WFMU's Beware of the Blog

The Schleppers: Stale Gags & Stale Food in Mid-Century Manhattan by Kliph Nesteroff

SCHLEP or SCHLEPP also SHLEP 
   - Slang
vb schleps, shlepping, schlepped
      to drag or lug (oneself or an object) with difficulty
n    1. a stupid or clumsy person
      2. an arduous journey or procedure
      [ Yiddish, from German schleppen ]

Chapter One
OUT OF WORK AND ON THE CORNER

The Horn & Hardart automat. Here we find pretty boy Steve Rossi standing alone in a tuxedo, having a piece of pie for dinner. Rossi is just another young singer loitering in Manhattan during the humid summer of 1951. Rhubarb splatters on just another shirt collar of just another no-name nothing. He believes he is the next Dean Martin. Hoping for work, desperate for stardom, he is just another ambitious shlub that considers a lone gig once every three weeks, fourteen drunks in the audience, the epitome of real live show business. Schlepping aimlessly through Midtown Manhattan, there are countless others with identical dreams, duplicate fears and corresponding cramps. To themselves they are stars in waiting. To the rest of Manhattan they are nameless, obnoxious drugstore patrons. To Hans Hanson they are customers with outrageous, unpaid tabs. To Willy the soda jerk they're worse than shlubs. "They're bums! And perverts! They never tip!" Hanson's Drugstore. A twenty-four hour hangout for dead-tired showgirls rewarding themselves with end-of-the night cherry smashes - spiked with a flask from their garter. A place where Brill Building songwriters sit in the morning struggling to concoct a rhyme for baby. Maybe today they'll discover a line other than "I don't mean maybe." A short jaunt from Hanson's is 52nd. They call it The Street. Yeah, that's the place to score with a stripper or score your dope - maybe catch a set by Sonny Stitt or Art Tatum while you wait. A line from a Raymond Chandler pulp springs to mind: "It seemed like a nice neighborhood to have bad habits in."

The Rise and Fall of Dino's Lodge by Kliph Nesteroff

A tall, neon approximation of Dean Martin's face once radiated a mysterious ambiance down on the Sunset Strip. The sign could be spotted in episodes of Dragnet, blaxploitation favorite The Candy Tangerine Man and even an episode of The Andy Griffith Show. Much of the time it was treated as if it were just a typical building facade that fictional characters would drive past without comment. But today, to see a giant neon Dean Martin face makes one arch an eyebrow. What in Lord's name is that!?

Dino's Lodge was a real-life Los Angeles restaurant that lasted twenty years. It is primarily remembered by fans of the television series 77 Sunset Strip. Ed Byrnes played the pseudo-hipster character Kookie, a kid working as a valet at Dino's Lodge, which was a neighbor to the private eye headquarters of the program's protagonists. When Dino's Lodge first opened it was a happening nightspot frequented by the Hollywood elite. When 77 Sunset Strip made it famous to television viewers, it descended into a tourist trap and was abandoned by its celebrity clientele. By the early seventies, this restaurant that had once hosted parties for Frank Sinatra, was part of a cornball travel agency package that advertised a two-hundred and forty-dollar "guided tour of a motion picture studio, a full day at Disneyland and dinner at Dino's Lodge."

From the very beginning the weird looking sign was one of Hollywood's campiest icons. "Dino's Lodge was immensely popular," says Shawn Levy, "serving home-style Italian food and grilled entrees in a wood-paneled atmosphere meant to replicate the great roue's den." Behind those wood-panels, however, hides a story of mismanagement, lawsuits and vindictive Jerry Lewis spite. The project, in the words of Dean Martin himself, was one of "total regret."

Foster's Shadow: The On-Air Meltdown of Bill Hewitt

Hockey Night in Canada is the longest running program in the history of the world. Starting on radio in 1931, it adopted its current moniker in 1936. It moved to television with separate broadcasts in French and English in 1952 and has remained on the air ever since. Hockey Night in Canada managed to unite an enormous, sprawling landmass in a way Confederation never could. While Canada struggled for decades to establish a show business culture it could call its own, Hockey Night in Canada stood as its only competent showcase in the entertainment world. Thus, it was only natural that this avidly consumed broadcast would take its first announcer - a bland, nasal-voiced play-by-play man - and catapult him to the position of Canada's biggest celebrity.

Foster Hewitt is a name that all Canadians know. He was a gentlemen that, for several decades, was one of its most adored characters. His fame came by default. He never possesed sonorous larynx. He had no charisma. And he had no peer. His flat, everyman delivery was accepted; it was simply a factual account of what he saw on the ice - with little else added. It was as if a random man had walked in off the street to broadcast the game. This is perhaps what gave him his greatest appeal.

Having built a one-man empire as the only hockey broadcaster in the world, Foster Hewitt made sure to groom his son to take over the family business. Foster shared trade secrets with his son like an aging cobler passing his shop on to junior. He taught him well. The voice and observations of Bill Hewitt were considered even more flat and bland than those of his father. Once established as the new voice of Hockey Night in Canada, Bill Hewitt's talent was summarized by respected journalist Peter Gzowski. "Bill Hewitt not only fails to improve the game with his commentary - he makes it slightly less interesting."

Regardless, the Hewitt family was the voice and sound of Hockey Night in Canada for a total of forty-eight consecutive years. It wasn't until September 28, 1981 that the broadcast would air without a Hewitt. Some contemporaries blamed the demise of the legacy on the elder Hewitt and the pressure he instilled on his son. Some said it was booze. Others said it was pills. However, in retrospect, it would seem it was a combination of all three. The night Bill Hewitt fell apart on the air remains one of the stranger stories of Canadian broadcasting. In an instant, a broadcasting dynasty collapsed. It was an instant that, for those working alongside him that evening, felt like a lifetime.

What follows is a chapter excerpt from the unpublished Oral History of Hockey Night in Canada by Kliph Nesteroff.

Outrageous and Courageous: The Myth and Legend of Shecky Greene by Kliph Nesteroff

"Frank Sinatra saved my life once. He said, "Okay, boys. That's enough." - Shecky Greene

"You dirty Jew sunofabitch, you're sicker than Lenny Bruce." - Ed Sullivan yelling at Shecky Greene

The odd dichotomy of Shecky Greene is that, for anyone under the age of fifty, his name is associated with an out-moded style of comedy. To use the moniker Shecky is almost an insult, a parody. The name Shecky has been brandished by characters in plays, satires and short stories. The appellation is used to indicate that this is a comedian to please grandpa, something for the pastrami sandwich nostalgist, a treat for those who believe Henny Youngman was an intellectual and Mort Sahl was a traitorous, communist bum. The reality is something much different.

The truth is that if Shecky Greene were emerging today he would be considered the leading voice in what is vaguely defined as alternative comedy. Greene was experimental beyond belief, possessing a kinetic and forceful dynamism that spilled off the stage into his every day life. Comedy's great non-conformist, the very hotels that employed him often had him arrested - only to cover his bail a day later. When other comics finished their final performance they rushed to where Shecky was playing to soak in his brilliant madness. "One of the greatest I ever saw in a nightclub!" screams contemporary Pat Cooper. "I saw him at The Riviera five, six, seven times. I saw him climb the curtain and do twenty minutes from on top of the curtain! He destroyed an audience." Cooper's take is not just an opinion - it is the consensus.

Shecky Greene was not your grandpa's comedian, but with little modern memory of what Shecky Greene's act consisted of, the symbolic nature of his name has been distorted. His contemporaries remember his irreverence. They say he was the most unforgettable comedy performer they ever saw. Ask them what he said on stage - nobody has a clue. He was and always would be a creature of the nightclub; flying off on wild tangents and pulling remarkable stunts, climbing walls and fighting owners. He invented a hysterical, free-form approach to comedy that the confines of a five minute television spot could not handle. Shecky was praised by comedy legend Jack Benny, idolized by comedic subversive Lenny Bruce and lauded by the genre-expanding revolutionary Ernie Kovacs. His reckless abandon on stage fueled a comedic genius, but that same reckless abandon lead to incredible feats of off stage chicanery and fatalistic tumult. One example occurred on a drunken summer evening as Greene and his best friend/nemesis Buddy Hackett viciously fought into the Nevada night, wrestling each other to the desert ground. Hackett, brandishing a firearm, threatened to blow Greene's head off, but Shecky won the struggle. Greene, with his foot pressed triumphantly on the throat of the defeated Hackett promised, "If you get up, Buddy - I'm going to kill you."

The name Shecky can vacillate from noun to verb to adjective. The opinion of every comedian during that gilded age of show business, whether they were Republican Bob Hope or hipster Lenny Bruce, is that Shecky Greene was the the wildest of them all. The craziest of them all. Most importantly - the funniest of them all.

Life at the 2011 TCM Classic Film Festival: An Ode to Vintage Los Angeles

"The time is eight-thirty in Boss Angeles!" - The Real Don Steele, Los Angeles Disc Jockey, 1967

Los Angeles is a wonderful city, yet it seems much of society despises what it represents. Few cities stoke such anger in the heart of civilians as does Hollywood. I am not just talking about the fabricated outrage of Bill O'Reilly and his vendetta against the place that gave him John Wayne and Ronald Reagan. Beyond that, it is common to hear Los Angeles ridiculed for its superficiality, its insistence on driving everywhere, its fashionable health kicks and its all-consuming Sammy Glick way of life. But these people that hate Los Angeles - they are not pornstars. And these people that hate Los Angeles - they are not nerds. This city was simply made for these two categories of people. But to which category do I belong?

I recently returned to the show business glory hole that is Los Angeles, representing WFMU at the second annual TCM Classic Film Festival, the only film festival in the world that has the word 'classic' in its name twice. This awkward redundancy is alleviated in a Kentucky Fried Chicken - KFC kind of way and it is appropriate that I mention fast food here. For all the talk of aspiring anorexic models in Los Angeles, the area remains a beacon of hamburger romance and drive-in bliss. Diner imagery and Art Deco orgies. Googie shrines and carhop remnants. In between encounters with Mickey Rooney, Peter O'Toole and Walt Disney's grandson, I was busy indulging in the many classic burger stations, tiki lounges, fountain coffee shops and aging Hollywood watering holes. This can be hard on the system of a vegetarian - of which I am one - but I am not unlike like the pescetarian that explains, "I am a vegetarian... but I eat fish." Let me distinguish. I am a vegetarian... but I eat hamburgers. When in Hollywood I eat them with such abandon that I seem intent on a hari kari mission to go the rest of my life without ever having another bowel movement. Lucky for me, when an internal traffic jam occurs there is always the bar at Musso & Frank; the oldest restaurant in Hollywood and the only bar in the world sans television in its corner. Ruben, my bartending knight in shining red blazer, knows how to fix a drink that is so powerful it is capable of slaughtering, for a second time, the cow inside my gut. Yes, the Lagavulin at Musso & Frank... it will keep you regular.

But back to the matter at hand: The TCM Classic Film Festival; an incredible four days of thrilling encounters, simultaneous screenings and heart-breaking choices. Coetaneous events in which you must decide between Debbie Reynolds or Angela Lansbury, Warren Beatty or Leslie Caron, Roger Corman or Kirk Douglas; they are among the most difficult decisions in a film nerd's life and it is impossible to absorb everything. As I wrote in my piece last year, the great thing about the TCM festival is not merely seeing Hollywood's grand old product on the big screen or seeing living legends in the loosening flesh. Certainly, that's all fantastic, but for Angelenos such an event is commonplace. The festival is most important for those flying in from out of town, for those of us isolated in our respective communities and unable to enjoy the offerings of a cosmopolitan city, unable to have our passion understood by our own neighbors or our very own families. This is to whom this festival belongs. To look back at my own article of last year and pretentiously quote myself, "It was a convention of individualists coming together to discover that they are, perhaps, not quite as alone in the world as day-to-day life makes them feel."

The Mel Lyman Personality Cult Revisited by Kliph Nesteroff

"I tell you I am the greatest man in the world and it doesn't trouble me in the least." - Mel Lyman

It seems unlikely that a scrawny, disheveled kid wearing a sailor hat and oversized military coat could actually hold power over one hundred people, let alone convince them he was God. A 1966 Oscar-nominated film called Festival is the closest look at this man we have today. The stark, black and white, cinema-vérité style documentary follows the goings-on at The Newport Folk Festival. It opens with a shot of Mel Lyman, flashing a toothy grin, playing harmonica with The Jim Kweskin Jug Band. He appears happy and sweet, young and sheepish. He looks like he could be the malnourished spokesperson for a brand of fish n’ chips. Many conclude that Charles Manson modeled himself after him.

Three years later Dick Cavett spoke into a television camera. “Will you welcome please Daria Halprin and Mark Frechette!” With that the young couple walked across the stage of The Dick Cavett Show and shook hands with fellow panelists Mel Brooks and Rex Reed. The two young stars of Michelangelo Antonioni’s Zabriskie Point didn’t smile. They didn’t wave to the audience. They sat down and stared off camera. It was one of the most awkward interviews Dick Cavett would ever conduct. Each question was greeted with long moments of hesitation. The interview subjects acted as if they were appearing against their will.

Not long after that awkward televised exchange, Frechette watched a close friend go down in a hail of bullets. Frechette himself would die under mysterious circumstances when he was asphyxiated by a barbell in a Massachusetts prison. It was obvious to Mel Brooks, Rex Reed and Cavett’s entire viewing audience that these kids weren’t normal - but nobody could pinpoint why. The world eventually learned that Daria Halprin and Mark Frechette were emotionally captivated players in an unnerving countryside family of young, hippie outsiders, or as Cavett refers to it today, "a cult that didn't kill anyone." In 1970, when Cavett said to his guests, “I understand you two live in a commune,” Frechette responded tersely. “It’s not a commune. It’s a community … and the purpose is to serve [our leader] Mel Lyman.”

The Voyeuristic Adventures of Errol Flynn

"The magazine Confidential had been running stories about me ... I rankled ... I acknowledged my own peccadilloes, and if and when there are real incidents, I make no denial, no apology, and I even stand by them." - Errol Flynn, 1959

Errol Flynn is one of the more storied personalities in Hollywood history. Women swooned over him. Men desperately wanted to emulate him. He had no shortage of lovers and certainly no shortage of scandals. An inordinate amount of literature has been devoted to Flynn. Co-stars, ex-wives, stunt doubles, and even the coroner that tampered with his cold, lifeless venereal warts, have written at length about this celluloid Robin Hood. There is actually a book solely devoted to Flynn's not-so-humble abode, written by a guy who pulled a break n' enter in order to gain access.

The homes of Errol Flynn were notorious for their insouciant parties. Flynn shindigs were considered wild denizens of debauchery even by the standards of Hollywood’s gilded age. One of Flynn's closest friends was the equally dapper David Niven. The two had a lot in common. Both men came to Hollywood via the London stage and both were known for their suave demeanor. They battled each other for pencil moustache supremacy and shared a compulsive appetite for the opposite sex. Niven spoke reverently of Flynn as a "magnificent specimen of the rampant male."

King of Slobs: The Life of Joe E. Ross by Kliph Nesteroff

"I guess he was funny in his own way. I don't think he had a very good nightclub act." - Ronnie Schell, comedian

"His life centered around dating strippers." - Steve Rossi, comedy straight man

Joe E. Ross was the kind of grotesque, boorish, nightclub comedian that over the years has been satirized ad nauseam. Andy Kaufman's alter ego Tony Clifton, a talentless lounge singer with a penchant for drinking, smoking and whoring, is in many ways the fictional equivalent of Ross. Best known for his featured role in the early nineteen sixties sitcom Car 54, Where Are You? Joe E. Ross left an indelible, negative impression on every performer he ever worked with. The consensus of those that knew him is that his shenanigans offstage were infinitely more amusing than anything he ever did onstage. His disposition is perfectly summed up by fellow nightclub comedian Hank Garrett. "He was married eight times and they were all ex-hookers. It was cheaper to marry them than keep visiting them."

Ross was a product of the Lower East Side. His first taste of show business came when he found a job in the Bronx as a singing waiter. Soon he evolved into a burlesque comic, but his gigs were pretty much limited to rundown strip joints. Garrett often shared the bill with Ross in the worst Bowery venues imaginable. "You'd see someone get up in the audience," recalls Garrett. "We'd say, 'If you're looking for the toilet, sit down. You're in it."

Last Man in Blackface: The World of Pigmeat Markham

"It is no disgrace to be a Negro, but it is very inconvenient." - Bert Williams, vaudeville star

"Pigmeat Markham was many things: the ranking funny man on the Avenue, a hero to young fans, the Judge. He was also a curious anomaly, the last great black comic to perform in burnt cork." - R.J. Smith, author

"I'd been working in blackface for so many years that I was scared to go on without it." - Pigmeat Markham

Pigmeat Markham was probably the only African-American comedian equally as popular in 1939 as he was in 1969. In that thirty year span the inroads made by African-American performers, and black America as a whole, was immense. Media that had shunned an entire race slowly heralded new opportunities thanks to several years of organized protest. In the decades before this crest emerged, a tight-knit collection of black actors had been typecast by Hollywood's studio system into bland, subservient bit parts; the only roles that a racist Hollywood would allow. Progressive activists from the black community set their sights on the major film studios, radio stations and television networks, demanding that the demeaning roles be eradicated. Slowly Hollywood conceded and eliminated the racist typecasting in the early fifties, but they failed to replace such parts with an honest representation of black America. Instead they would dispense with black actors altogether. As a result, the few black actors that had actually managed to make a living in the industry were thrown into unemployment. When the gains of minority activism intensified in the late sixties creating new, substantial opportunities for African-American entertainers, that tight-knit collection of working black actors were mostly too old, too poor or too forgotten to take advantage.

Dewey "Pigmeat" Markham was an exception. At a time when the call of "black power" resonated from Watts to Vietnam, Markham's lowbrow style of vaudeville had an unexpected resurgence. Revamping the tired sketches he had used for years, most of which had originally been performed in blackface, Markham helped bridge the tension between races with his unlikely blend of anachronistic comedy. A few decades prior Pigmeat had all but been eliminated from the scene by the influential NAACP and Urban League. He emerged in the late sixties as an African-American cultural force. When H. Rap Brown, Fred Hampton or Bobby Seale clenched a fist and shouted "black power" it is unlikely they had a vaudeville veteran that steadfastly refused to stop performing in blackface in mind. Pigmeat Markham was an unapologetic proponent of blackface and one of the most popular African-American comedians the country has ever seen.

The Comedy Writer That Helped Elect Richard M. Nixon by Kliph Nesteroff

"Nixon said ... that appearing on Laugh-In is what got him elected - and I believe that. And I've had to live with that." - George Schlatter, Creator of Laugh-In

"He is the president of every place in this country which does not have a bookstore." - Murray Kempton, Journalist and Pulitzer Prize Recipient

"While basically a dullard, [Paul] Keyes nonetheless is an interesting cat." - Gary Deeb, TV Critic

"The one thing I try to avoid is making audiences think." - Dan Rowan, Host of Laugh-In

Two mainstream television programs in the late nineteen sixties were said to represent the counterculture sensibility more so than any other: The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour and Laugh-In. These two comedy-variety shows, we are often told, appealed to the same acid-tripping, free-love, anti-war demographic. Today they are often considered two sides of the same coin. Nothing could be further from the truth.

The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour resulted in Tom Smothers, its main creative force, being the first name to grace the Nixon enemies list. The comedy team had once been a trusted mainstream act, popular with conservative America in the years leading up to their own nineteen sixties variety show. But eventually The Smothers Brothers became a petulant aggravation for the jingoists in Washington. With his weekly variety program in place, Tom Smothers experienced a political transformation that mirrored the very paradigm shift taking place across America. An enormous sector of the population started questioning the methods and motives of their war mongering leaders just as The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour became a major hit. CBS felt increasingly pressured to squelch the subtle anti-authoritarian inferences Tom Smothers contributed to each episode and guest stars such as Joan Baez, Harry Belafonte and Pete Seeger had their anti-war turns carved up by the network. The resulting cancellation of The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour was blamed on a "blasphemous" piece of satire by comedian David Steinberg, but the Nixon White House and their allies had been searching for an excuse to pull the plug on Tom Smothers for a while. It appears that one of the people prodding the President to do so was the most unlikely of confidants: the head writer of Laugh-In.

Laugh-In is commonly considered a reflection of the late sixties youth sensibility, but closer examination reveals a much different picture. It was, in essence, an establishment show, profiting from the anti-establishment sentiment running through America. Moderated by the comedy team of Dan Rowan and Dick Martin, Laugh-In was old in style, but draped in the popular fashion of the day. It effectively garnered a genuine hippie aesthetic, but any actual connection to the counterculture was mostly smoke and mirrors. The bulk of Laugh-In consisted of irrelevant vaudeville bits that ignored the war, the draft, the riots and the protest. It embraced the look and sound of the hippies and had no problem making references to getting high, but when it came to the major issues, it lacked substance. Whereas Tom Smothers found himself on Nixon's enemies list, Rowan and Martin found themselves on Nixon's guest list. Hal Erickson was correct in his assessment that "compared to the approach of The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, Laugh-In treaded very, very lightly, especially when commenting upon America's untenable position in Vietnam." Laugh-In creator George Schlatter explains that his show "had a real cross section of writers. Paul was seriously right-wing ... He was so far right he did cartwheels ... Paul Keyes ... Nixon's joke writer." In 1969 Dan Rowan said of Laugh-In's chief scribe, "President Nixon calls him four or five times a week and when he's in San Clemente, Paul's always there. He is very close to the administration on a personal and on a political basis." A generation of vociferous anti-Nixonites, enraptured by everything Laugh-In had to offer each Monday night, was none the wiser.

An interview with Drew Friedman

Drew Friedman is not just one of America's most well-known and widely respected illustrators, but his work is arguably the most identifiable. Having worked for counterculture bibles over the years like National Lampoon, RAW, Screw, SPY and Mad, Friedman has, in the past fifteen years, garnered mainstream respectability with onslaughts of work for Entertainment Weekly, Mother Jones, Newsweek, The New York Times, Rolling Stone, The New Republic, The Weekly Standard, Time and countless others. Friedman has also published several entertaining books, including his two critically acclaimed collections of portraits titled Old Jewish Comedians. I spoke with Drew Friedman recently in anticipation of his new collection, an overview of those last fifteen years of mainstream respectability: Too Soon? Famous/Infamous Faces 1995-2010 from Fantagraphics Books.

Kliph Nesteroff: I heard that you were recently at a party with Albert Brooks. Had you met Albert before?

Drew Friedman: No, that was the first time. It was a recent party in Los Angeles and Albert was a guest at the party. I'm a huge Albert Brooks fan, dating back to the early seventies - seeing him on The Flip Wilson Show and Saturday Night Live, even Ed Sullivan. It was a treat to meet him. I'm not sure if he knew who I was, but I gave him a couple copies of my Jewish comedian books, which he enjoyed. He asked if his dad was in there because his dad had been a comedian called Parkyarkarkus. His father was actually named Harry Einstein and as a joke named his son Albert. Albert Brooks' real name is Albert Einstein, he changed it to Brooks when he became a comedian. I said, "No, your father died a little too young." His dad actually died on the dais at the Friar's Club in nineteen fifty-eight at a tribute to Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz. He died right on the dais right after doing his act, when Albert was twelve. This is all incidental. When I was talking to Albert at this party he said, "Drew, did you know that Harpo's ex-wife married Frank Sinatra?" I said, "No, it was Zeppo's ex-wife." He said, "No, no, it was Harpo's ex-wife." I said, "No, it was Zeppo's ex-wife. Look, we have Andy Marx, Groucho's grandson standing right here. Let's ask him." I said, "Andy, which one of your uncles married Frank Sinatra's wife?" He said, "Well, that was Zeppo's wife." That's why I love L.A. It's handy to have Groucho's grandson [around] when you need him. 

The Life and Times of Rusty Warren by Kliph Nesteroff

"Everyone knew who Rusty Warren was." - Jazz Drummer, Dick Odette

The early nineteen sixties experienced a comedy record boom unlike anything ever seen before. Every comedian that had ever worked a nightclub pressed an album. Some had high production values and were released on major labels like Capitol, Decca and Warner. Others were recorded in one-take, capturing mediocre comics bombing before an unsympathetic crowd. This was of no concern. If it were in the comedy section, people would buy it. For six solid years comedy albums were among the highest selling LPs on the Billboard charts, often outselling pop groups like The Beatles. Comedians Shelley Berman and Bob Newhart were responsible for some of the highest selling vinyl ever made. Vaughn Meader and Allan Sherman had the fastest selling records of all time - in any genre.¹ All four men were regulars on the big television revues from Steve Allen to Ed Sullivan. They were showcased in every conceivable medium. Their records sold hundreds of thousands of copies and they deservedly became big stars.

Now imagine if their records had been barred from radio play. What if Bob Newhart had been blacklisted from network television? How far would Allan Sherman's novelty pressings have gone if they were relegated to the surreptitious "adults only" section of the local record store? With such obstacles stacked against them would they have become astronomic celebrities? Would they smash attendance records at every club they appeared? Without one national television appearance to their name would they have achieved seven straight gold records?

That's exactly what happened to a woman named Rusty Warren. Against insurmountable odds, she went from tiny midwestern cocktail lounges to well-known Vegas showrooms and ascended to the heights of stardom without the help of radio, television or film. During a time when many women were content to embrace the role of submissive homemaker, Rusty was in nightclubs making fun of male hang-ups and advocating that women shed their shackles and embrace an appetite for sex. Warren has often been described as the "Mother of the Sexual Revolution." Some scholars have gone so far as to suggest that her song Bounce Your Boobies was what eventually convinced women to burn their brassieres en masse.

She invested in bull semen with Barbra Streisand and Charlton Heston. Her record label was embroiled in the Alan Freed payola scandals. Johnny Carson hated her. Jackie Mason held a grudge. At a given performance she would shatter attendance records, be confronted by outraged churchgoers and maybe even witness an attempted murder. Soon she became the highest selling performer in the history of comedy records.

Please welcome to the stage, Ms. Rusty Warren.

The Myths and Politics of Grandpa Munster

"My father has created a huge myth about himself." - David Lewis

"Yeah, I met The Beatles ... Ain't no big fuckin' deal." - Al 'Grandpa Munster' Lewis

There are two surefire ways to start a fight in America: you can call someone a socialist or you can call someone a liar. Al Lewis, known to millions of television viewers as Grandpa Munster, was both. Had Al Lewis ever written an autobiography, it most certainly would have been marketed as a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book. Lewis was an outspoken progressive, a chronic cigar smoker and a life-long social activist. He was also an expletive-laced teller of tall tales, embellishing every facet of his life with a steady stream of ludicrous proclamations. He was an actor onstage and off, constantly amplifying his own legend. He would always strive to be larger-than-life and generally achieved the objective. "Charles Manson babysat my kids," he once bragged. "He didn't chop no heads off. He was very nice with me." 

 

Fairies and Communists: The Homophobia of Jack Paar by Kliph Nesteroff

I've always been intrigued by Jack Paar. Regarded as an immensely important cog in Tonight Show history, his name was referenced heavily in 'Late Night' news items at the start of 2010. However, few during the last forty years have seen an episode of his show from beginning to end and even less understand why he was special. He had wit, class, taste and a great ability for conversation. Many concede that it was Paar who truly put the 'talk' in the idiom 'talk show.'

He was also somewhat of a nut.

One of Dick Cavett's first jobs in show business was working for Paar. "He was uniquely neurotic in a way that made [one] addicted to watching him," recalls Cavett. "Kenneth Tynan said ... in effect ... about Jack's electric, dangerous on-camera personality that could scare you, 'No matter who's on camera - if it were ... the President or Cary Grant ... you still can't take your eyes off Jack for fear of missing a live nervous breakdown.' And it was true. It all but happened several times." 

While reading Jack Paar's second book, My Saber is Bent (1961, Pocket Books), my mouth froze agape during chapter fourteen. I assumed the page heading, Fairies and Communists, was a tongue-in-cheek title that one needn't take seriously. This is, after all, a book written by a top television comedian. Instead, what it fed me was hitherto overlooked information about Jack Paar. Granted, this was the early sixties; an era when social morales allowed sexism, racism and homophobia to exist more or less unabated. That being said, there were several people that rejected such offensive conventions and the arts were often far more accepting. This is what makes the stance of Paar, by most accounts an erudite man, all the more difficult.

Jack Paar was enamored by Fidel Castro when the Cuban Revolution went down. He returned to television after a Cuban trip with a glowing endorsement of the bearded revolutionary. This incident spawned his notorious feud with catty newspaper columnist Dorothy Kilgallen. One thing rarely mentioned, and something that no newspaper column took him to task for, was Paar's hatred of homosexuals. It is yet another layer in the complex personality of Jack Paar; a man that some considered the most dangerous, on-the-edge personality in the history of television. In the pages of My Saber is Bent, Paar writes without apology about his disdain for gays in show business. He obviously worked very hard to cull a series of quotes from other respected pop culture figures that at some point made a disparaging remark about gays. Ernie Kovacs, Oscar Levant, George Jean Nathan and Alex King are all dragged into Paar's essay to further his cause. This is the bizarre chapter, Fairies and Communists, reproduced in its entirety. It is followed by a brief story on a confrontation that transpired between Jack and the gay community a few years later.

Life at the TCM Classic Film Festival

"Norma Desmond!"

"Norma Desmond's here!"

"Norma Desmond?"

"Norma Desmond!? I thought she was dead!"

There's a famous sequence in Billy Wilder's immortal classic Sunset Blvd (1950) in which Gloria Swanson, playing the fictional character of washed up movie star Norma Desmond, shows up at Paramount Studios to speak to her old director Cecil B. DeMille. We hear the quotes above from fictional gaffers, extras and assorted crew when the forgotten star waltzes onto the backlot. When the film was screened this past weekend at the incredibly elaborate, wonderfully surreal and absolutely exhausting TCM Classic Film Festival in Los Angeles, the audience laughed uproariously at that series of lines.

An audience laughs hardest when they identify with a situation. Last Thursday night, Hollywood legends Margaret O'Brien, Ann Rutherford and Ann Jeffreys sat one table over from me at an opening night party thrown by Vanity Fair's professional party planners. When informed of Ms. Rutherford's presence I was aghast. Ann Rutherford? I thought she was dead!

The TCM Classic Film Festival has been deemed a complete success across the board. Watching Turner Classic Movies is an interesting exercise. Nothing on television is presented so tastefully, with such calculated artistic sense or with such absolute class. But beyond introductions by the universally adored Robert Osborne and the somewhat less adored Ben Mankiewicz, those involved with the channel remain invisible. It is as if this godsend in your cable line-up is beamed in from the moon. Nobody takes credit for the genius of its presentation. To steal a political speech-writing cliché: 'Make no mistake.' TCM is as hip as they come. So I wonder why I assumed those in charge of it would be humorless, elderly curmudgeons and pathetic social degenerates. The TCM Classic Film Festival taught me, to the contrary little Kliph, to the contrary.

The programming, art and even legal departments of TCM are run by the very hep; a collection of engaging non-conformists. I learned that both those in charge of the channel and those obsessed with watching it, do not bend to the whims of others, they know what they like and have no desire to fit in. It was a convention of individualists coming together to discover that they are, perhaps, not quite as alone in the world as day-to-day life makes them feel. The majority of the nearly two thousand delegates that attended the TCM Classic Film Festival came alone; an unparalleled statistic for an event of this scope. However, we bonded, acknowledging that even our closest friends cannot understand why we fawn over Ned Sparks' sneer. We knew that nobody back home could share our enthusiasm for late twenties footage of gyrating dancing girls moving in time to ejaculating marble fountains.¹ Eating breakfast at the hotel restaurant, I overheard a man sucking back an omelette while talking about Marlon Brando's relationship with Wally Cox. I love the fact that suddenly there was a place in the universe where I could actually overhear someone mention Wally Cox. We all agreed, it was nice to not feel completely isolated from society... if only for four days.

The Early Betty White 1947-1973 by Kliph Nesteroff

Betty White is universally loved. Best known for her work on The Mary Tyler Moore Show and The Golden Girls, she has been in show business for over sixty years. But what is it that made Betty White so famous in the first place? A recent blitz of cliché-laden profiles aggrandize about Betty's enduring television career, but rarely do they delve into detail.

Betty White was a ubiquitous show business personality long before she ever played Sue Ann Nivens or Rose Nylund. As the most prolific female of nineteen fifties television, she was consistently attacked by newspaper critics. Open war was declared on White who, with her safe exuberant demeanor, was said to represent everything that was wrong with the medium. During that first decade of television she was often dismissed as too perky, too saccharine - even vacant.

In real life she was anything but. Those critics would have been shocked to learn that she was closest of friends with John Steinbeck. Betty White was more than just a sitcom star, singer, game show panelist and television producer. She was the first woman to host a daytime talk show. She helped a struggling film student, the very un-saccharine Sam Peckinpah, obtain his first job. Twenty years later she discovered a small town weatherman she thought had potential named David Letterman. With a starring role on a program that aired five and a half-hours a day, six days a week, for four consecutive years, and all that has come since, it is arguable that she has spent more time on television than anyone else alive.

This is the early Betty White.

Destination Subconscious: Cary Grant and LSD

"I knew Cary Grant very well and he loved ... what did they call it? Acid! LSD. He said he liked to take the trip." - Debbie Reynolds

"I learned many things in the quiet of that room ... I learned that everything is or becomes its own opposite ... You know, we are all unconsciously holding our anus. In one LSD dream ... I imagined myself as a giant penis launching off from earth like a spaceship." - Cary Grant

It was 1943. Cary Grant was starring in the motion picture Destination Tokyo; an action-filled wartime drama co-starring John Garfield and a deluge of racial slurs. While America was embroiled in the intense fighting of World War Two, Axis powers had surrounded the neutral country of Switzerland. Deep within these beleaguered boundaries, Swiss chemist Albert Hoffman was busy toiling away in a dimly lit laboratory, about to study the properties of a synthesis he had abandoned five years earlier. Hoffman was trying to devise a chemical agent that could act as a circulatory and respiratory stimulant when he accidentally absorbed lysergic acid through his fingers. While Americans sat in darkened theaters enjoying Cary Grant's portrayal of a submarine captain, Hoffman was experiencing accelerated thought patterns, polychromatic visions and an unbearable onslaught of intense emotion. This was the world's first acid trip. The discovery was soon to transform the life of one of Hollywood's most glamorous stars.

Cary Grant was the first mainstream celebrity to espouse the virtues of psychedelic drugs. Whereas novelist Aldous Huxley's famous 1954 treatise The Doors of Perception recounted his remarkable experiences with mescaline, Huxley was hardly mainstream - a darling of intellectual circles to be sure, but a far cry from a matinee idol. Grant was one of the biggest stars Hollywood had to offer when he jumped headlong into Huxley's Heaven and Hell. His endorsement of subconscious exploration, arguably, created more interest in LSD than Dr. Timothy Leary who was largely preaching to the converted.¹ Grant on the other hand was the fantasy of countless Midwestern women. He convinced wholesome movie starlets like Esther Williams and Dyan Cannon to blow their minds. When Ladies Home Journal and Good Housekeeping interviewed him, the topic of conversation wasn't Cary's favorite recipe or "the problem with youth today." Instead, Cary Grant was telling happy homemakers that LSD was the greatest thing in the world.

The Early David Letterman 1967-1980 by Kliph Nesteroff

"Every Sunday at my house we had ... dinner early ...  and watched The Ed Sullivan Show. Whether we wanted to or not. Whether we enjoyed it or not. That was my first lesson in show business. I don't think anybody in the house particularly enjoyed it. We just watched it. Maybe that's the purpose of television. You just turn it on and watch it whether you want to or not." - David Letterman

David Letterman was an entrenched figure of nineteen seventies variety television, appearing in awful sketches and playing the part of "celebrity" on countless game shows. He trudged through various smelters of TV that could very well be classified as crimes against humanity. A small sample of his resumé contains The Gong Show, The Starland Vocal Band's variety show, Battle of the Network Stars and a cornball NBC movie-of-the-week. Without this steady onslaught of garbage his story would be a lot less interesting. A famous comedian's novice career is often the most fascinating part of their biography.¹ Letterman's early showbiz struggles included encounters with a non-believing Tom Snyder, an extremely intoxicated Ringo Starr and even one of those "very special" sitcom episodes... one that dealt with venereal disease.

This is the early David Letterman.

The Early Woody Allen 1952-1971

Woody Allen is one of very few comedic delineations universally respected by comedy writers the world over. Held in high esteem by comedy's upper crust, the snooty savants of literature and the vast film literati, Allen is one of the few comedy titans actually considered an artist. Woody Allen's comedic acumen spans all genres. It has yet to be matched.

However, the first several years of his career are rarely discussed. It is a fascinating period. Comedy devotees swear by the recordings of his stand-up act. At the time of his 1963 debut comedy record, Woody was a smart up-and-comer who'd already logged ten years in the business. But he was far from the personality we think of today.

Most comedians early in their career involve themselves with peripheral showbiz ventures, both to make their name and to survive. Cerebral as we may think Woody Allen to be, he was in many ways no different than most struggling low brow comedians that permeated the landscape. A shill for Parker Brothers and Smirnoff Vodka. A frequent game show panelist. A propagandist for Allen Funt's Candid Camera. None of these things spring to mind when we think of the storied career of Allen Konigsberg, but they were essential activities in his formative years.

This is the early Woody Allen.

The Late Night Distemper of Our Times

"If history were past... history wouldn't matter ... But history is present ... You and I are history. We carry our history. We act our history." - James Baldwin

"It's stunning how Jay Leno outfoxed you again ... Your agent [said], 'There's good news and bad news. You are doing The Tonight Show ... Uh, but remember that discussion we had where you said I'll never have to fuckin' follow Leno again?" - Norm Macdonald appearing on Late Night with Conan O'Brien, February 10, 2009¹

It's a maxim and a cliché that history repeats itself. Late night talk shows have been the victims of literal temper and metaphorical distemper for sixty years. Before the Conan quagmire, The Jay Leno Show disaster and even before David Letterman put his penis directly into a vagina, there was no shortage of late night tabloid fodder. Nor was there any lack of infuriating TV executive fatuousness.

Bill Carter's Late Shift and its subsequent HBO film now represent what television was in the nineties. The Joan Rivers - Johnny Carson feud played itself out publicly and bitterly in the eighties. Regis Philbin showed fascinating temperament in the sixties when he quit his sidekick stint during an episode of The Joey Bishop Show, explaining that he was appeasing his critics. But the controversy taking center stage this month belongs to the list of late night talk show hosts that have had to battle blundering network executives and their grand schemes. Sadly, this is nothing new.

The Jay Leno Show, both the show itself and the network's decision what to do about it, is just the most recent poster child of late night carnage. Previous late night car wrecks included The Magic Johnson Show, The Pat Sajak Show and The Chevy Chase Show.² However, the biggest late night talk show calamity in history was one that, after all the gouged out eyeballs were counted, left the most casualties. It was the most expensive late night talk show ever made and certainly the longest. It starred comedy's most polarizing figure and could only sustain itself three months. Time Magazine, one month into the program's run, delivered this review:

ABC has given him two full hours ... the show is loaded with intramural cracks, tedium, desperate looking guests reaching for laughs, mechanical dolls that wave their arms and drop their pants, additional tedium, and the apparent illusion that several million people want to watch 120 minutes of the scriptless life of a semi-educated, egocentric boor.

Ladies and gentlemen, The Jerry Lewis Show.