used as establishing shots on late 1970s episodes.

I'm the gas Cannon passes. I can peel wallpaper.

I'm actress Victoia Berry-Wells. I played the stripper in the "Starsky & Hutch" opening credits. Fun fact: it was me who discovered Bob Crane with his head bashed in.

R517 She used to teach acting in Weho in the 90s. Wasn't she also in the play he was in when he died?