WFMU's Beware of the Blog

Just What the Doctor Ordered: LSD and The Strangest Player in Major League History

"Pitching is the art of instilling fear." - Sandy Koufax

How many hits did Pittsburgh Pirates pitcher Dock Ellis have to contend with on June 12th, 1970? Depending on your interpretation of the question it was several or none. In an amazing story that is rarely in any baseball highlight reel, Ellis pitched the only LSD induced no-hitter in the history of major league baseball. Let's see Barry Bonds or Alex Rodriguez enhance their game on psychedelics (no really, let's see it!). Dock Ellis was baseball's first true king of performance enhancing drugs. Ah, but wait... there's more. Dock Ellis is probably the only player in history that intentionally tried to injure his opponents during the event usually so full of jocular goodwill, the annual All-Star game. He's one of the few (the only?) to be pepper sprayed by stadium security upon arrival. How many other major leaguers spent their off-season cruising through the ghettos of Haiti in a borrowed jeep in order to find zombies? These are all amazing, yet typical anecdotes from the life of one of baseball's great eccentrics.

Dock Ellis was a baby of Hollywood born on March eleventh, nineteen forty-five. He was signed to the Pittsburgh Pirates as an amateur free agent in the early sixties. "I signed to play baseball in 1963, right after I was released from jail for stealing a car."

Tonto via Toronto: The Rise and Fall of Jay Silverheels

Jay Silverheels was one of the most famous and successful Canadian actors in the history of Hollywood. For decades, The Lone Ranger and his trusty sidekick Tonto were pop culture symbols as universally identifiable as Mickey Mouse. Although several different actors took their hand at portraying Tonto, none were as well known as Jay Silverheels. A Mohawk from Six Nations of the Grand River in Ohsweken just outside Brantford, Ontario,¹ Silverheels was born into poverty and literally fought his way out of it by becoming a middleweight boxer, placing well in Golden Glove competitions. While Silverheels was to become an international star, well paid and in steady demand, he remained in the eyes of the Canadian government what he was in the eyes of the make-believe cowboys in his films: A not-so-trusty "Injun," not worth half that of a white man.

Jay Silverheels fled to the United States to pursue a show business career. For his fellow Natives in Canada there was no such luck. As Silverheels made his way South, Aboriginal children across Canada were rounded up, taken from their families and put into government schools, regarded as "dirty" and "godless" and forcefully taught Christianity. At the same time the adult Native population was denied the right to vote for similarly racist reasons. No wonder Tonto left Canada for life with The Lone Ranger.

By the time the nineteen sixties rolled around Native people across Canada were finally granted voting rights. At the same time, Silverheels was being stripped of his status as a reliable Hollywood character actor by increasingly vocal pressure groups sick and tired of the chronic, stereotyped caricatures of Native Americans in popular culture. 

The Early George Carlin 1956-1970

When a celebrity dies, the varied newspaper obituaries rarely reveal anything that isn't common knowledge. However, in the case of the late George Carlin, even some of his most fervent fans were likely surprised to find out that he was once a member of an early sixties comedy team. Several discovered for the first time that he had been a gifted mimic, his abilities putting impressionists like Rich Little to shame (perhaps not a hard thing to do). The clean version of George Carlin has been immortalized on what is commonly and erroneously referred to as his "first album" Take Offs and Put Ons. The clean (and clean shaven) version of Carlin can be seen nightly in most television markets across North America, sitting on a 1966 Tonight Show panel performing his character Al Sleet, the Hippy Dippy weatherman, on an infomercial for Johnny Carson DVDs. Despite all this, the early, square years of George Carlin's show business career remain enigmatic. I grant you these years are not as profound or as important as his precise, scathing, intellectual material of the nineteen seventies and the great HBO specials that followed, but they are a fascinating look into the formative and transformative process of a great mind and the evolution of an artist.

Unfortunately no official biography has been written to date on Carlin's life. The earliest years of his career have yet to receive any comprehensive exploration. In a 1998 interview with Tom Snyder, Carlin said that he had a biography he was "working on now" in collaboration with Tony Hendra. It was the first time he mentioned the project and it has not been referred to since. Until the time when such a book comes to fruition, we can merely piece together tidbits from the several hundred interviews he conducted and some of the ancient footage that has survived in order to trace the path of the baby faced, clean cut, early George Carlin.   

Milton Delugg Conquers the Martians

Ventriloquist dummies, the distributor of Mexican wrestling films, Buddy Holly, kitschy game shows, vampires, Frank Zappa collaborating with Burt Ward, Santa Claus Conquers the Martians and The Gong Show. What do all of these things have in common? Well, other than annoying my girlfriend and just being super awesome, they mark the varying cornerstones of a remarkable and eccentric musician, composer and bandleader named Milton Delugg.

My first conscience introduction to Delugg was through an instrumental novelty LP called Vampire's Ball on United Artists that, like so many of my favorite albums, I randomly stumbled upon in the depths of the immense CBC Radio record library (a dungeon where you're likely to bump into not just myself but, occasionally, WFMU's Otis Fodder). Milton Delugg's name appears modestly in small print on the back cover and in the vernacular of sixties liner notes, boy, does this record move! You can download the whole album here. Not only does it feature the faux-Karloff voices that were standard on the post-Monster Mash cash-ins, it also has references to S&M, a take-off on Stan Freberg's John & Marsha and some stereotyped Gay lisping. This album is as good an introduction to Delugg's music and personality as you can get - now let's learn about his career. Plenty of fun - guaranteed.

Murray Roman: Reflections of his Contemporaries - Pt 4: Mason Williams

Continuing with the life of the neglected counterculture comedian as explored in the article The Forgrotten Murray Roman, we present a transcript of the interview done with Mason Williams for that piece. Williams was a folk musician during the genre's height in the early nineteen sixties. He became friendly with The Smothers Brothers through those circles and was the first writer brought on board by Tom Smothers when the Comedy Hour hit the air. Williams is best remembered today for his colossal instrumental hit, Classical Gas.

Mason Williams: Well, let's see. I heard about Murray back in 1961. I was playing a club in Denver called The Exodus. People were talking about the new comedians that were coming out of the folk scene. Murray may have been more like a stand-up comedian out on the East Coast that was starting to play these clubs. And that's when I first heard about him, but I didn't really hook up with him until The Smothers Brothers [Comedy Hour]. He was probably hired in the summer of '68, for the summer show. Tommy was impressed with the comedy album that he had made... I can't remember what it was called.
Kliph Nesteroff: You Can't Beat People Up and Have Them Say I Love You.
MW: Right. So, anyway, Tommy's whole thing was to hire ten new writers, and sort of break them into sort of becoming writers on that summer show. Steve Martin was part of that. I talked Tommy into hiring Steve. And Bob Einstein and... I don't know if you have that whole list.

Murray Roman: Reflections of his Contemporaries - Pt. 3: Bob Einstein

Bob Einstein comes from a phenomenal showbiz family. His father Harry Einstein changed his name to Harry Parke and had great success with a comedy character named Parkyarkarkus in the thirties and forties. Harry passed away tragically and remarkably at a Friar's Club Roast of Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz. Harry had three sons and two would work in comedy. Those two were Bob Einstein and Albert Einstein. The latter became famous under the name Albert Brooks and the former under the name Super Dave Osborne. This is a discussion I had recently with Bob Einstein about his co-worker Murray Roman.

Kliph Nesteroff: Hello?
Bob Einstein: Is this Kliph?
KN: Yes.
BE: Bob Einstein.
KN: Hey, Bob Einstein. So, I guess Steve talked to you?
BE: Yeah, I'm not sure what I can remember about Murray, but you'll ask the questions and if I have an answer I'll give it to you.
KN: Okay, that sounds good.
BE: First of all, why are you doing a story about Murray Roman? That's the key.
KN: Yes, well, we like to unearth strange records and recordings that don't really have much explanation or information about them... in books or online or wherever. So one of the records that I decided to explore was a Murray Roman comedy record called You Can't Beat People Up and Have Them Say I Love You. It's been really hard to find information about Murray for a long time, so he's sort of the topic for this week. I've written about some other comedians... I actually wrote a little bit about your father, in passing, because I did an article about Bert Gordon, The Mad Russian.
BE: Right.
KN: And since they were sort of connected I talked about...
BE: They really weren't, if you want to know the truth.
KN: No?
BE: Not in any way.
KN: They just appeared in films together... every now and then?
BE: Uhhhh... I don't remember that... but it's possible. Some people at times thought The Mad Russian was my dad and that my dad was The Mad Russian. But my dad was a lot funnier, a hundred times funnier than The Mad Russian. The Mad Russian I think was basically a Mad Russian.
KN: Right. Well, I've seen a couple movies that they appear in together*. Bert Gordon and Parkyarkarkus both seemed to be regulars on both The Eddie Cantor Show and then...
BE: Noooo. My dad was. The Mad Russian was not.
KN: I found a couple radio shows where they...
BE: Not a regular.
KN: Okay, not a regular.
BE: Ohhhhh, don't use that word regular! Okay, let's get off that and on to Murray Roman and how the hell we remember anything about Murray. I tell you who would remember something about Murray Roman. Tom Smothers.
KN: I did talk to him last week.
BE: Okay.
KN: His recollections were very helpful.
BE: Right.
KN: Did you ever see Murray Roman perform stand-up or did you just know him through the writer's room?
BE: I think I knew him through the writer's room. I might have seen him do stand-up once in a while, but his stand-up was kind of a combination of Lenny Bruce without really being Lenny Bruce, but trying to be Lenny Bruce and then some shtick mixed in.
KN: Right.

Murray Roman: Reflections of his Contemporaries - Pt. 2: Steve Martin

Murray Roman was a counterculture comedian and writer who had his greatest success in the late nineteen sixties, opening for rock groups and writing for The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour. His unique comedy LPs are fascinating time capsules. Today we continue exploring his life and career by speaking with another person who worked with him, but first I encourage you to go read the article, The Forgotten Murray Roman. Here is the transcript of a recent discussion with Steve Martin.

Kliph Nesteroff: I have a bunch of Murray Roman records and...
Steve Martin: I don't think I've ever heard one...
KN: Well, one of his most famous is called You Can't Beat People Up and Have Them Say I Love You.
SM: Right.
KN: It was on an obscure label that was run by Roy Silver, Bill Cosby and...
SM: Yeah, Tetragrammaton, right?
KN: Yeah. So, we're basically trying to find out information about Murray Roman and give the story of his life and talk to people who worked with him.
SM: Right. Are you in contact with his ex-wife... I don't know if she was with him when he died or not... but his wife from the sixties?
KN: No. I don't even really know who she is.
SM: I don't remember her name. Tommy might remember. She was unbelievably beautiful. And it seemed like a mismatch, but evidently they were very happy.
KN: When did you first encounter him? Did you know him from stand-up circles before you guys were writing together?

Murray Roman: Reflections of his Contemporaries - Pt. 1: Tom Smothers

The Forgotten Murray Roman was the name of an article posted a few weeks ago about a counterculture stand-up comic who is none-too-famous today. Perhaps the one living person who can tell us the most about Murray Roman is the man who hired him as a writer on The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, Tom Smothers. Here is the transcript of a conversation I had with Tom a few days ago.
Tom Smothers: You Can't Beat People Up and Have Them Say I Love You? lt's relevant now, isn't it?
Kliph Nesteroff:  Yeah, it's a very interesting record and I feel that Murray Roman... is a neglected sorta person in comedy history, y'know.
TS: Yeah, I agree. I agree, man. Okay.
KN: He actually released four records in his career, but I guess that one is the most famous.
TS: And that was the best one, isn't it?
KN: Well, I actually haven't heard any of the others - they're quite scarce.
TS: And really old.
KN: So ... where did you first meet Murray Roman and when was the first time you saw him perform?
TS: I saw him perform back in the sixties... nineteen... sixty-one... in Aspen, Colorado and he did ski jokes. Y'know, skiing jokes and cold... snow jokes. And I met him there... and in L.A. later on... in sixty-five and sixty-six, I'd run into him and see him work a little here and there. When we got The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, which was nineteen sixty-six... I hired him as a writer on the show... and I always considered... good comedians were always pretty good writers, I always thought. And he was a pretty good writer. Most of his gift was sitting in the writer meetings and throwing one-liners out against the material. That's how he'd find his stuff. He didn't write so well - he talked his writing. We had a couple little pieces where he's on stage on the show... he didn't perform that much on the show... but the reason I hired him was because of that album.

The Forgotten Murray Roman

The first time I laid eyes on Murray Roman's late sixties comedy LP You Can't Beat People Up and Have Them Say I Love You I figured he was one of the many aging recording artists trying to cash in on the summer of love by "playing hippie." Phony groups like Imperial Records' The Love Generation* embarrassed kids with cover photos featuring people in beads and granny-glasses who resembled their parents and a summer of mid-life crisis.

Roman's kaleidoscopic image resembled the cigar chomping television producer Freddy De Cordova if the cigars had been turned into "blunts." His voice had the timber of a Lenny Bruce impression peppered with "mans," "far-outs" and many the reference to smoking bananas. The Lenny Bruce motif was no accident. Bob Einstein, who worked with Murray, remembers that Lenny Bruce "was his idol ... He lived as Lenny Bruce."

For many years I had wondered about this strange audio cut-up masquerading as a comedy album. It showcases a hippie stand-up comedy act combined with abrupt music interrupting routines that fade into reverberating psychedelic echo. Murray Roman continues to be a mystery for several reasons; He died early, most of his fans were on drugs when they heard or saw him, and his albums aren't just obscure today, but were on the peripheral even when they were released initially.

Time to change all that. Let's talk about the life of Murray Roman and to start, here is his first LP You Can't Beat People Up and Have Them Say I Love You for your listening confusion.

Spooky and Kooky: The Career of Gene Moss

Eugene Harold Mashontz was a funny comedy writer and performer who seemed to specialize in playing vampires, mad scientists and silly characters with a classic-monster bent. Monsters were big from 1957-1967, especially with children fascinated by all things Frankenstein, Dracula or Wolfman. Famous Monsters was a best-selling magazine (it even spawned an LP), Bobby "Boris" Pickett's Monster Mash was a number one single, Milton the Monster was a popular cartoon, The Munsters and The Addams Family were sitcoms that debuted in the same week, and every city seemed to have a Late Late Show of classic horror movies hosted by a local personality draped in make-up, surrounded by coffins and cobwebs.

Into the mix came Gene Moss. The market was flooded with novelty recordings sung by the living dead after the success of Monster Mash. The list of monster related novelty music is too huge to tackle today, but one of the greats was a full length LP that featured the masterful vocal talents of Gene Moss. It was called Dracula's Greatest Hits. Get your Halloween party started right by listening to the entire, very scratchy, LP here.

The Lazy Eye of Jack Elam

It's hard to mention Jack Elam without somebody responding, "Jackie Lamb?" No, Jack ... Elam. "Jack E. Lamb? The old vaudeville star?" No. Jack Elam. The cowboy that looks like a combination of Neil Young and Marty Feldman.

Elam was one of those great character actors that filled movie fans with giddiness when he appeared on the screen. He was known for playing burly cowpokes with a penchant for bumbling heists, but Elam actually started his motion picture career as a skinny pug in exploitation pictures. Forgotten today is his popularity among auteurs like Fritz Lang, Sam Peckinpah and Don Siegel. Although Jack is associated almost exclusively with westerns, throughout the nineteen fifties he was a staple in the world of film noir.

Jack Elam was blind in his left eye since childhood. It was often doctored with make-up or shot around in his first several screen appearances. His eye does not stand out in most of his early anonymous roles. It became prevalent after, I assume, he was told it could be his pay dirt. Elam entered show business after several years as an accountant (just like Bob Newhart).

One of Jack's first pictures was She Shoulda Said No! (1949), an anti-marijuana exploitation film thrown together in a couple days in order to capitalize on film noir bad boy Robert Mitchum's conviction for marijuana possession. Here is the trailer for the roadshow B-film courtesy one of our favorite companies, Something Weird Video.

Moms Mabley - Agitation in Moderation

"Moms Mabley ... She was fabulous." - Rudy Ray Moore

Moms Mabley was one of the greatest comedians of all time. She is widely regarded as one of the most important African-American entertainers that ever lived and as the first bonafide female stand-up comedy superstar. At her peak, she was making ten thousand dollars a week for stage appearances alone. It's ridiculous that a book has yet to be written* about this comedy legend, one of the first to use the stage to advocate civil rights for both her race and gender. The social issues that boiled over in the late sixties were something Mabley had been addressing for decades. When the struggle against war, racism and varied discrimination became the focus of a new generation, Mabley suddenly found herself a bigger star than before, her message embraced by those involved in the fight. Television programming geared to the new youth market regularly booked Mabley and white viewers discovered the joy that the Black community had known about for years. The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour booked Mabley several times. So did ABC's Music Scene, a program that featured musicians on the Billboard Top Ten, which in turn meant plenty of counterculture performers whose smelly clothes and pacifist postures would normally have had them escorted off the lot.

From Wall of Sound to Huckleberry Hound: The Vinyl Side of Hanna-Barbera

Hanna-Barbera will always be synonymous with their "Saturday morning assembly line" as 60 Minutes once described it. Although their cartoons were never synonymous with quality, the endless stream of licensed merchandise that was churned out to cash in on the popular HB characters was even more dubious. From their weird line of cigarette smoking figurines to the incorrectly colored comic book adaptations, Hanna-Barbera products rarely achieved even the marginal quality of the cartoons they were based on.

There is an exception to this rule. In 1965, after six years of licensing their characters to the Colpix and Golden record companies, they founded their own label, Hanna-Barbera Records. The company put out, as you might expect, albums based on The Flintstones, Atom Ant, Touché Turtle et al. However, they were also responsible for some of the most impressive (and now sought after) garage rock, psychedelia and rugged soul music of the era - and indirectly spawned a band called Three Dog Night.

Henry Morgan: Fuck the Sponsor

Henry Morgan was one of the rare radio stars of the nineteen forties to approach comedy from an intellectual stand point. Most popular comedy personalities relied on a stable of writers and "switch" jokes (bits that featured minor changes on a tired routine in attempt to sell them off as a new gag). Fred Allen, Henry Morgan, Stan Freberg and Bob & Ray were all popular during their era and were some of the first to break away from the old manner of operating. Yet the names tossed around today as the stars of old time radio comedy remain Jack Benny, Bob Hope, Red Skelton, Amos n' Andy, and for some reason, Fibber McGee and Molly. Not to take anything away from these often very funny performers and their respective shows (Okay, we'll take a little bit away from Amos n' Andy) but several decades later we should be able to acknowledge those whose comedy holds up as still funny and relevant. Those are the performers who, in retrospect, are the true stars of old time radio and deserve reverence today (I enjoy Bob Hope and probably listen to his Pepsodent radio program far more often than any young boy in his twenties should, but let's be realistic - most of it doesn't hold up).

Henry Morgan saw through all that was phony and contrived in the world of American media and held it in contempt. While most performers in early television pretended that dancing girls dressed as giant packs of cigarettes was perfectly normal, Morgan was pointing out the lunacy.

Morgan found television insipid but, incongruously, received his greatest fame as a game show panelist. That didn't soften his disposition any, although it may have humbled him somewhat. Listening to The Henry Morgan Show today is refreshing. Radio sponsors (that is to say corporate America) so dominated radio and television in the thirties, forties and fifties that it was rare to hear a point of view that contradicted that of R.J. Reynolds, Procter and Gamble or The United Fruit Company. Listening to Henry Morgan is to reassure us about the time period. Not everybody was Joseph McCarthy and not everybody bought the premise of the Cold War. Seven out of ten doctors did not actually recommend the leading brand of cigarette nor did most people believe that they did. Just as today, corporate media represented a minority opinion. A very wealthy and powerful minority that, were it not for voices like Henry Morgan's, we might believe represented the majority of Americans.

A Tale of Two Gordons

Today we explore two men of show business named Bert Gordon. First we'll meet Bert Gordon, a comedy actor from the days of old time radio with a crazy face, a funny voice and a wildly popular but short career. Then we will meet the other Bert Gordon, an inept film director who pumped out fodder for the drive-in circuit, almost always about exposure to atomic radiation resulting in monstrous growth.

THE FIRST BERT GORDON...

Most fans knew the first Bert Gordon simply as The Mad Russian (a moniker that would later be co-opted to describe various wrestlers, ball players and communist adversaries). Bert Gordon used his "real name" when doing business, although it turns out that Bert Gordon was also a pseudonym.

You Wanna Make A Federal Case Outta It!? The Hilarious Arnold Stang

I love Arnold Stang. During the filming of It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World (1963), Spencer Tracy laughed every time Arnold Stang said good morning to him. It wasn't that Stang was "always on," although he could be when he wanted to, but Stang was just unintentionally funny all the time. When he actually tried to be funny it was doubly hilarious. Stang feigned confusion and indifference about Tracy's incessant laughing, "I guess he found me amusing," he said. It is hard to believe that anybody in his presence wouldn't.

Arnold Stang had the look of a bird, the voice of a Bowery newsboy and the ability to upstage the biggest comedy stars of his day. His radio, television and film career had him right in the thick of many amazing and often very weird productions. His voice is one of the most distinct and unmistakable in the history of show business. He will turn eighty-two years old later this year.

WARNING: This article will veer off into all sorts of elaborate off-topic and unnecessary tangents!

Murder in the Kornfield: The Life and Death of Stringbean

Banjo picker, country comedian, originator of hip-hop fashion, Dave "Stringbean" Akeman is a legend in country music. Everything about the man defied convention, but at the same time his music defined tradition. The start of his life followed what seems to be the ready-made template of country music biographies: growing up poor in Kentucky, born into a musical family, a father who played banjo at local barn dances who taught him how to play... if his childhood were depicted in a movie critics would pan it for being hackneyed, hokey and clichéd. Stringbean traded two chickens in exchange for his first banjo. As he entered adulthood, the six foot five plucker entered a talent show and won. Asa Martin, a musical saw player with some clout, awarded the prize to Stringbean and helped him attain his first paying gigs. While performing part time, Stringbean also travelled the south as a semi-pro ball player, something that also seems to be somewhat of a country music cliché (Roy Acuff, Dave Dudley, Charlie Pride and Jim Reeves all had semi-professional baseball careers).

Just so the uninitiated are on the same page as established Stringbean fans, please check out these Stringbean offerings before we continue: First, four performances from The Wilburn Brothers Show that truly showcase Stringbean's direct influence on gangsta fashion. The song Gone Fishin' is over here, Little Red Wagon is here, Old Joe Clark is here and the rockin' Fire on the Mountain can be found here. Next up are two turns from The Porter Wagoner Show. String performs Pretty Little Widow and The Battle of New Orleans (featuring some surprise cameos). And lastly, some early kinescopes of Stringbean, on what looks like The Grand Ole Opry television show, with host Red Foley. Bean plays Wake Up Little Betty and the song Stringbean and his Banjo that shows off his ability to play the instrument like a mad man.

Yes, They Called Him the Streak

You all know this photo. It's the Oscar streaker. And it's David Niven looking at who knows what. I've searched the internet far and wide and, for the life of me, can not find one image of streaker Robert Opel's uncropped, unblurred "statuette." It might be for the best (maybe he was just born with a blurry penis), but you'd think that at one of the most photographed events in America, there might have been more than two photos of Opel's legendary jaunt. Ah, but here's the thing. Many people believe that the famous incident, where this naked man ran through the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion past David Niven at the 46th annual Academy Awards, was staged. This theory of planned spontaneity receives most of its weight from the fact that Opel wasn't even arrested for trespassing on Hollywood's most exclusive event, but instead got dressed (with clothes provided for him by the Academy) and had security promptly escort him to "winner's row" where he held a press conference! Opel was sporting a blue jumpsuit when he showed up, and still managed to remain undetected. But a little bit of investigation lays the conspiracy theories to rest - it also opens up a fascinating story about a man most know only as a photograph.

Robert Opel (sometimes Opal) was born completely naked on October 23rd, 1939. He was thirty-three years old when he crashed the gate of the Oscars. Moustached, long-haired, flashing the peace sign - he was a member of the fleeting Los Angeles hippy scene and a key figure in the burgeoning gay liberation movement of the early nineteen seventies. Opel was a mover and a shaker (spare me your obvious jokes) in underground art movements on both coasts. His Oscar stunt gave him immense publicity and in art circles, strange as it might seem, a significant amount of credibility.

Opel's streaking tendencies had started several months prior to the Oscar ceremonies. He had appeared naked, on more than one occasion, at Los Angeles City Council meetings. The purpose was to protest the City Council's plan to place a ban on nudity at local beaches. He stood with his balls strategically swaying in front of the seated Los Angeles Police Chief Ed Davis' face. "I thought the Council should see what an actual nude person looks like," he said. When he appeared at his court trial after being arrested for the display, he showed up dressed as Uncle Sam. He was sentenced to four months in prison for public lewdness (later diminished to probation). A 1979 San Francisco Chronicle profile spoke of his advocacy for "sexual freedom." The article stated, "He wanted people to be absolutely free sexually ... He saw sexual repression everywhere. And he believed it was politically motivated ..."

Would You Believe Don Adams was a Joke Thief?

When stand-up comedian Joe Rogan confronted notorious joke stealer Carols Mencia in the middle of "his" routine last February it spawned an internet phenomenon. Rogan suddenly had legions of fans and Mencia was quickly discredited. Video footage of Mencia performing material that belonged to other comedians flooded video-sharing sites. The incident spawned several blog entries, print magazine articles and news channel stories about famous joke thieves through history. There were the standard references to Milton Berle and Robin Williams and the occasional mention of Dane Cook. One story from comedy history fell by the sidelines. Don Adams was a joke thief.

Most people don't even realize that Adams was a stand-up comic. Everyone knows him as the star of Get Smart, but the character of Maxwell Smart was in fact based on Don Adams' nightclub persona. Adams was never really one to produce his own material, but then again, neither were most nightclub comedians of his era. Almost everyone solicited material from writers and Adams was no different. His childhood friend, Bill Dana, grew up to be an accomplished comedy writer having been hired by Steve Allen to work on the original Tonight Show. With Dana's help, Adams was able to enjoy a successful stand-up career - but not a particularly honest one.

Bill Thompson: King of Wimps

Bill Thompson had one of the funniest voices in history but his larynges are more famous than his name. The voice of the henpecked husband or meek little pushover in hundreds of cartoons and radio shows, Thompson's characters always seemed to be on the verge of being clobbered with a rolling pin. His most famous voice creation was the mush-mouthed cartoon hound, Droopy. He lent this well-known voice to several characters over the course of four decades, never ceasing to be amusing (incidentally, the picture on the left was harder to obtain than I would have figured - typing "droopy" into Google Image search serves up many undesirable, if not altogether stomach churning, results).

The voice that we now associate with Droopy was in use for years before Thompson first lent it to the MGM cartoon star. The Breakfast Club with Don McNeill, an extremely popular radio variety show during the thirties and forties, featured Thompson as a drooping character named Mister Wimple during the 1934-35 season. He was also called on to provide various animal noises when the script needed it (many of the networks would have an "animal mimic" on the payroll for just this specific service - jumping from show to show). Each day The Breakfast Club featured a popular(!) segment titled Prayer Time that was just as it stated - a minute of dead air while the cast and audience prayed. According to the book Don McNeill and His Breakfast Club by John Doolittle (University of Notre Dame Press, 2001) the show was a favorite of J. Edgar Hoover.