I have many an e-mail asking what I think about a current Superman storyline dealing with bisexuality. There are a lot of opinions out there, many from folks who aren't informed enough about this matter to know that it isn't Clark Kent who's "come out." It's Jon Kent, offspring of Clark Kent and Lois Lane in a storyline that will probably be forgotten in two years, if not sooner.
But what do I think about it? I think I don't really care about it. Haven't read it. Probably won't. It, like when Superman "died" in 1993 and other lucrative properties have "died" for a while to boost circulation, is temporary.
And I'm not a believer in the notion that super-hero comics need to deal with every aspect of our lives. What I do believe is that consenting adults should be free to marry, cohabitate, breed, adopt, whatever as long as — to use Ronald Reagan's old line which he didn't seem to believe in — they don't scare the horses.
But I don't think super-hero comics are a good place to discuss many aspects of The Human Condition. That's because they aren't about human beings. I don't think they ever deal with death effectively because, as noted, they're about characters who don't die…or if they do, they don't stay dead for long. None of the ones I read that worked 9/11 into their storylines seemed to be at all effective. In the DC or Marvel Universes, the Earth is saved from complete annihilation two or three times a week so how do you give a real sense of horror to a bunch of terrorists flying planes into the World Trade Center?
I remember a comic which depicted New Yorkers running in a panic from Ground Zero, terrified of the smoke and dust and debris, understandably afraid a building was about to collapse on them. The real-world news footage of that was chilling. In the comic book, it was a scene we see so often, it was like, "Big deal! People ran in a panic from Superman on the cover of Action Comics #1."
Don't get me wrong: I love comic books. I've probably read way more of them than most people reading this and I love writing them. I just think the unreality of the world in which so many of them take place might not be the right venue in which to address every real-world subject. Human sexuality is a fascinating topic to me. Superhuman sexuality? Not so much. Do you remember those scenes where Superboy was sad because he couldn't get a date? I wanted to yell at him, "You're from another planet, you can fly, you can pick up a tank with one hand and you're invulnerable! Your life is very different from mine!" So is that of Jon Kent, whose father came from the planet Krypton.
So that's one reason I don't care about bisexuality in the DC Universe. Another is that I don't even know who many of those characters are these days. So many different people handle them with so many different ideas about how to make them hip and today and relevant that I often don't recognize Superman as Superman or Batman as Batman or so forth. But maybe that's another topic for another time.
I'll just recall a lesson from a writing teacher I once had who said, "A character is defined by what they do but also by what they don't do." When a character is controlled by too many diverse hands — writers but also producers and editors and marketing consultants and corporate officials — I wonder if anyone even has the power to say, "No, no! Our character wouldn't do that!"
Here's another veteran comedian on The Ed Sullivan Show. It's 1966 and the comic is Jackie Kahane. I knew Jackie a little bit and when he passed away in 2001, I wrote this about him here…
The last five years of Elvis Presley's life, his opening act was Mr. Kahane, a comedian who also, in his day, opened for the likes of Wayne Newton, Tony Bennett and just about every other singing headliner.
Amazingly, this was a side job for Jackie, whose main income then came from managing comedy writers. A lot of them were, like Jackie, Canadians…but he also managed American writers and was often urging me to join his stable. I never did, but I enjoyed lunching with Jackie and hearing colorful (often, unquotable) tales of Elvis and Wayne and Tony and Show Biz in general. He seemed to do well for his clients…and he also performed a special service for some. He was a "front." You see, TV shows produced in Canada like to hire Canadian writers because it qualifies them for special investment credits from the government which can make it a lot easier to produce something.
Sometimes, they'd hire one of Jackie's American writers but Jackie, who retained Canadian citizenship, would be the official writer of record. As a result, he got screen credit on an awful lot of shows that were actually written by other folks. (Bizarre, which starred John Byner, was one) I thought that was kinda sleazy but otherwise, Jackie — who died Monday at the age of 79 — was a class act all the way.
He told me stories about doing Ed's show, too. The show was done live on Sunday evenings and earlier in the day, there was a full run-through in front of an audience that, Jackie said, never laughed at anything. "During snow season," he said, "they were just derelicts seeking a place to get out of the cold for a few hours." After that, Ed himself would cut down your act because it hadn't gotten much response from the derelicts. I wonder what Jackie's act was like at the afternoon run-through.,,
For reasons I'm sure you can guess, I don't expect to go to Las Vegas — or really, anywhere — for quite a while. But I may now have a special new reason to travel there. Nothing has been officially announced but several sources are saying that the bevy of great restaurants in Caesars Palace will soon be joined by the first outside-New-York outlet of Peter Luger's Steakhouse. We shall be following this rumor with more than a little interest.
Like everyone who's no longer in school, I had a lot of different teachers back when I was — some good teachers, some not so good. Quite a few of them had no impact on me at all other than to drag me through some class that I was required to take. I suppose the one whose teachings had the most lasting impact on me was Mrs. Grandholme, who taught me touch-typing. I have never used anything taught to me in the realm of Physics or Chemistry but at this very moment, I am using a skill I owe in large part to Mrs. Grandholme.
The runner-up would probably be Mr. Cline, who taught English and History at Ralph Waldo Emerson Junior High. He imparted little useful info to me but he still left a lasting impression. It didn't have much to do with English or History and I'm still trying decide if it was for the better.
First thing I should do here is to give you a visual. He looked very much like Norman Lear, minus the silly hat. Here — study this picture…
Norman Lear with the silly hat
Got him? Okay. Then I should tell you this about Mr. Cline: He was a very funny teacher and oh, how he loved to perform in front of the class. I think deep down, he wanted to be an actor or a comedian…and one year when he emceed a big talent show and fund-raising event in the school auditorium, he was terrific. Campus legend had it that years earlier, one of those events was hosted by Jerry Lewis. I wasn't there to see that but if it did happen, I'll bet Jerry wasn't half as funny as Mr. Cline. (Come to think of it, I've seen Jerry not be half as funny as cold sores.)
Third thing I have to tell you about Mr. Cline: A lot of kids in his classes really hated him and at times, I was one of them.
I found myself, not by choice, in a number of his classes over the years. He started each one the same way: "You can be a pupil or you can be a student." The difference in his mind was that a pupil just sits there and listens and does the work and waits to be taught. A student wants to learn and actively participates and does more than is expected. "I teach my classes for students," he said over and over, putting a special, revered emphasis on the word "students." To that end, he did things like this…
One Monday in History class, he assigned us to read Chapter Four in our textbooks and warned us there would be a test the next day. And indeed on Tuesday, there was a test — on Chapter Five. Because a student would have read ahead.
Another time, he assigned Chapter Six and most of us — by now, hip to the game — read Six and Seven. The test the next day was actually on Chapter Six but the test consisted of one line: "Write down five interesting things you learned from reading that chapter." That's harder to do than you imagine…and I failed because two of the five things I wrote down were actually in Chapter Seven. Because a student would have remembered which pages were which.
I mean, after all! What good is a piece of knowledge if you don't remember which chapter of one book it appeared in?
Yet another time, he assigned us to write an essay that was due on Friday and then on Thursday, he announced he would collect them then. Anyone who couldn't hand his or her essay in a day early would receive a lower grade when he or she did. Because a student wouldn't have waited until the last minute to complete it.
I'm sure his motives were good. I'm sure he thought he was encouraging us to become more inquisitive and serious about learning. But it sure didn't seem to me like that was the outcome.
It seemed to me like he was prompting us to think of everything as a big game where the person in charge — in this case, him — can change the rules whenever he feels like it. Life works that way at times and I suppose that could be a valuable lesson to keep in mind…but it got to be a terrible distraction from any possible actual learning. When I did read the textbook, I wasn't thinking "What can I learn from this?" I was thinking, "How will Mr. Cline screw with us over this material?"
I don't remember very much that I learned in those classes of his. What I do remember are his silly little gotchas like the one in an English class near the end of the semester. He passed out forms and told us to write down the names and brief summaries of all the books we'd read that term. No particular quantity of reading had ever been assigned to us but a student would have been reading many books all year. So we had to make out a list and then he graded us on the quantity of books and also on whether he thought we were reading at the proper level.
I got an "A" on that one, partly because I had read about five good books and partly because I was good at making up phony book titles and fake author names for about seven more. He couldn't very well fault my choice of books he'd never heard of so he gave me high marks for them. I had to resist the temptation to go to him and say that while a student might not have fibbed about what books he'd read, a good teacher would have gone to the school library and looked up titles with which he was not familiar.
I "won" that skirmish but I didn't fare so well the time he ordered us to hand in the notes we'd taken on his previous day's lecture. He hadn't told us to take notes but, he said, a student would have taken extensive, detailed notes. So he was going to grade us on how many notes we'd taken and how detailed they were.
I had taken almost none and what I had written down was in a shorthand style that only I would understand: Key words to jog my memory instead of full quotes and sentences. Mr. Cline had never lectured us on any "right" way to take notes but we were faulted if we hadn't written them the way he thought they should be taken. That time, I decided I had to actually confront him.
After class, while everyone else went to lunch, I went to him and said, "I don't understand why I'm getting graded on a basis other than whether I do the work you assign and understand it. I get the feeling you're going to flunk me because I'm wearing a green shirt and you suddenly announce that a student would have worn a blue one today."
I'll say this for Mr. Cline: You could talk to him like this. I couldn't have had this conversation with a lot of my teachers because many of them had this "Me Teacher, Me Know Everything" attitude. Not Mr. Cline. He prided himself on encouraging his charges to think and question and I respected him for that even though I often thought he was achieving the opposite of that goal.
He explained to me that day why he taught the way he taught and stated, as if quoting something in the Bill of Rights, "A student is someone who takes detailed, extensive notes."
I said, "How about this? A student is someone who learns. You know, a minimum-wage stenographer could have taken down every word you said and not retain one of them. Which of these would you prefer I be?"
I remember that moment. I remember several such moments in my childhood — moments that made me realize that grown-ups and adults and parents and people in power weren't always right.
They weren't always wrong, either. It was important not to fall into the trap of thinking that, too…but it was important to me to fully embrace the concept that they weren't always right and that I needed to question what they said. (Later, it was important to learn — or at least try to learn — to do that in a constructive, non-confrontational way. I still sometimes have trouble with that part.)
When I said that line to Mr. Cline about the minimum-wage stenographer, he looked like I'd slapped him. Then he stammered back a reply: "If you don't take detailed notes, how will you retain what you learn in my class?"
I said, "By listening instead of writing. Ask me a question about what you said in class yesterday."
He asked a question and I managed to answer it correctly with a close-to-verbatim recitation of his actual words. Some of that was luck but I do have a pretty good memory. It's not flawless and there are times when it simply doesn't record things in the first place. But it's pretty good now and it was even better then, especially when I was listening instead of writing things down. And no, I don't remember what question he asked me and I don't remember what I said in reply that day.
As I'm explaining here, I don't remember much of anything Mr. Cline taught me. Just these things I'm telling you now because the long-forgotten things were of no apparent use to me. This "lesson" was.
I think after I answered his question correctly, I pointed to my head and said something to him like, "I took my notes up here. Would you rather I'd taken them on paper instead? Because I can't do both and like every single student you ever had, the minute I'm out of your class, my notebook's going in the wastebasket. With luck though, I'll keep my brain with me for the rest of my life."
During my school years, I argued a lot with teachers and I lost a lot of the arguments, often (but not always) because I was wrong. In that same high school, I got into a nastier-than-it-should-have-been quarrel with an Art Teacher who was very nice and caring and who didn't deserve the crap I gave her over some assignments to design what they then called "psychedelic art." I was politically very conservative back then and really, really uncomfy with all the glorification I saw around me — this was the late sixties — of drugs.
Today…well, today I still don't like 'em but my attitude now is what adults do in private is their business as long as it doesn't harm others. Even if I'd been right in '68, I was wrong to connect that to Mrs. Nichols urging us to create designs not unlike those by artists whose work was then described as "drug-inspired." I lost that spat and I deserved to.
I was wrong about a lot of things in high school. In fact, as I came to realize, high school is a great place to be wrong about things. Get as much of it as you can out of your system then because it matters a lot less there than it will after you've graduated and you're trying to arrange the rest of your life. Now when I'm wrong, I usually pay a much higher price.
To this day, I still think though that I was right with Mr. Cline and his silly (to me) way of teaching…or maybe partially right because maybe his method worked for some of the kids in his class. Keeping us off balance the way he did though seemed counter-productive to me. It caused me to not think of the material and to try to figure out the catch, the hidden trick, the way in which if I did exactly what I was supposed to do, I was going to be told I'd done the wrong thing.
And to this day, I often have that suspicion in my mind. When someone gives me an assignment that's due on Tuesday, I think, "Do I really have until Tuesday or are they going to fault me for not handing it on Monday?" Sometimes, I even forget that I'll be a hero if I hand it in on Thursday or Friday but it's exactly what they want.
I still haven't decided if this is a good thing or a bad thing. But it's one of those and either way, I have Mr. Cline to thank for it.
This is another rerun that has rerun before but it's also a follow-up to yesterday's rerun about when I had Scarlet Fever, a very nasty disease. It first ran on this site on March 7, 2008…
Betty Lynn and Tom Tryon
I recently found an old photo in my files and I thought you might enjoy hearing the tale behind it. That's not it up above. We'll get to it.
Around 1958 at the tender age of six, I came down with Scarlet Fever, a nasty little disease that had me confined to bed for several months. Most of this was spent reading — my obsession with comic books became especially acute during this period — and my father borrowed a little black-and-white TV from someone and set it up in my room so I could watch my favorite shows. He did this when he wasn't scurrying out to buy me more comic books or more comic books or more comic books. Did I ever tell you what a terrific father I had? Nicest man in the world and that's not just my opinion. They had a big vote and he won in a landslide.
One program that I watched often was Disneyland, the Walt Disney extravaganza that was then on ABC, and I especially watched it the weeks they featured a recurring western series called Texas John Slaughter. Every third or fourth week, the show would be given over to the adventures of the pioneer/cowboy hero, who was played by a handsome actor named Tom Tryon. More importantly, his wife was played by a wonderful actress named Betty Lynn. Betty has had a splendid career in films and television, working with practically everyone since the days she was a child star under contract to Twentieth-Century Fox, but if you know of her, it's probably for one role in particular. After Mr. Disney stopped making episodes of Texas John Slaughter, she went over and took the role of Thelma Lou, lady friend of Barney Fife (Don Knotts) on The Andy Griffith Show.
Why was I so interested in Betty Lynn? Easy. She lived next door to us. Betty was like my surrogate aunt. I still talk to her all the time and treat her as one would treat a close relative. A lovely woman…and she was not only our neighbor, not only a TV and movie star…she was even, in a Dell comic book drawn by my future collaborator Dan Spiegle, a comic book character!
One day, Tom Tryon was visiting her. Mr. Tryon later got out of acting and became a very successful author, but this was back when he was not only acting but Texas John Slaughter was a hit series and he was a pretty big star. Before they left for wherever they were going, Betty happened to mention to him that the little boy who lived next door was quite ill. Tryon instantly said, "Well, let me go visit him," and they came over…
…and you want to know what I remember of that visit? Absolutely nothing. Because I slept through it.
I'd been given some sort of medication that knocked me out and my parents were unable to wake me up to meet Tom "Texas John Slaughter" Tryon. They finally gave up and it was only later that evening, when I finally did come out of my drug-induced coma, that they told me he'd been there.
So that's the story of how I didn't meet a then-famous TV star…though I do have a souvenir of his visit. Look at what he left me!
What has been occupying me for the last week or so continues to occupy me…and longer than I'd expected. The reruns here will soon be displaced by new material but today, you get the one about the time I had Scarlet Fever. A bit of Googling tells me this disease is no longer as common as it once was but it still occurs here and there. I don't think I have a "worst enemy" or anyone I dislike enough to wish it upon and if I ever do get one, I will not even wish it upon that person. This ran here on December 27, 2015…
When I was about six, I came down with a very, very bad case of Scarlet Fever. A couple of other kids in my class at school had it and that's apparently how I got it…but I got it really, really bad. It was so bad that for a day or two there, there was a very real worry that I might die from it. [POSSIBLE SPOILER: I didn't.]
I do not remember everything about that time but I recall my pediatrician, Dr. Grossman, making a house call to our home late one night. That scared me. Watching TV shows as I did, I had heard any number of jokes about how doctors did not make house calls anymore. And this is how my mind worked even then: I thought that if Dr. Grossman and his little black bag were at my bedside, I had to be nearing death's door.
That was one of the two things that got me worried. The other was that for the first time, I saw my father cry.
My father was a lovely, kindly man who never in his entire life hurt another human being intentionally or failed to help out one — even a total stranger — who was in need. But he was also a very nervous man who worried about everything…and especially about illness. In later years if I had some minor ailment, my mother and I conspired to hide it from him. It just got him too upset. He was upset that night when Dr. Grossman came. At that age, I figured that if my father was upset, I should be as well.
I was bright pink from the infection, absolutely covered in rashes. My throat felt like I'd tried to swallow a porcupine and I had a temperature so high, they wouldn't let me know what it was. I think my mother just told me I had an unlisted number. But I managed to get myself mostly unscared by remembering that Dr. Grossman was a great doctor. He would know how to fix me.
And of course, he did. First thing, he ruled out taking me to a hospital. I was not part of the conversation but later, my mother quoted him as saying, "Mark's too weak to be moved and if we take him to a hospital, he's liable to infect other children or pick up something else he doesn't need now. There's nothing they can do for him there that you can't do just as well here."
It was close to Midnight — and I think it may have been a Sunday evening — when he left our house, having written several prescriptions that had to be filled A.S.A.P. At the time, pharmacies that were open 'round the clock were not common even in Los Angeles. My mother worked her way through the Yellow Pages and found a few but none of them were well-enough stocked to have what we needed on their shelves.
Finally, she called a Horton and Converse out on Wilshire that was closed but the pharmacist was still there and had what was required. He agreed to wait around if someone could come right away for it.
My father was instantly dispatched in his car to fetch the drugs. One day years later, he told me the story of driving to the pharmacy but he turned pale as he did and his hands began shaking. He said that that night, they were shaking so badly he could hardly drive. After a near-collision, he pulled over to the side of the road and thought, "I can't do this."
Then he realized he had to do it. His only child's life was at stake…or seemed to be at stake, which in this case was the same thing. He finally drove to the drugstore and waited anxiously for the order to be filled. Then he raced home, trembling all the way and probably hearing the Lone Ranger theme song in his head.
If you'd known my father, you would understand that he did not tell me this story to impress me with any heroism on his part. Indeed, he did not think he had been heroic. He told it to me to admit a certain weakness on his part and to tell me that as I went through life, I had to try to not be like that. I have tried to not be like that.
Once he was home that night — or rather, that morning — my mother gave me the pills, which I suppose were antibiotics. They may even have been precursor drugs to what I'm taking now for the infection I had recently in my knee.
There was also an external drug which had to be administered — a purple liquid that was to be applied to my forehead and chest with compresses. Pure cotton cloths were needed and we had no rags around or cotton sheets that could be cut up — and of course by now it was around 2 AM. There was nowhere to buy any so my father's handkerchiefs were sacrificed.
He had about a dozen of them and my mother, wearing the gloves she used for dishwashing, used them all up over the next few days. Each was soaked in a bowl of the purple liquid, then used to softly wipe my brow and chest. This went on most of that first night and apparently it along with the pills helped to bring my fever down and out of the danger zone by 7 AM. That was when my mother staggered off to bed and my father got up to keep an eye on me. He'd been trying without much success to sleep.
He didn't get much the next few days. He stayed home from work and he and my mother slept or took care of me in shifts. One was always at or near my bedside and when I was awake, I was read stories…but not too many because I was supposed to sleep as much as possible. Dr. Grossman phoned often and about three days after his late visit, he came by during the daylight hours, inspected the patient and announced that I was well on my way to a full recovery.
I don't recall hearing him say that. I do remember how happy my parents were and that's how I figured it out before they informed me.
I had missed enough school because of the illness and was so weak that it was decided I should skip the rest of that semester and build back my strength. I had previously skipped two semesters (one year) of elementary school so I eventually graduated one semester ahead instead of two. During my recovery, I had one interesting visitor whose visit I managed to sleep through. I wrote about that here. And if you'd like to read more about Dr. Grossman, I wrote about him here and here. The piece at the first of those links guest stars Jerry Lewis.
When I was awake, I read comic books. I read "real" books too. A very inspirational one was Ventriloquism for Fun and Profit by Paul Winchell but I also read tons of comic books. My father almost never came home from work without a few, mostly Dell Comics featuring characters I also watched on television. I had read comics before getting sick but it was as the Scarlet Fever was departing that my interest in them became obsessive. Some would say I traded one illness for another…but at least I managed to turn the new one into a profession.
Finally, I was well enough to accompany my mother to the Von's Market where I could buy my own comic books, at which point my father was asked politely to cease bringing any home for me. I liked it better when I could pick them out myself. I got less Casper the Friendly Ghost and more Bugs Bunny that way. Also, though my father made notes of what he was buying for me, he did occasionally bring home duplicates.
The first time he brought me one I already had, I told him so and he got terribly embarrassed. He wanted to rush back out to the store and see if they'd let him exchange it for one I didn't have. Thereafter, I learned not to tell him. When he handed me a duplicate, I'd feign delight and if he asked, I'd lie and say I'd never seen that one before. Then I'd put it in a little pile I maintained of comics to be traded to friends at some future date.
Instead of giving me comics, he gave me money to buy my own…but I didn't spend every cent of it on issues of Looney Tunes and Yogi Bear. With my mother's help, I went to a J.J. Newberry's — a "dime store" next door to the Von's — and I bought my father a present. It consisted of two six-packs of fine cotton handkerchiefs embroidered with an "E" for "Evanier." These were to replace the dozen of his that had to be thrown away after they became permanently stained with the purple liquid. It was the second time I saw my father cry but it was a good cry.
Every time I post reruns here, I get requests to post this rerun which I've rerun before but it wasn't a rerun when it first ran on this blog on June 2, 2006. I have added a new addendum to the end and you won't want to miss that…
For no visible reason, I'm going to tell a story from my past. Back around 1970, our local comic book club would sometimes adjourn its Saturday meeting and then a band of us would car pool to a local movie theater and take in a cheap double feature. One time, we caravaned to the Meralta in Culver City for the parlay of Kelly's Heroes — starring Clint Eastwood, Telly Savalas, Don Rickles and Donald Sutherland — followed by House of Dark Shadows.
I think it was a buck to get in and I hate to think what they could have charged us to get out. The Meralta (seen below) had probably been a lovely theater at some point but by the time we got to it, it was the kind of place where the cashier wore No-Pest Strips for earrings and the ushers were just cockroaches in uniforms. The seats were shabby and one out of every four was either broken, missing or filled with a dead body. The curtains no longer operated so (and this is critical to our story) the screen was open between films. And out in the lobby was a refreshment stand that sold popcorn that was stale when you could have purchased it to munch throughout D.W. Griffith's latest.
There were about ten of us there, crammed in a section of two rows with a gap or two where the seats were unsittable. We watched Kelly's Heroes and I don't think any of us particularly enjoyed it. Then came intermission. Some of us went out to the lobby but one of our group (a guy named Gary) stayed in his seat — he may have become permanently affixed by then — and handed some coins to another of our group (a guy named Barry). Said Gary to Barry, "Hey, while you're out there, get me a candy bar. Any kind." Barry was annoyed at being treated like an errand boy so he decided to go out and spend Gary's money on the lousiest candy bar he could find.
The Meralta refreshment stand had many to pick from but when Barry spotted a display of Idaho Spud bars, he knew that was it. The Idaho Spud is a popular candy in some parts of the country but apparently not in Southern California. None of us had ever heard of it before and I've never seen one since even though it has been manufactured since (their website says) 1911. The site also explains that it's "a wonderful combination of a light cocoa flavored marshmallow center drenched with a dark chocolate coating and then sprinkled with coconut."
And maybe it is. But you know what it looks like, in or out of its wrapper? It looks like a chocolate-covered potato.
Isn't that the first thing you'd assume? It's called an Idaho Spud and it has eyes all over its packaging. So what's the first thing you think of? Chocolate-covered potato, right?
And the Idaho Spud people have no one to blame but themselves. No one forced them to call it that. There isn't even a logical reason to call it that except that they're made in Idaho where, contrary to popular belief, not everything is a potato. In fact, I developed a theory that the guy who invented it turned to his wife and said, "Muriel, I've invented a new candy bar but I don't know what to name it" and she asked, "Well, what is it?" To which he replied, "It's a wonderful combination of a light cocoa flavored marshmallow center drenched with a dark chocolate coating and then sprinkled with coconut."
Muriel said, "That's easy. Call it an Idaho Spud." And the inventor, who was drinking to celebrate his new invention, was so plastered by this point that it sounded good to him. Especially because people would think it was a chocolate-covered potato. "That'll be great for sales," he said just before he passed out, face down in a bowl of vodka.
Anyway, Barry bought Gary an Idaho Spud, took it back to where we were sitting and handed it to Gary. "Here's your candy bar."
Gary looked at it and said, "What the hell is this?"
Barry said, "It's an Idaho Spud. I think it's a chocolate-covered potato or something."
Gary recoiled in horror. "I didn't ask for a chocolate-covered potato."
Barry replied, "You didn't say not to get you a chocolate-covered potato." Gary had to concede the point. Sadly, he pulled the wrapper from his candy bar, took one bite, hated it and hurled the remainder of the Idaho Spud at the screen…
…where it stuck.
This was still during intermission and the curtains were open, the screen was exposed. We all saw the Idaho Spud sail onto the screen of the Meralta and just stay there, about two-thirds of the way up, slightly to the left of center. Then House of Dark Shadows started. For us, House of Dark Shadows starred Jonathan Frid, Grayson Hall, Kathryn Leigh Scott, Nancy Barrett and an Idaho Spud candy bar. And the Idaho Spud should have had top billing because it was in every damn scene. Prominently featured, in fact.
My friends and I paid no attention to the movie. We just stared at the Idaho Spud. Every time the camera cut, it had a new role in the film. Sometimes, it was a beauty spot on one of the actresses' faces. Sometimes, it was a fly on a wall. There was a shot of a door where it looked like the doorbell. At one point — I don't recall the exact dialogue — one of the actors said, "What is this thing?" And we all answered, referring to the brown lump on his face, "It's a chocolate-covered potato." This was years before The Rocky Horror Picture Show and home video made yelling back at a movie screen a national and annoying fad.
Other members of the audience picked up our fascination with the alleged candy bar and by the end of the film, I don't think one single person at the Meralta was paying any attention to what the actors were saying or doing; only to how the lump figured into each shot. At one point, there was an odd lighting effect that made it look like the Spud had fallen off and a moan of disappointment echoed through the theater. But then, in the very next scene, you could see it was still there and a little cheer went up. It was still there when we left, having little idea what House of Dark Shadows was about. In fact, it was still there three weeks later when I took a date to the Meralta to see Airport. On the sheer strength of superior acting ability, the Idaho Spud stole the movie from Dean Martin.
That's about all there is to this story. I'm not sure I ever went back to the Meralta so as far as I'm concerned, the Idaho Spud remained in place until they tore the place down, maybe even after that. It probably didn't but I'd like to think it did. Even now, when I find myself trapped in a particularly boring movie and my mind wanders from the storyline, I find myself wishing I had something of the sort to focus my attention on. A good movie, of course, needs no external help. But a bad movie can always use a chocolate-covered potato somewhere.
ADDENDUM: And whenever I rerun this article, someone asks me if the Idaho Spud is a real candy bar or is it something I just made up for a story? It's a real candy bar and you can order a lovely gift box of twelve of them from Amazon for only thirty bucks. And by the way, I've never tasted one because I'm highly allergic to coconut…
Another rerun. This one is rerunning from February 22, 2015…
Let me tell you about the photograph you see before you. It was taken in the backyard of the home in which I lived with my parents from age 1 to about 22. I'll guess I was about seven, maybe eight in this picture. The little girl was named either Roxy or Lee.
The reason I'm not certain is that Roxy and Lee were identical twins — and I mean identical. Their grandmother, who lived next door to us, could not tell them apart and she claimed that even their parents had trouble. Roxy and Lee liked this and encouraged their folks to dress them alike. When their folks didn't, they were known to swap outfits, just to keep everyone guessing. They would also sometimes claim to be each other. If you took a guess, they'd usually tell you you were wrong, even if you were right.
Every week or three, Roxy and Lee would come stay with their grandmother for a few days and when they did, we'd play games and I would make up little adventure stories for us to act out. Once, we put on a show in that backyard for my parents, their grandma and as many of the neighbors as we could bring there under duress. We opened with a magic act that utterly baffled the three people there who didn't know that my assistant had a twin. For a few seconds there, they actually thought I'd magically transported her from one big cardboard box to another.
The other seven people in our audience laughed because they knew the secret. Then we intentionally gave it away to the other three so Roxy and Lee could both be in the rest of the show together. They sang and danced to a record I played there in the yard thanks to a phonograph and an ungodly-long chain of extension cords. I did other magic tricks and a ventriloquism act that did not have Paul Winchell sweating the competition.
I liked Roxy and Lee a lot. One day, we learned that their grandmother was moving away. Actually, everyone in the small apartment complex next door was moving away. It was being demolished to be replaced by a large apartment building. I was quite sad because it meant the end of my friendship with Roxy and Lee. I never even got to see them for a "last time."
In the above photo, one of them and I seem to be running some kind of mobile exhibit of rocks we'd found or something. I have no idea what we were doing but I do remember that wagon which served me well. It was at different times, a spaceship and a stagecoach and an ice cream truck and a door-to-door lemonade stand and I believe I even won the Indianapolis 500 in it a few times. Finally in my teen years, I gave it to a younger boy who lived down the street and he too found all sorts of imaginative uses for it. He may even have used it as a wagon.
The main thing I would call your attention to in the photo is that little house we had in our yard. It was there when we moved in and I'm not sure of its original purpose. It had no plumbing or electricity, which suggested it was built as a tool and storage shed. But it also had big windows all around it which suggested people were expected to be inside it. Here's another photo where you can see it…
I don't know what caused me to make that face. Usually when I'm around females, they're the one making that face.
For a time, I used the little house cautiously as a playhouse — cautiously because many of the windows were broken, the floor had weak spots on it, there were portions of the ceiling that looked like they might come down at any minute, and there were a great many rusty nails in its walls. My Uncle Nathan, who was marginally handy with tools, occasionally went in and tried to remove some of the greater hazards but it finally came down to a simple decision: My father would either have to spend a lot of money to have someone come in and fix it up or it would have to be demolished.
A neighbor recommended a carpenter who came by and quoted a price to make it safe and inhabitable. The amount was clearly out of the question so my father asked, "How much to tear it down and haul everything away?" That fee was less but also more than he could spend at that time. Uncle Nathan boarded up the windows and the one door…and the little house just sat there for a year or two looking sad and maybe haunted.
During that time, the apartment complex next door was razed and a new, modern building took its place. As you might expect, we began finding termite droppings in our home. A bunch of them probably came in when they lost their residence next door and another wave probably arrived with all the lumber that was trucked in to build the new building.
An exterminator gave us a price to have our house tented and fumigated but, he said, there was no point in doing that as long as that little house was in the backyard. It was swarming with the little beasts and would re-attract them after any "kill." He gave my father an estimate on what it would cost to rip the place down now. It was $300, which seemed like a lot at the time. My father thought about it for a few days and finally decided he had no choice but to pay it.
Then my mother had a thought. She asked our gardener Felipe what he would charge to do it. He said he didn't do that kind of work. Then she asked him, "If someone else tore the building down, what would you charge to haul away all the old wood and broken glass?" That, he said, he would do — for $40.
She came to me and said, "How'd you like to make $130?" That was half of what would be left if she and I tore it down and Felipe cleaned up after us.
I think I was ten at the time and $130 seemed like…well, less than a million dollars but not by much. The primary expenditure in my life was the purchase of comic books, most of which I bought at used book shops where I could get six for 25 cents. I did some instant arithmetic. $130 was 3,120 comic books.
But not really. There were many current comic books on the newsstand that looked so wonderful that I couldn't resist paying full cover price, which then was a dime. So maybe it was more like 2,000 comics. I remember thinking, "Gee, it's too bad I won't have a little house in the backyard to store them in."
My mother then said, "Now, don't think I'm going to let you spend the $130 all on comic books. Some of it's going to have to go for clothes and other expenses."
I asked, "Could I buy a pair of socks and spend the rest on comic books?" She said no. I could spend $30 on comics and then the remaining $100 would go towards, as she put it, "Necessities of Life." I tried to argue that Detective Comics was one but all she said was, "Nice try, kid. Nice try." I never could put one over on my mother. My father, yes…but not my mother.
Still, I took the offer. Thirty bucks worth of comic books was, after all, thirty bucks worth of comic books. Even at twelve cents apiece, that was a lot.
She presented the proposition to my father: "Give us the money and Mark and I will tear down the little house." He was skeptical but obviously, there was a value to keeping the dough within the family. "You've got a deal," he told us. "But for God's sake, be careful."
We were…and it was, up to a point, enormous fun. The little house was built like a real house but without a concrete foundation. We bought tools so I had safety goggles and gloves and a sledge hammer that was appropriate to my size and a big crowbar that I used to pry the shingles off the exterior. Once I did that, some of the walls beneath them could be knocked down with the sledge hammer, even by a ten-year-old boy. The little house turned out to be in even worse shape than we'd thought, plus we also had a big assist from those termites.
When we got the place down to the framework, Uncle Nathan decided to get in on the action. He went someplace and rented a gasoline-fueled power saw and then came over and cut down some of the upright beams, collapsing the roof. Boy, that was exciting. Many years later, I was outside the Hacienda Hotel in Las Vegas the night it was imploded with thousands of gallons of liquid explosives. Watching the little house come down was more memorable and astonishing.
Then Uncle Nathan sawed the roof and interior paneling into smaller chunks that Felipe the Gardener could fit into his truck. When the house was almost down, we paid Felipe to dig up the wooden frame that had formed the foundation. He then hauled the wreckage away and we were done.
My father was amazed. Absolutely amazed. He stood out in the backyard, staring at the plot where the little house had been and he said over and over, "I can't believe you did it! I cannot believe it!"
Between that extra cost of Felipe's excavation and what we spent on tools, we didn't clear $260. It was more like $200 but I still put aside $30 from my share for comic books and the rest went for clothes, shoes and some new shelving for my bedroom. I had to have a place to put all those comic books, after all. That was a Necessity of Life.
Only days after the little house was gone, we had to spend two nights at a nearby motel while our big house was covered with a tent. It was then filled with poison gas…which, the exterminator swore to me on the life of his children, would not harm my beloved comic book collection. As we were checking into the motel, the clerk noted that the address my father wrote on the registration card was less than a mile away. "You're not from out of town, I see. Might I ask the reason you'll be staying with us?"
My father was still reeling with astonishment at our demolition work. I guess it was partly that and partly to make a joke that he told the man, "My son here tore down our house."
The clerk gave me a look of incredulity and he asked, "Did you really do that?"
I said, "Yes." And motioning to the little suitcase I was holding, I added, "I packed my sledge hammer and my crowbar! If the TV in our room doesn't work, this place will be a parking lot by morning!"
Things should be back to normal around here in a day or two. In the meantime, here's a rerun from May 17, 2014…
When you're a kid — we're talking under ten here — adults are always asking you the same questions…
When's your birthday? My parents were married March 3, 1951 and I was born on March 2, 1952 so I'd answer, "I was born on March 2nd. My parents were married on March 3rd." It always got a laugh. I didn't know quite why it got a laugh but it did so I left it in. It was usually followed by a hurried explanation from my mother.
What do you want to be when you grow up? From about age six on, that was an easy one: "I want to be a writer." I really did and I've never wanted to be anything else even though this response seemed to disappoint most of those who asked. They'd say, "Are you sure you don't want to be a fireman or a movie star or the President of the United States?" I'd reply, "Nope…a writer." They'd usually shrug and you could see them think, "Well, he's young. He has time to decide on a real career." I'm now 62 and I haven't come up with one yet.
What's your favorite color? Now, that was an odd one but I got it a lot. My parents would introduce me to some adult and within moments, the adult would be asking me what my favorite color was. I'd think, "Why? Are you going to paint me that color or something?" But I'd tell them it was orange and they'd react like I'd said something world-shattering…or at least interesting. Orange, huh?
Orange.
Orange is my favorite color but it's not a vast preference. I don't go out and throw rocks at green or spread vicious slander about yellow or anything. I like lots of stuff that's not orange, a fact that my Uncle Aaron never seemed to grasp. I wasn't present whenever he and Aunt Dot were picking out a present to buy me but I just know it went like this…
AUNT: Oh, there's that game Mark wants so badly. Let's get him that. He'll love it.
UNCLE: We can't get him that. It's not orange and the boy loves orange. Hey, instead of the game, let's get him a couple of traffic cones.
When Uncle Aaron and Aunt Dot gave me a gift, I never knew what it would be except that it would be orange. One time, they bought me an orange shirt that was a size too small…and they knew it was a size too small for me when they bought it but all the shirts that were the right size were not orange. I guess the logic was: Better it should not fit him than it should not be orange. If they were around today, I'd probably get John Boehner for Hanukkah.
My Aunt Dot was my father's sister and she had married this man named Aaron who had a sister named Emma. Emma was a sweet, befuddled little lady who was very old. How old? No one, including Aaron, knew. The last twenty or so years of her life, she worked as a salesperson in a variety of department stores and places that sold women's clothing. It was not a mystery why she kept losing jobs. The mystery was why it sometimes took a whole three or four months for her to lose one of them. A more confused woman you never met.
Every few months, she'd be fired and go looking for another job. To get one, she felt it necessary to conceal her true age so she'd just make up a new date of birth, shaving a decade or two off her life. At some point, she seems to have lost track of the truth and literally didn't know how old she was. About me, she retained three facts: (1) My name was Mark, (2) I was just wonderful and adorable and (3) I loved orange. She too was forever giving me gifts that were allegedly the color we now call The New Black.
That was another problem with having orange as my favorite color. Some people have very odd definitions of orange. For reference, my idea of the perfect orange is the color of Baskin-Robbins orange sherbet…or maybe one shade darker. But it's not red with a little yellow in it or yellow with a little red in it. Orange is orange is orange. Aunt Emma — she insisted I call her that — once gave me a jacket that I suspect she fished out of the trash at the last place that had fired her. It was about the color of steer manure mixed with Chinese mustard. She said, "I knew Mark would like this. It's orange."
It wasn't. But almost every time I went someplace where I was going to see her, I had to wear this hideous thing. "Oh," she'd say with glee. "I see you're wearing your orange jacket!"
One evening, we got a call: Emma had collapsed in her apartment and been rushed to a hospital. We decided to go see her the next day and I made a mental note to bring the coat along.
The next morning before we left, the mail came and in it was a mystery: An envelope addressed to me from the Beverly Hills branch of Home Savings and Loan, which was then a big financial institution in Southern California. In it was a bankbook in my name showing a deposit of five hundred dollars. That's was a lot of money in 1966 when I was fourteen.
Home Savings, Beverly Hills
I had never set foot in a Home Savings and Loan and we — my father, my mother and myself — could not for the life of us figure out where this money came from or who'd deposited it or why. Home Savings wouldn't tell us over the phone so we decided to stop there on our way to see Emma and find out. I went in, showed the bankbook and what little I.D. I had at that age and they told me. The account had been opened in my name four days before by Aunt Emma.
No other name could have been as startling. We didn't think she even had five hundred dollars, nor did it make a lot of sense that she would give it to me. Might she not need that money for medical expenses? Or to live on when she got out of the hospital? She had reached the stage where she probably was never going to get another job.
Twenty minutes later, we were in her hospital room. I, of course, was wearing the non-orange orange jacket.
She was surprised but not upset that we knew she'd opened the account for me. I expressed my thanks but told her I didn't think I should accept it. "You might need it," I said. She said she wouldn't need it for medical expenses because her insurance was covering every penny of that stay…and she also wouldn't need it when she left the hospital because she wasn't going to be leaving that hospital. Then she added in a joking manner, "Not alive, anyway."
She wanted me to have the money so her daughter, of whom she was seriously not fond, wouldn't get her hands on it. She sounded fairly lucid and serious about it so I said, "Okay, I'll hold onto it for you…but when you need it back, you're taking it back." She replied, clearly at peace and without the slightest trace of despair, "I won't be needing it back." Then just as we were about to leave, she said something else I'll tell you in a moment.
As it turned out, she died a few days later. She had prepaid for her funeral but it somehow fell to me to make some of the arrangements. When the mortuary called, one of the things they said was, "We're having trouble verifying her date of birth. We've checked hospital and government records and found several different ones that don't match the death certificate. Can you tell us when she was born?" I couldn't but I figured Emma would appreciate me lying about her age so I just made up a year. I don't remember now what I said but it's on her tombstone. I'm sure it was one she gave out at some point. She was somewhere between 91 and 100.
I left the five hundred dollars in the Home Savings account and eventually added to it. So did Home Savings. This was back in the era when banks paid real interest on the money they held for you.
Around 1975, I decided to start saving for a house so that became the purpose of that account. Any money I didn't need to live on went into the account Emma had opened for me. A good deal of that dough came from writing variety shows hosted by people who didn't speak English very well, including the infamous Pink Lady and Jeff. (Jeff's English was fine but his co-stars…well, that's a long story. Or probably a lot of long blog posts someday…)
In 1980 after an exhaustive search, I found a house that I wanted to purchase and a price was agreed-upon. The seller had one special condition of the sale: She was still paying off her loan on the place and under the terms of that loan, she could save a hefty fee if the person she sold to obtained their loan from the same outfit. So I had to either qualify for my loan there or if I couldn't, get a loan somewhere else and pay the hefty fee along with the purchase price. Fortunately, her loan was with Home Savings and Loan. In fact, it was at the same branch where Emma had opened the account…and there was yet another nice coincidence I'll get to, paragraph after next.
I made an appointment with the gent in charge of approving loans, dressed up nicely and went in to see him. He said, "Ah, I see you've been banking with us here for fourteen years." I said, "Yes, and I have most of my down payment money in your bank here." That helped me a lot to qualify for the loan and that account was there because of Emma. The gent then said, "Well, all I need now is to see your income tax forms for the last several years. Can you arrange to get me copies?"
I said, "If you'll let me use your phone, I can have them here in ten minutes." The office of my Business Manager was directly across the street from that Home Savings. That was the other coincidence.
I made the call, my Business Manager himself ran across Wilshire Boulevard with the necessary papers and I qualified for the loan right then and there. I'm sorry Emma never knew she started my home-buying fund…and that she started it in exactly the right place. She did me a much bigger favor than either of us knew at the time.
I'll never forget her for that but what I'll really remember is the last thing she said to me. Let's roll the tape back to that scene in her hospital room, a day or three before she passed. As we were about to leave, I thanked her one last time for the cash in the mystery account and I told her it was maybe the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. Fortunately at that age, I had enough sense to not add, "And it sure makes up for this ugly coat."
She was lying in that bed, grinning with almost no teeth and she said, "I wanted you to have the money, Mark. I'm just sorry I couldn't figure out a way to make it orange."
Recently, I linked you to an episode of the Laugh-In revival that was done in 1977, sans Rowan and Martin or anyone else who'd been in the original version. The new cast included Robin Williams and my partner Sergio Aragonés. Sergio doubled as a cast member and as the creator of cartoon graphics that were sprinkled throughout the shows much as his marginal cartoons were sprinkled throughout issues of MAD magazine.
There were six of these hour-long episodes and they were announced as monthly specials. The one I linked to before was the first episode from September of '77 and this was the fifth show which aired February 1, 1978. I believe all six were rerun a few years later when Robin Williams was more of a star…
Still busy. This article was first posted here on December 8, 2013. Pay special attention to the part where I explain that I had a pretty good childhood…
As you know well by now, my mother was Catholic and my father was Jewish. When they first spoke of getting hitched, they received so much condemnation from both families that they separated…and the woman who would be my mother went so far as to marry someone else within her own faith. That didn't work out and they ended up getting an annulment, which is just a divorce for people who got one but want to be able to say, "I was never divorced." My mother decided to go with the Jew, they married…and they had an ideal marriage. I've never seen a couple that got along that well.
At first, to avoid ticking off either side of the family, they pretty much raised me to be nothing. Then, in one of the few mistakes they ever made in parenting, they sent me to Hebrew School. I told you in the last of these pieces what a disaster that was.
It prompted a few comments from folks who said, "Gee, what a terrible childhood you had." No, no, no. I had a great childhood…the best one I witnessed among all my friends. In these articles, I am literally telling you every unpleasant memory I have from being a kid. It's about six or seven in my first eighteen years. My parents never fought. There was very little yelling. There was no hitting. There was no heavy drinking. I never got in trouble. And though we weren't wealthy, I pretty much got everything I wanted.
Hebrew School, as bad as it was, was only once a week for a few months. Once it was over, they decided to give me at least a brief exposure to the religion of my mother's side.
On the (bad) advice of a family friend, a visit was arranged between me and a high official of a local church. Then as now, I am unsure of his title and as I think back upon him, I have a mental image of Dean Wormer in Animal House but dressed as priests dress when they want to remind you that they're priests and you're not. I have always had a natural suspicion of people who try to "one-up" you with how they dress. It's like when you go to someone's office and they make sure they're sitting in a higher chair than you are.
He welcomed me, greeted me cordially and condescendingly, parked me in a chair, then sat in one that made him much, much taller than anyone else who'd ever visit him. He then proceeded to lecture me for a good half hour on how there was one true religion in the world (his) and the rest were frauds, shams and, of course, The Work of The Devil.
All who followed them — indeed, all who didn't surrender wholly to his version of his faith — were condemned to spend all eternity writhing in exquisite agony amidst the fire pits. These lost souls included, of course, my father, my mother (especially her for her act of treason, even though it had resulted in me), all the aunts and uncles I liked, all my friends…and billions of foolish non-Catholics around the planet.
I believe I actually said, "Sure gonna be crowded down there" but he didn't hear me. He didn't hear much of anything I said. It was kind of like "accept Jesus as your personal savior and get the hell out, kid." Or maybe it was "get out of hell." I don't remember. I do remember a pretty horrendous description of God. It made Him sound like a wrathful super-villain with the power to flood the world or wipe out a continent if he felt disrespected and there was talk only of Fear of God, not Love of God, which was even more off-putting. Mostly though, I recall the utter contempt for other religions and those who followed them.
Oh — and there was a lot about him (with a small "h") and his operation. It was not enough to just accept the teachings. God wouldn't be pleased with you if all you did was lead a moral life. You had to show up at church (preferably Father Wormer's) every single Sunday, participate in its affairs and rituals and — especially! — fill the old collection plate.
I got out of there without accepting Jesus or even Father Wormer as my personal savior. When I quoted to my parents some of the lecture/scolding I'd received, they realized they'd chosen poorly and urged me to pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.
A few weeks later, I spent a much more pleasant half-hour with an elder or a senior or a monsignor — I'm bad on these titles — at St. Timothy's down on Pico. He was the right guy but little of what he said meant much to me. The main thing I got from him was more respect for Catholics — they weren't all like the other guy — and the message that one could be of any faith if one respected others'. Either of those two things alone would have been worth the visit.
I came away from the latter meeting with the feeling that I didn't have to commit myself body and soul to any established church or teaching; that I didn't need to swear allegiance to any of them to understand that you shouldn't kill, you shouldn't steal, you shouldn't harm another human being except, when necessary, in self defense and perhaps the defense of others.
Having a last name like "Evanier" causes people to not know instantly what you are so when they asked, I'd often say, "As Jewish as I wanna be." I meant by that I'd take the parts of the faith and culture that made sense to me and respectfully decline the others. It's worked flawlessly except when I encounter someone who thinks you have to pick a team, swear total allegiance to it and work to destroy all others.
If you'd asked my father, he would have told you he was a devout Jew, though he might also own up to all the ways in which he didn't fit some folks' lists of what a devout Jew oughta do. Among other things, he didn't recruit. He never told anyone there was anything wrong with them not being a Jew. He barely told that to me, his own son. He was a kind and honest man who made things better for his friends and family, gave to charity and never knowingly harmed another human being. If that's not enough for your God, I want no part of Him.
