I Was a Mad Man in the 60′s

Yes, though I looked nothing like Jon Hamm, in 1961 I was offered a job at a big agency, Batten, Barton, Durstine and Osborne, known as BBD&O.    385 Madison Ave. My friend Linda was a copywriter there and she touted me to her boss, copy chief Stoo Hample. I’d just had a flurry of media recognition for my comedy song, MR. CLEAN, which was the hit of a Julius Monk revue, Pieces of Eight. The song was a torch ballad to this icon of the detergent world -and this provided enough impetus for Stoo to ask me to come in and offer me a job as a copywriter.
I was 22, and he pressured me gently and convincingly in a style that was halfway between buddy-buddy locker-room slap-on-the-ass and all around literate good-guy. I thi-ii-iink maybe there was just a bit of a gay sub-text there, but he never made any move, simply implied we’d have great fun in the wild and wacky world of the ad biz. They’d just lost the services of Stan Freberg, the delicious humorist who’d tickled the industry with comedy plugs for products like Chun King Chow Mein -and I think Stoo was hoping I’d turn into a kind of junior replacement for Stan.  Accordingly, the first account I was given to work on was Chun King Chow Mein. Did you ever have it? It was an assortment of Asian veggies that had been canned in a brown sauce. It was the kind of ersatz food you’d get in a formica-top Chinese eatery on the outskirts of Indianapolis.   Perfectly acceptable, if your standards weren’t too high.  So I came up with a concept: in an elegant Chinese restaurant -the equivalent of say, the Shun Lee Dynasty, a distinguished gentleman -a monocle in his eye and sporting an ascot- is presented with a dazzling array of Chinese specialties: chopped squab in a lettuce leaf, tender chicken in black bean sauce, a whole, crispy fish. The food looks so good, sittig in its porcelain dishes, steam wafting up to the ceiling. The gentleman avails himself of a tiny taste from each dish. Then he scowls and shakes his head disapprovingly. “Sorry,” he says. “It just won’t do. Bring me the Chun King.” Dissolve: a moment later the waiter sets a can of Chun King Chow Mein on the table. The gentleman smiles, reaches into his breast pocket…and produces a can opener. Well, I thought this was just as funny (maybe funnier) than Stan Freberg, and I brought the copy to the art department, and one of the artists did a story board on it. I ran back, all excited, and showed it to Stoo. Stoo brought in one of the senior writers, guy named Ed Hiestand, and together they showed me why this idea -my maiden effort- was unacceptable. It didn’t play to the demographic. It implied that Chun king was only for aristocrats. It demeaned the product visually (you didn’t see the food, you only saw the can). And etc. Well, maybe if there’d been a Christina Hendricks in the office, I might have stuck around, but after three or four more attempts, I became not only impatient, but contemptuous of the whole advertising mentality. Everyone lived in terror, it seemed, of the boss -i.e. the sponsor. Disapproval from the sponsor meant your head could roll. I saw men thirty years older than I, humbly licking ass…and it scared me. Is this how I wanted to wind up? Each of these men was writing The Great American Novel. And someday, they knew, they’d be able to chuck this shit-eating, depressing job for the Big Time. Yuccchh. Hey, I said to myself, you can play piano and sing and work in bars -isn’t that better than this? At least you can be your own boss (little did I know, but that’s for another post). I confronted Stoo. 

He didn’t want to lose me. “Ah, sure, I know how you feel, but give it a little time -you’ve only been here three months. Hey, come on, we’ll go to MOMA, have lunch in the cafeteria.” He took me over to the museum and not only did we have lunch, afterwards we walked around the sculpture garden, admiring the Henri Moores. “Don’t we have to get back?” I wondered.  ”Ah, the hell with ‘em,” Stoo serenaded me duplicitously. This is what it could be like, he told me, copywriters at BBD&O are privileged souls, they can take off whenever, go to museums, galleries, enrich their base of knowledge, gather fresh inspiration for the job. The sweet sound of freedom it was, Stoo merely playing out the leash, giving it some slack, allowing the neophyte this vision of the grand, expansive, copywriter life. When I glance back at it now, I’m touched by Stoo’s efforts to keep me in the fold -he wanted someone to hang out with…and he really thought I could be groomed. But a month later I handed in my resignation…and called an agent who booked piano work.

About Benny Goodman

I belong to a chat group called Songbirds, which is devoted to the songs and performers of classic pop and show music, from the 1920′s to the present. Benny Goodman was mentioned the other day, along with the names of the vocalists he’d worked with: Helen Forrest, Martha Tilton, Peggy Lee –but no-one mentioned Lynn Roberts, who sang with Benny in the 1960′s. She told me  he was a raging egotist, totally solipsistic, never considered anyone but himself.         And she cited this example: one January day, as they were rehearsing in his apartment, Lynn and three musicians (bass player, drummer, guitarist) began shivering, because the windows were open and the icy wind was whistling in. No-one said anything for about half an hour; it was Benny’s apartment, after all, and they each thought, Well, if he wants the windows open, that’s his prerogative. But it started snowing, and big, wet flakes began drifting in. Lynn finally decided to take the bull by the horns and said, as diplomatically as she could, “Hey, Benny, haven’t you noticed? The wind is something fierce out there, aren’t you cold?” At which point Benny paused a moment, nodded, and said, “Yeah, I guess I am.” And he disappeared into his bedroom…and came back in a sweater. 

Take a look at Songbirds@yahoogroups.com

S.J. Perelman and the Failed Marriage

Tags

entertainment, megan hilty, s j perelman

Button-cute, rapier-keen, wafer-thin and pauper-poor…is how S.J. Perelman described himself.

They were in line before me, waiting to give their tickets to the ticket-taker. “Now what’s this we’re seeing again?” she asked him. He was short, eager, perhaps late thirties; he had a nice energy about him, he was reminiscent of say, Jerry Stiller. She was younger than he, undeniably attractive, but with that rapacious look you sometimes see in the ambitious. Reminiscent, perhaps, of Megan Hilty. From their body language, I guessed they were in the early stages of their courtship -this was maybe their second date. We were waiting to see Lewis Stadlen, that fabulous actor, who was appearing in his one-man tribute to Sid Perelman, the great humor writer. “It’s Perelman,” he explained to his date, “he’s the guy wrote all the scripts for the Marx Brothers -you like the Marx Brothers, don’t you?” he asked, the end of his sentence curling upwards in a wisp of hopefulness.

Groucho Marx, S.J. Perelman, and Kenneth Tynan (Photo credit: John McNab)

 And then she threw the line that -I predicted, I just knew- doomed this relationship. “In moderation,” she said.  

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The Zadora Correction

Couple weeks ago I posted the infamous story of the inept actress who appeared as Anne Frank in a touring production of Diary of Anne Frank.      I postulated the heroine of this tale was Pia Zadora. Well, I just received a correction from a website called Snopes, telling me the story is apocryphal. That it’s been told about Vanna White as well. So allow me to apologize to Miss Zadora and any of her family who may have been offended.  This Monday I will be posting another scurrilous tale, this time about Andrew Lloyd Webber. It’ll be up Monday, just after Mother’s Day. I look forward to any reaction(s) positive or otherwise.

The Schnierson Obit

Mrs. Schnierson had to contain her emotion. She was talking to the Obituaries Editor at the NY Times. “Morris was such a loving husband,” she said, “I’d like to honor his memory -we were together fifty four years.” Certainly, said the Editor, and took down the details: ‘Schnierson, Morris, 91 years old, beloved husband of Sadie, devoted father of Lori and Daniel, designer of packaging for the Kellogg Company, Battle Creek Michigan, for over forty years–’ and when she reached the end of her description, the editor said to her, “Good, Mrs. Schnierson, and at the rate you’re paying, you still have four more words you may use.”  Mrs. Schierson pondered it a good minute and a half. The Editor could hear her snuffling at the end of his receiver. Finally, Mrs. Schnierson spoke: “All right,” she told him, “put ‘Used Buick for sale’.”

Richard Skipper’s Moment w/Patrice Munsel

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Carol, Carol Channing, celebrities, Clipper Round the World Yacht Race, Patrice Munsel, Richard, Richard Skipper, Sotto voce, United States

Full disclosure: this is Richard Skipper’s story, which I feel compelled to share: most of you will recognize Richard as being the foremost impersonator of Carol Channing, as well as her dear friend. Carol has praised Richard as the best delineator of her persona; so it was not surprising, when illness prevented Carol from performing at a benefit, that Richard was asked to appear as her replacement -in full Carol regalia. If you’ve never seen Richard do Carol, you must take my word that he is, in a word, magnificent. He has the look, the voice, the attitude down to the tiniest detail -and he tosses out huge glass diamond rings at the end of his performance. 

Well, the crowd went wild. They had been warned that -due to the real Carol’s indisposition- Richard was being pressed into service to take her place. Well, as it happens, the singer Patrice Munsel had arrived late, too late to hear the announcement, and she was knocked out, as was everybody, by Richard’s performance -she didn’t even know it was he. After the show, she came up to offer congratulations, and slowly, almost sensually, drew the back of her hand along Richard’s cheek. “Darling,” she said to him, “I’ve never seen you better. And I don’t know how you do it -at our age-  but your skin is absolutely perfect!” Then, sotto voce, she whispered into Richard’s ear, “You must give me the name of your surgeon.”

Cesar’s Shoe Repair -a Saga

The shop was called Cesar’s Shoe Repair - it was on Union street in downtown Annapolis where Gil London was a cadet at the Naval Academy. Cesar was in his forties, peasant Italian, but always with a smile, as if life was constantly amusing him. Gil dropped off his loafers -they needed new heels-and took the bus back to his dorm room. It was a Saturday, the 6th of December, and cold. The next morning the Japanese struck Pearl Harbor  and before he knew it, he was on a destroyer in the North Atlantic, plying the deadly Murmansk Run. He was actually one of the sailors who participated in the sinking of the German battleship Scharnhorst off the North Cape. After his discharge, Gil was able to go to M.I.T on the GI Bill. Though he studied engineering, in 1950 Gil went to work for Bennett Vending, a company that sold candy dispenser machines to the burgeoning wave of shopping malls that were springing up around the West coast.     In 1954 he met Betsy Rankin at the Bennett Christmas party. They married, took a mortgage on  a house in Fresno, and started a family: first came Melinda, then eighteen months later, Benjy; normal American kids. Well, yes, during the ’60′s, Gil feared Benjy was a little too heavily into weed, and Betsy worried that Melinda was becoming promiscuous…but it all evened out. In 1970, Benjy went to Burma (now Myanmar) as a member of the Peace Corps. In 1987, for his sixty-fifth birthday, Betsy gave Gil a special present: she took a leave of absence from her job at the hospital (Fresno General, she was a registered nurse) rented a single-width trailer, and told Gil they were driving East, cross-country together, on a second honeymoon. She knew Gil had always wanted to do this, and, sure enough, he was overjoyed. They set off from Fresno on a crisp morning in October, and two days later they hit Colorado and took a trip by mule into the Grand Canyon. They stopped in Chicago to visit Betsy’s aunt Lil, who was in her 80′s. They were on their way to NYC, the Big Apple, when they entered Maryland, and Gil had a sudden urge to visit his old alma mater, the Naval Academy, see if it had changed. Betsy turned the van onto Union street and damn if Cesar’s Shoe Repair wasn’t still there; they hadn’t even repainted the sign. “I wonder if Cesar’s still around,” Gil said to Betsy. Then he drew out his wallet. “Sonofagun,” he murmured, “look at this–” Tucked away behind the pictures of his kids, there was the ticket for his re-heeled loafers -the one Cesar had given him forty years ago. “Stop here, honey–”. Betsy braked the van. “Back in five minutes,” he yelled over his shoulder. The little bell tinkled as he opened the door, just as it always had. Same dusty smell, same worn linoleum floor, it was The Shop that Time Forgot. A youngish man came from the dim interior and stood behind the counter. “Help you?” he said. Gil smiled. “I don’t suppose Cesar’s still around?” His tone indicated he knew this was unlikely. But, surprisingly, the guy said, “Yeah, he’s in the back; you want to see him?” Was this perhaps the son? He disappeared inside and a long moment later Cesar shuffled out, leaning on a cane. Must be in his nineties, Gil thought. “Cesar!” he cried, “I never thought I’d see you! It’s Gil, Gil London, from the Academy, remember?” A smile came to the old man’s rheumy eyes, but he said, “Forgive me, ahma no remember -so many of you fellas…” “Sure, of course,” Gil said, eager to save the old man embarrassment, “but hey now, you won’t believe this, look what I found in my wallet -from 1941.” He gave Cesar the old, worn ticket. Cesar held it close to his face, reading the number, 8422. Without a word he turned, shuffled into the back of his shop. Gil waited what seemed like forever. Finally, the ancient shoe-doctor returned, with a beatific smile. He’d found the shoes. “Be ready Tuesday,” he said.

 

Pia Zadora and Anne Frank

Legend has it that actress/singer Pia Zadora went out in a touring company of The Diary of Anne Frank. She wanted to prove that she could be a serious actress, not just a bimbo. By the time the troupe reached Indianapolis, however, her attempt at a Dutch accent was becoming laughable, and she tripped over much of the furniture. At the final matinee, her performance was hesitant, amateurish, and so annoying that -when the Nazi soldiers came to the house- the entire audience rose as one, pointing upwards, and shouting: “She’s in the attic!” 

 

Composer Arthur Schwartz’s London Demo

 

Arthur Schwartz by Van Vechten

Arthur Schwartz, composer of Broadway songs, lived his last years in London. While there, a record company named Pye Records asked him to make a demo recording of a few of his hits, just his own renditions at the piano, with vocals; they wanted to show them to some pop artists. So Arthur went into a studio and was given a very young sound engineer, a youth in his twenties named Sandy. Sandy told him he came from the midlands, Leeds, and was in the process of forming his own band, which he hoped might someday achieve recognition like, say, The Beatles or The Rolling Stones. So Arthur went into the recording room and ran down a dozen of his compositions: You and the Night and the Music, By Myself, I Guess I’ll Have to Change My Plan, 

The Band Wagon (1953)

Alone Together-a dozen great standards.  The last tune he put on tape was his premiere title, the world-renowned Dancing in the Dark. He finished and went into the mixing room where Sandy was adjusting the balance between the piano and Arthur’s vocals. “That Dancing in the Dark, that’s a vurry pretty song,” said Sandy, in his midlands accent. “You’re telling me you wrote that?” “Yes,” said Arthur, “I did.” “Well,” Sandy said, “Good luck with it.”

Danny Apolinar’s Wake-up Call

My pal Danny Appolinar was a fellow singer/pianist working clubs in the sixties. He told a marvelous story on himself: he was booked in a hotel in San Juan, the Dorado Beach, for the summer, and while there he struck up a romance with a good-looking busboy, Carlos, a kid of eighteen with great appeal. They had a hot thing going all season, walks on the beach by moonlight, staff meals together in the hotel kitchen…and hours in bed together. When the summer ended, and Danny had to leave, go back to Manhattan, the kid was all broken up, disconsolate. “But Danny, what will I do without you? You are my sun, my moon, my planets–every night for three months you hold me in your arms, how can I live alone now?” A very Latin temperament, Danny told me. “Carlos, my life is in Manhattan -I wish I could bring you home with me but that’s not possible,” he said. “But I will always remember you -I’ll think of you every night–” Carlos had a request: “You will say a prayer for me? When you speak to the heavens, you will not forget me? Will you give me something I can remember you by -no, no, I don’t want money, give me something personal, something of yours only.” Well, Danny had thirty copies of a record he’d made -an LP- and he took out his pen and signed one to Carlos, with a passionate inscription: “To Carlos, who has been more than my life, more than my passion, my obsession, whom I shall never forget, who has meant the entire universe to me (and who has the most beautiful you-know-what in the world). With all my love, forever, Danny.”  And he got on the plane.                                      And six months later, he saw the exact album in the dollar bin at the 69 cent shop.