Actually, I don't know and I don't care. But it seemed like a good title for this blog. My beef with The Donald dates back to the summer of 1998 during the yearly New York Book Fair on Fifth Avenue. I was there with my friend Paul Hiatt, and he would help me sell my out-of-print books on the sidewalk. For that occasion, the street was closed to traffic from 42nd Street to 57th Street, and authors were permitted to sell their books. Publishers paid to have their stalls on Fifth Avenue and promote new publications.
On this Sunday the weather was perfect for the crowds of people who attended. My location was in front of Trump Tower on the sidewalk. Sales were brisk for about twenty minutes; then The Donald's security guards approched me, saying: "Sorry. You'll have to pack up and leave this location.The order is from Donald Trump who owns this sidewalk."
A retired police officer nearby heard their ultimatum and came closer to dispute that command.
"No way," he said. "The sidewalk belongs to the city of New York, not Donald Trump. Besides, this is Book Fair Day and authors and publishers own the right to sell their books anywhere on Fifth Avenue, from 9 am until 5 pm."
But the security guards weren't deterred. They started putting my books into the boxes and, despite my protests, Paul and I were moved away from Trump Tower. Nor was I about to engage in combat with the beefy security guys, albeit they were ready to battle.
Paul and I sold more books at other locations on Fifh Avenue but the place in front of Trump Tower had been the best. We packed up early and went to dinner. I told Paul my plan for the next day: Small Claims Court.
I've been to Small Claims Court over a dozen times during the past several decades. Once when American Airlines lost my box of 500 books on the way to a convention in Dallas. The court issued a judgement for $1,500 in lost sales and they paid up. Another time a British producer stiffed me on a $400 fee promised; I collected in full, plus 15% interest. Now, the court awarded me $900 for lost sales at the Book Fair.
I received a Default Judgment and Trump's lawyers weren't even in court to contest it. That sum is too small for them to waste their time and they knew I would have difficulty in locating the proper company, among his many, to collect my money. True. That was going to be an almost impossible task. Well, almost.
My judgement was good for twenty years. So I went to Atlantic City, NJ and visited the Sheriff. I asked him to auction Trump's Taj Mahal Hotel, I would take the first $900 and give him the next 55 million. He called the local newspaper, they ran a story and I received a call from Mr. Diamond, one of Trump's lawyers. He offered me $1,000 to forgive and forget. An excellent idea! Stay tuned.
Monday, March 10, 2014
Sunday, March 9, 2014
The World's Biggest Prick
During the 70's I was distributing our comedy feature film, "Is There Sex After Death," featuring Buck Henry ("The Graduate"), rated R, with glowing reviews from the media, and lines around the block at Cinema II on New York City's eastside. Cinema I, next door, was showing Stanley Kubrick's "Clockwork Orange" with modest attendance.
As our distribution spread nationally, I was receiving offers for home video rights. Heron International in London asked for a two-year contract with a $5,000 advance. That was a large amount in 1972 and I accepted the offer.
A man named Ronson was the CEO. He airmailed the contracts and a week later we had a company check. So far so good. Then I waited for their first VHS copy they promised to send. The weeks went by. Nothing in the mail. What was going on over there?
After three months I called the sales manager in London and I taped our conversation:
He: I'm sorry Mr. Abel, but we've had a problem with your movie.
Me: Such as?
He: Well, Mrs. Ronson happened to enter the screening room and observe the last scene. You know, it's called "The International Sex Bowl," whereby couples from various countries compete for climax before a black tie audience. She said it was disgusting and the company should not distribute your dirty movie."
Me: Sir, it's satire. You've mentioned one scene out of context. That's not fair. Now what happens?
He: We have your negative and VHS copies, all 1,000, in storage. And we'll return them to you if you return our advance check for $5,000. Otherwise, wait two years and you'll get everything back when the contract expires.
Me: I am flabbergasted, I said. That's a form of legal extortion. In the USA you would be obligated to perform or give up contract rights....
He: But not in England. We have a very strong moral code here. And your movie violates it.
Me: What if 10,000 people went to video stores and demanded to rent or buy "Is There Sex After Death?"
He: Well, that could make a difference and persuade us to overrule Mrs. Ronson's disdain. But that's not going to happen.
Me: I have a plan in mind that could attract those numbers seeking our movie. It would be a contest.
He: Good luck with that. Now if you'll pardon me, I have to attend a meeting.
My contest was going to be quite simple. Since the London company was a conglomerate with many interests in properties such as nursing homes and hospital supplies, such as bandages and hypodermic needles, I would create a contest among video stores to find a customer with the largest prick on his or her arm.
Within a week I mailed flyers to 50 video stores in London, Birmingham and Bristol announcing a contest promoting "Is There Sex After Death" by submitting photos showing a prick on the arm. The people with the largest pricks would receive a number of prizes. And the winner, a free expense paid trip to America.
It took only a few days after the mailing that I received a very angry call from CEO Ronson. He was shouting, in fact screaming, and I had to hold the phone away from my ear. But I heard his message loud and clear: "How dare you launch such an insidious, filthy, rotten contest at our company. Our barristers will be filing a law suit immediately."
The next day their chief lawyer was on the phone and he spoke with a very calm voice, explaining that I should cease and desist with the contest. If so, they were willing to tear up the contract and return our negative and all VHS copies in storage without charge. And we could keep the advance. I agreed wholeheartedly.
Fast forward ten years. A story in the NEW YORK TIMES reported that Mr. Ronson, and other executives with his company, had been indicted for fraudulent activities in the UK stock market. There was going to be stiff fines and jail time for all. I've often wondered what Mrs. Ronson had to say about that!
As our distribution spread nationally, I was receiving offers for home video rights. Heron International in London asked for a two-year contract with a $5,000 advance. That was a large amount in 1972 and I accepted the offer.
A man named Ronson was the CEO. He airmailed the contracts and a week later we had a company check. So far so good. Then I waited for their first VHS copy they promised to send. The weeks went by. Nothing in the mail. What was going on over there?
After three months I called the sales manager in London and I taped our conversation:
He: I'm sorry Mr. Abel, but we've had a problem with your movie.
Me: Such as?
He: Well, Mrs. Ronson happened to enter the screening room and observe the last scene. You know, it's called "The International Sex Bowl," whereby couples from various countries compete for climax before a black tie audience. She said it was disgusting and the company should not distribute your dirty movie."
Me: Sir, it's satire. You've mentioned one scene out of context. That's not fair. Now what happens?
He: We have your negative and VHS copies, all 1,000, in storage. And we'll return them to you if you return our advance check for $5,000. Otherwise, wait two years and you'll get everything back when the contract expires.
Me: I am flabbergasted, I said. That's a form of legal extortion. In the USA you would be obligated to perform or give up contract rights....
He: But not in England. We have a very strong moral code here. And your movie violates it.
Me: What if 10,000 people went to video stores and demanded to rent or buy "Is There Sex After Death?"
He: Well, that could make a difference and persuade us to overrule Mrs. Ronson's disdain. But that's not going to happen.
Me: I have a plan in mind that could attract those numbers seeking our movie. It would be a contest.
He: Good luck with that. Now if you'll pardon me, I have to attend a meeting.
My contest was going to be quite simple. Since the London company was a conglomerate with many interests in properties such as nursing homes and hospital supplies, such as bandages and hypodermic needles, I would create a contest among video stores to find a customer with the largest prick on his or her arm.
Within a week I mailed flyers to 50 video stores in London, Birmingham and Bristol announcing a contest promoting "Is There Sex After Death" by submitting photos showing a prick on the arm. The people with the largest pricks would receive a number of prizes. And the winner, a free expense paid trip to America.
It took only a few days after the mailing that I received a very angry call from CEO Ronson. He was shouting, in fact screaming, and I had to hold the phone away from my ear. But I heard his message loud and clear: "How dare you launch such an insidious, filthy, rotten contest at our company. Our barristers will be filing a law suit immediately."
The next day their chief lawyer was on the phone and he spoke with a very calm voice, explaining that I should cease and desist with the contest. If so, they were willing to tear up the contract and return our negative and all VHS copies in storage without charge. And we could keep the advance. I agreed wholeheartedly.
Fast forward ten years. A story in the NEW YORK TIMES reported that Mr. Ronson, and other executives with his company, had been indicted for fraudulent activities in the UK stock market. There was going to be stiff fines and jail time for all. I've often wondered what Mrs. Ronson had to say about that!
Saturday, March 8, 2014
My Pyromaniac Roommate
During the mid 50's I found a two-bedroom apartment in New York on West End Avenue. It was ground floor, $80 a month and only four blocks to the subway. The building was erected in 1920 and had apartments with 12 foot ceilings, walkin closets and bars on the windows. Perfect for me.
My landlord, Dr. LeBell, said the former renter was a Pan Am pilot and still had his belongings in the apartment; but he flew to Cape Town, Africa for long weekends, returning for only three nights a week in New York. Would I mind having this roommate for that reduced rent? Of course not.
Glenn the pilot returned several days after I moved in. He was a good looking guy in his spiffy uniform and very cordial. We talked for several hours as he chain smoked and drank booze from an expensive flask. He then changed into street clothes and went out to see a girl friend, a professional ice skater who also dated Arthur Godfrey, a very popular radio personality.
Around 2 am I was falling asleep in my bedroom when I smelled smoke. I quickly awakened and opened Glenn's door. He was on his bed fully clothes, snoring with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Also, the curtain was smoldering! I doused the flame and tried to awaken Glenn. He was deep into a drunken sleep.
The next day we had a confrontation. Glenn denied he burned the curtain, blamed me as a troublemaker and stormed out of the apartment. I was shaken and concerned. But then this could have been an isolated incident. Not so. That very night, as I tossed and turned in my bed, more smoke smell at 3 am. Same scenario in Glenn's room. But I didn't try to wake him up. Nor could I get back to sleep for several hours.
When I confronted him again he was apologetic this time, explaining he had this obsession with fire, just little ones, and was also an alcoholic. But he knew how to fly a Pan Am Clipper like a bird and was always sober at the controls. Nor would he leave the apartment, as I requested, because he liked me. And if I went to court he would deny everything and it would take months for an eviction.
To keep the peace, Glenn said he was going to fix me up with his ice skating friend, Marie, who was lovely and sexy. She had broken off with Godfrey because he demanded fellatio, when at the controls of his Piper Cub, and they once had a very hard landing.
Well, vulnerable and naive me, I invited Marie over to the apartment after dinner, when Glenn was in Africa, and she was everything Glenn said. Except for the case of gonorrhea I got.
Meantime, I called the Fire Department and asked advice for avoiding more curtain fires. The chief said he could do nothing unless it was a big one and if so, I should sound the alarm and a fire truck would respond. Then I called the Pan Am director of operations and explained me dilemma with one of their pilots. He chewed me out with an expletive, said that Glenn was one of their best and hung up. Hmmmmmmmm.
Suddenly a light bulb lit up. I would call my friend Dr. Bob Topper, a psychologist in Dallas who specialized in treating corporate executives who were showing too much anger in the office. Bob heard me out and had an immediate suggestion: "Get your landlord to issue both of you a fake eviction notice, pretend to move out, change the locks and move back in, sans the pilot.
Great idea. And Dr. LeBell went along with the plan. I showed Glenn the notice when it arrived in the mail, he suggested we both go and look for another apartment, I refused and we checked out with our belongings. I left mine with the friendly doorman, who shared my disdain for Glenn, he changed the locks and I moved back in.
A week later, the phone rang and it was Glenn. He was astonished to hear my voice and I told him I made a deal with the landlord to have the apartment for myself. Glenn was living in a hotel on Broadway and, obviously angry, told me I could go fuck myself. But I really had the last laugh, as did Dr. Topper and Dr. LeBell.
One friend of Glenn's called and I gave him his hotel number. He mentioned that Glenn was now flying for TWA. Thereafter, whenever I flew anywhere, I always looked into the cockpit. If Glenn was at the controls, I was out of there. It never happened. But I keep checking, just in case.
My landlord, Dr. LeBell, said the former renter was a Pan Am pilot and still had his belongings in the apartment; but he flew to Cape Town, Africa for long weekends, returning for only three nights a week in New York. Would I mind having this roommate for that reduced rent? Of course not.
Glenn the pilot returned several days after I moved in. He was a good looking guy in his spiffy uniform and very cordial. We talked for several hours as he chain smoked and drank booze from an expensive flask. He then changed into street clothes and went out to see a girl friend, a professional ice skater who also dated Arthur Godfrey, a very popular radio personality.
Around 2 am I was falling asleep in my bedroom when I smelled smoke. I quickly awakened and opened Glenn's door. He was on his bed fully clothes, snoring with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Also, the curtain was smoldering! I doused the flame and tried to awaken Glenn. He was deep into a drunken sleep.
The next day we had a confrontation. Glenn denied he burned the curtain, blamed me as a troublemaker and stormed out of the apartment. I was shaken and concerned. But then this could have been an isolated incident. Not so. That very night, as I tossed and turned in my bed, more smoke smell at 3 am. Same scenario in Glenn's room. But I didn't try to wake him up. Nor could I get back to sleep for several hours.
When I confronted him again he was apologetic this time, explaining he had this obsession with fire, just little ones, and was also an alcoholic. But he knew how to fly a Pan Am Clipper like a bird and was always sober at the controls. Nor would he leave the apartment, as I requested, because he liked me. And if I went to court he would deny everything and it would take months for an eviction.
To keep the peace, Glenn said he was going to fix me up with his ice skating friend, Marie, who was lovely and sexy. She had broken off with Godfrey because he demanded fellatio, when at the controls of his Piper Cub, and they once had a very hard landing.
Well, vulnerable and naive me, I invited Marie over to the apartment after dinner, when Glenn was in Africa, and she was everything Glenn said. Except for the case of gonorrhea I got.
Meantime, I called the Fire Department and asked advice for avoiding more curtain fires. The chief said he could do nothing unless it was a big one and if so, I should sound the alarm and a fire truck would respond. Then I called the Pan Am director of operations and explained me dilemma with one of their pilots. He chewed me out with an expletive, said that Glenn was one of their best and hung up. Hmmmmmmmm.
Suddenly a light bulb lit up. I would call my friend Dr. Bob Topper, a psychologist in Dallas who specialized in treating corporate executives who were showing too much anger in the office. Bob heard me out and had an immediate suggestion: "Get your landlord to issue both of you a fake eviction notice, pretend to move out, change the locks and move back in, sans the pilot.
Great idea. And Dr. LeBell went along with the plan. I showed Glenn the notice when it arrived in the mail, he suggested we both go and look for another apartment, I refused and we checked out with our belongings. I left mine with the friendly doorman, who shared my disdain for Glenn, he changed the locks and I moved back in.
A week later, the phone rang and it was Glenn. He was astonished to hear my voice and I told him I made a deal with the landlord to have the apartment for myself. Glenn was living in a hotel on Broadway and, obviously angry, told me I could go fuck myself. But I really had the last laugh, as did Dr. Topper and Dr. LeBell.
One friend of Glenn's called and I gave him his hotel number. He mentioned that Glenn was now flying for TWA. Thereafter, whenever I flew anywhere, I always looked into the cockpit. If Glenn was at the controls, I was out of there. It never happened. But I keep checking, just in case.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
My letter response to a hacker from somewhere.......
Dear Irwin Zucker,
I have your plea for funds although it wasn’t clear if you wanted cash,
Euros, British Pounds or Chinese Yen for your dear sick aunt requiring surgery
who is on the brink of death while the greedy Portugal doctor stands by with
hands out waiting for ransom money from you in the amount of $1,450.00
forthwith in order to begin the process of cutting into your dear sick aunt and
perhaps leaving a sponge inside her carcass which I hope to God he or she does
not do and that the doctors have all washed their hands properly and will wear
rubber gloves without holes oh for Gods sake please no holes because your dear
sick aunt is not a doughnut and she already has enough holes in her precious
body to last a life time and they must be protected at all costs as I search my
checking and saving account for enough money to allow the medical work to
proceed and I know IZ you are in the shitting room crying your eyes out as you
wring your hands hopelessly waiting for money money and more money save your
dear aunt who is probably heavily sedated or maybe even asleep with ether to
allow her to dream of flowers, rainbows and good honest fearless people with
money to pay the doctor who I assume is still waiting around for the loot so he
can began cutting into your dear sick aunt who must survive this ordeal or face
certain death and if that happens I will come to Portugal on the next plane and
will personally strangle the doctor who allowed this terrible deed to happen
to your dear sick aunt and then IZ
you will be safe to come home again but first we will find a good barrister and
sue the crap out of the greedy doctor who could have prevented evil to your
dear sick aunt and I pray to God you do not go all to pieces when you get this
letter I am sending to you swiftly by email and ever so slowly by snail mail oh
damn the post office for being so slow with my mail when I wrote my own dear sick aunt who was trapped on
an escalator with one arm between steps when someone pressed the emergency
button and she reached down to hoist her panty hose that dropped when she was
dragged down to the stairs that stopped moving at the mall and I don’t want to
continue with this terrible affair because it will only make you sadder than
you must already be and so I will sign off for now and wish you the best of
good health and welfare IZ because you are my favorite relative if I remember
from when we went to the polo matches in London and you got kicked in the ass
by a horse and then you both took a dump on the playing field in front of a thousand
people watching and many also took dumps in the stands that made a terrible
mess and caused so much weight that the stand fell down along with a lot of
people and there were 100 who went to hospital.
Cheers,
Harry Dimwit
Monday, February 24, 2014
The 2014 Olympics in Sochia, Russia
I was fascinated by the array of international athletes, all competing for a gold, silver or bronze medal. Most of the competitors were in their teens, 20's or 30'. But not many in the latter age group. The ice skaters were magnificant as they glided, spun around at break neck speed, jumped up and landed on one foot for the triple lutz, and sometimes fell. A few million hearts tumbled when that happened1
My major complaint was the interruption of my concentration and pleasure on the events when an anchor would babble. He or she was being paid to fill the void. How cruel! These artists high in the air (no pun intended) on skates or a snowboard, after four years of hard training and now four minutes of fame, maybe. How dare NBC allow this interference!
I suppose it's a sign of the times. Just as this generation's music has rocked rolled over us like wild animals on a binge to find food. They (the people) shout songs, raise their hands in rhythm and sweat profusely. God forbid they will have sex without a soapy shower first. But it's their trip, not mine.
Ironically, Jimmy Fallon, who is probably the most physically active talk show host ever, listens to Big Band music on the Sirius Network stations when he relaxes at home. All other times he is in the midst of total chaos. I know. I once hosted a radio show in Chicago from the VIP Room of the Playboy Club, under the helm of Hugh Hefner and his cohorts.
One of Hef's underlings, Benny Dunn, was an overweiight nerd who stuck to me like glue in the office, preparing for my nightly two-hour show. Benny was a loser, but he went back to the early days when Playboy Magazine began, and was loyal to Hef. His payback was staying on the payroll and being allowed to create mayhem.
For example, when I came to the office at 9 am, Benny had a list of the people I would be interviewing that night. In the case of an author, I had his or her books to read quickly and highlight pertinent paragraphs. For the visiting fireman, I was given the names of his family members, citations he had received and a humorous anecdote involving a fire that got out of hand. It was all boring stuff and I had to live with some of it.
My best guests were Jane Fonda, Helen Gurley Brown, Shel Silverstein and Rod Serling. Rod and I hit it off immediately and he did two nights with me on the air that remain memorable. Jane was tipsy, mumbled a lot and played with my knees underneath the round table and its long table cloth. I couldn't concentrate with that kind of foreplay. Helen was just plain charming and we were compatible playmates. Ditto for Shel and his magnificant poetry.
But I am off the subject. So back to the Olympics. For 2018 let's put duct tape on the mouths of anchors. They should behave in the same quiet manner that announcers do with golf tournaments. The only exception to keeping mouths shut would be a hole in one. Maybe an eagle. Nothing more.
Russia performed a marvelous display of creativity with their hundreds of participants, ending with grand concert music, spirited dancing, singing and fireworks. It was all breathtaking and deserving of the standing ovations, not to mention more gold medals than any other country.
I look forward to the 2018 Olympics in South Korea. Eat your heart out Un-jongUn!
My major complaint was the interruption of my concentration and pleasure on the events when an anchor would babble. He or she was being paid to fill the void. How cruel! These artists high in the air (no pun intended) on skates or a snowboard, after four years of hard training and now four minutes of fame, maybe. How dare NBC allow this interference!
I suppose it's a sign of the times. Just as this generation's music has rocked rolled over us like wild animals on a binge to find food. They (the people) shout songs, raise their hands in rhythm and sweat profusely. God forbid they will have sex without a soapy shower first. But it's their trip, not mine.
Ironically, Jimmy Fallon, who is probably the most physically active talk show host ever, listens to Big Band music on the Sirius Network stations when he relaxes at home. All other times he is in the midst of total chaos. I know. I once hosted a radio show in Chicago from the VIP Room of the Playboy Club, under the helm of Hugh Hefner and his cohorts.
One of Hef's underlings, Benny Dunn, was an overweiight nerd who stuck to me like glue in the office, preparing for my nightly two-hour show. Benny was a loser, but he went back to the early days when Playboy Magazine began, and was loyal to Hef. His payback was staying on the payroll and being allowed to create mayhem.
For example, when I came to the office at 9 am, Benny had a list of the people I would be interviewing that night. In the case of an author, I had his or her books to read quickly and highlight pertinent paragraphs. For the visiting fireman, I was given the names of his family members, citations he had received and a humorous anecdote involving a fire that got out of hand. It was all boring stuff and I had to live with some of it.
My best guests were Jane Fonda, Helen Gurley Brown, Shel Silverstein and Rod Serling. Rod and I hit it off immediately and he did two nights with me on the air that remain memorable. Jane was tipsy, mumbled a lot and played with my knees underneath the round table and its long table cloth. I couldn't concentrate with that kind of foreplay. Helen was just plain charming and we were compatible playmates. Ditto for Shel and his magnificant poetry.
But I am off the subject. So back to the Olympics. For 2018 let's put duct tape on the mouths of anchors. They should behave in the same quiet manner that announcers do with golf tournaments. The only exception to keeping mouths shut would be a hole in one. Maybe an eagle. Nothing more.
Russia performed a marvelous display of creativity with their hundreds of participants, ending with grand concert music, spirited dancing, singing and fireworks. It was all breathtaking and deserving of the standing ovations, not to mention more gold medals than any other country.
I look forward to the 2018 Olympics in South Korea. Eat your heart out Un-jongUn!
Saturday, February 15, 2014
My Good Friend Buck Henry
MY GOOD FRIEND BUCK HENRY
In 1957 I was doing
off-beat publicity in New York City and a Buick agency on Broadway near Columbus Circle hired me
to create more auto sales. They had a Piper Cub airplane in their large
showroom and New Yorkers paid little attention to it.
I proposed removing
the airplane and substituting a large round table for an alleged TV show in
rehearsal, “The Unstable Round Table.”
There would be two teams of six actors , each improvising on “The Role
of the Dog in Society.” One team would perform for six hours, and then the
other team did a turn. Sleeping quarters were in a hotel across the street.
Open auditions
attracted 80 actors and actresses, from noon until 8 pm. Each person was asked
to improvise on any subject for two minutes. By closing time I had twelve
actors and two alternates committed. The rental studio was turning out the
lights when in walked a diminutive chap in ill fitting clothes, out of breath
from running up the stairs.
“Sorry I’m late,” he
said. “Can I please audition for a role? My name is Buck Henry and I’m really
clever.” I began to say we were all booked. But my gut feeling was to let him
talk. So I asked Mr. Henry to improvise a comment about the role of the dog in
society.
Without missing a
beat, he said, “During the Middle Ages long haired dogs wandered among the dinner
tables and served as mobile napkins for the greasy Knights’ hands..”
Buck
Henry was hired on the spot to lead one of the two teams.
During the three day
promotion in the Buick Agency window, Buck was spectacular. He attracted large
crowds outside (the sound was piped through a speaker on the window) and this
generated laughter and applause. Also, more cars were sold than during any
other three day period!
Buck would perform
faux chemistry experiments and debate an eight-foot giant from the circus, Ed
Carmeli. They were both hilarious. One night, Buck woke up to find Carmeli in
bed with him….all others were taken. Buck jumped out, ran over to the Buick
Agency and shouted at me, “Why is that giant in my bed?”
My next spoof was a
campaign to clothe all naked animals for the sake of decency in 1959. The
Society for Indecency to Naked Animals, or S.I.N.A., took off like a grass
fire. Buck agreed to play the role of G. Clifford Prout, the President of
S.I.N.A. And he soon appeared on the TODAY Show with Dave Garroway and TONIGHT
with Jack Paar.
In 1962 I managed to
book Mr. Prout on Walter Cronkite’s CBS-TV network news show. Buck played his
ukelele and sang the S.I.N.A. Marching Song, as Cronkite kept a straight face.
This scenario took the campaign to its highest level. The SAN FRANCISCO
CHRONICLE ran a Page One banner headline, “Nude Animal Campaign In Bay Area.”
TIME magazine finally
brought down the curtain when Prout was revealed to be Buck Henry in 1963.
Cronkite was furious over being deceived and carried this chip on his shoulder
until he died, according to a CBS news friend who told Buck.
After “Get Smart” and
Buck’s screenplay, “The Graduate,” he was a very hot property as an actor,
writer and director too. In
1970 I persuaded him to appear in a low-budget independent movie I was
producing and my wife, Jeanne, was directing.
“Is There Sex After
Death” was a satire on sex. Buck improvised his answers to a series of
questions I asked him on camera and he was extremely funny. I would say one of
his best performances ever.
The film opened at
the Playboy Theater on October 24, 1971 before a soldout audience and the
reviews were all positive. THE NEW YORK TIMES said it was “funnier than Woody
Allen’s ‘Bananas’” and Vincent Canby devoted a full page story in a Sunday Arts
and Leisure section.
Meantime, Buck’s agent,
Mace Neufeld, was threatening to sue me if I didn’t delete his role; i.e. until
the magnificent reviews appeared, and I had a cancelled check paying Buck for
his services.
Buck went on to great
heights in Hollywood and during his stint with John Belushi on Saturday Night
Live. We didn’t connect again until early 2000 over dinner at Keen’s Chop House
in New York City. Subsequently, we exchange emails and an occasional phone call
remembering “the good old days.”
Monday, February 10, 2014
Ted Mack's Summer Music Camp
During the early 50's I was doing PR work for TV personality Ted Mack, a pioneer of showcasing amateur talent along the lines of "America's Got Talent." Ted was a tall, affable man, an intravert and a heavy drinker. He also detested children, although the talent on his highly rated Saturday night TV show in prime time featured mostly kids.
Ted once invited me to have dinner at his home in Hastings-On-Hudson, NY where he and his wife lived. No kids or pets. I discovered his garage was stacked with wooden framed certificates from Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, Kawanis Clubs, Moose Lodges, Fraternity of Police and every organization one could imagine.
The Macks were both drinking when I arrived and since I was driving from New York City, I declined to accept a glass of wine. Ted led me out to the garage and asked me to pick up an armful of framed certificates. "That's my starter wood for the fireplace," he said with a grin, as he picked up two seasoned logs from the nearby stack. I was taken aback by this man who was so cherished by American family kids and community organizations. All those plaques being tossed into the living room fireplace!
I only spent one season promoting Ted Mack's show and then told him I had a lecture tour in the fall. He asked that I arrange to film his summer camp for young musicians in Great Barrington, MA. My roommate, Gary Stradling III, was a cinemaphotagrapher and could handle the assignment.
Gary and I drove up to Ted Mack's Summer Camp for Gifted Youngsters and spent a week there in a small cabin, built for two. There were 150 musicians in residence, aged 12 to 18, and they comprised the full orchestra, a concert orchestra and a 16 piece jazz band. Professional instructors, mostly high school and college teachers, rehearsed brass, string and woodwind sections. They also gave private lessons.
Ted just wandered around during the day and then led group singing around the blazing fireplace at night, with toasted marshmellows for everyone. I noticed the absence of wooden framed plaques.
Gary managed to film all the activities. On the final night of our week there, a Sunday, many parents visited their offspring, stayed for dinner and an hour concert by either the full orchestra, the concert band or jazz band.
This particular Sunday it was the jazz band's turn to perform. Ted owned a clarinet and decided to sit in on "Woodchoppers Ball," a Woody Herman Band signature song that had the saxes wailing, the brass screaming and drums pounding at break neck speed. The band had this stock arrangement well rehearsed.
Ted spoke briefly to the assembled students, faculry and parents, about 300 altogether on the lawn with the blazing pile of logs in the background. The weather was perfect for this setting and the music.
The band took off, Ted held his clarinet up to his mouth and played a 32 bar solo in the right place, that is, where Woody Herman would thrill audiences with his playing. But Ted Mack couldn't play his clarinet very well. In fact, he stunk. It was sour notes all the way. Thankfully, the band completed "Woodchoppers Ball" with a grand ensemble climax. The audience cheered and applauded.
Back in New York, several weeks later, Gary edited the film into a fifteen minute documentary and we both winced at Ted's terrible playing. I knew Ted wanted to screen the completed film at his camp on the final day in about three weeks. And I didn't dare delete his miserable performance on the clarinet.
My solution was to call Paul DeFrancis, a long time friend from Ohio State University's Jazz Forum, now free lancing in New York and a superb musician on all the woodwinds. I still had film budget money available and Paul was willing to play for pay and dub in his stellar solo for that of Ted Mack's. He did it in one exciting take.
On the final Sunday, before another large assembly of campers and parents, Gary and I set up the 16 mm Bell & Howell projector, hung a bedsheet between two poles as the screen and placed four speakers around. Now it was showtime. The blazing logs on this moonlight night created a perfect setting for a final night at camp.
I sat next to Ted and he was obviously nervous. "Will I get to hear my solo, Alan?" he asked. I assured him he would. The documentary had been nicely edited by Gary and when Ted appeared on screen playing his clarinet, the audience cheered and applauded. Ted whispered to me, "I really practiced for this solo." At the end, the entire camp audience gave Ted a standing ovation, along with cheers, whistles and applause. He never knew the difference!!!
Ted once invited me to have dinner at his home in Hastings-On-Hudson, NY where he and his wife lived. No kids or pets. I discovered his garage was stacked with wooden framed certificates from Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, Kawanis Clubs, Moose Lodges, Fraternity of Police and every organization one could imagine.
The Macks were both drinking when I arrived and since I was driving from New York City, I declined to accept a glass of wine. Ted led me out to the garage and asked me to pick up an armful of framed certificates. "That's my starter wood for the fireplace," he said with a grin, as he picked up two seasoned logs from the nearby stack. I was taken aback by this man who was so cherished by American family kids and community organizations. All those plaques being tossed into the living room fireplace!
I only spent one season promoting Ted Mack's show and then told him I had a lecture tour in the fall. He asked that I arrange to film his summer camp for young musicians in Great Barrington, MA. My roommate, Gary Stradling III, was a cinemaphotagrapher and could handle the assignment.
Gary and I drove up to Ted Mack's Summer Camp for Gifted Youngsters and spent a week there in a small cabin, built for two. There were 150 musicians in residence, aged 12 to 18, and they comprised the full orchestra, a concert orchestra and a 16 piece jazz band. Professional instructors, mostly high school and college teachers, rehearsed brass, string and woodwind sections. They also gave private lessons.
Ted just wandered around during the day and then led group singing around the blazing fireplace at night, with toasted marshmellows for everyone. I noticed the absence of wooden framed plaques.
Gary managed to film all the activities. On the final night of our week there, a Sunday, many parents visited their offspring, stayed for dinner and an hour concert by either the full orchestra, the concert band or jazz band.
This particular Sunday it was the jazz band's turn to perform. Ted owned a clarinet and decided to sit in on "Woodchoppers Ball," a Woody Herman Band signature song that had the saxes wailing, the brass screaming and drums pounding at break neck speed. The band had this stock arrangement well rehearsed.
Ted spoke briefly to the assembled students, faculry and parents, about 300 altogether on the lawn with the blazing pile of logs in the background. The weather was perfect for this setting and the music.
The band took off, Ted held his clarinet up to his mouth and played a 32 bar solo in the right place, that is, where Woody Herman would thrill audiences with his playing. But Ted Mack couldn't play his clarinet very well. In fact, he stunk. It was sour notes all the way. Thankfully, the band completed "Woodchoppers Ball" with a grand ensemble climax. The audience cheered and applauded.
Back in New York, several weeks later, Gary edited the film into a fifteen minute documentary and we both winced at Ted's terrible playing. I knew Ted wanted to screen the completed film at his camp on the final day in about three weeks. And I didn't dare delete his miserable performance on the clarinet.
My solution was to call Paul DeFrancis, a long time friend from Ohio State University's Jazz Forum, now free lancing in New York and a superb musician on all the woodwinds. I still had film budget money available and Paul was willing to play for pay and dub in his stellar solo for that of Ted Mack's. He did it in one exciting take.
On the final Sunday, before another large assembly of campers and parents, Gary and I set up the 16 mm Bell & Howell projector, hung a bedsheet between two poles as the screen and placed four speakers around. Now it was showtime. The blazing logs on this moonlight night created a perfect setting for a final night at camp.
I sat next to Ted and he was obviously nervous. "Will I get to hear my solo, Alan?" he asked. I assured him he would. The documentary had been nicely edited by Gary and when Ted appeared on screen playing his clarinet, the audience cheered and applauded. Ted whispered to me, "I really practiced for this solo." At the end, the entire camp audience gave Ted a standing ovation, along with cheers, whistles and applause. He never knew the difference!!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)