Chapter Nine
Jeanette was my 3rd wife.
Number 1 was Julie Lambert, eldest and most beautiful daughter of Henry and Grace Lambert of the Lambert Landscape Co. of Dallas: the largest landscaping company in the Southwest.
Hoi-polloi.
High society.
Her aunt and uncle, Eleanor and Joe Lambert, were the society players of the family (Grace and Henry stayed in the background) and used to tease her they'd decorate the ladder for her elopement so they wouldn't have to pay for her debutante ball.
Julie and I met one afternoon shortly after my homecoming from Europe in 1963.
I was hitchhiking home from a downtown movie one afternoon and Pam Gorman, a friend from my Highland Park High School days (Jayne Mansfield went there –alas, before my time), picked me up.
In the front seat with her was the cutest red-head I'd ever seen in my life. She had style, sophistication, smarts galore, class and beauty all wrapped up in the loveliest package imaginable. She was bubbly and alive. She was intelligent above all else and I fell in love with her instantly.
We flirted. I asked her out and to my glee she agreed.
Her family was in the process of moving from a palatial mansion in the old part of Highland Park across the street from its City Hall, into a new home across from the Dallas Country Club.
It was the only time I saw the place, when I arrived to pick her up. Just like in the movies, Julie made a grand entrance coming down the stairs into the entry hall.
I haven't a clue what movie we saw or what else we did on the date but we went parking afterward. I was 18 and she was 16. I had just graduated from the College du Leman and she was a freshman.
I asked her, after a few good innocent smooches if she had a boyfriend. She said no. I said, "You do now!" And we became inseparable, at least when she wasn't in school.
For three months we were a major item in each other's lives.
I'd gotten a job working as a weekend cameraman at WFAA-TV, the Dallas ABC affiliate. It was a handle on a possibly lucrative career in TV production. But, I was pretty clumsy with the cameras.
I bobbled.
My job was manning the weather camera on the news broadcast. It was simple enough: I'd point at the weather dials the weatherman used in those days. All I had to do was tilt the camera down the line: temperature, wind speed/direction, barometric pressure. But I'd bobble. What should have been a smooth tilt was shaky with a slight wobbly pan in the middle.
Moving the camera up and down is a "tilt" and moving it left or right is a "pan". "Pedestal Up" and "pedestal down" mean bring the camera body up or down on its base without altering the shot.
One can pedestal up and tilt down while panning right during a dolly left if one were so inclined, but all I had to do was tilt down, with a slight pause on each dial as the weatherman read the conditions.
I had no intention of becoming a great and famous cameraman, though. I knew in my heart I wanted to be a "talent" as the on-air personalities were known.
I also knew I wasn't going to be an on air talent at WFAA-TV.
For some reason I decided to move to Tucson.
So, I cooked up some story and quit. I don't think they believed it but they let me go. Years later when I re-applied for another job there I was turned down. No reason was given.
Why the hell I picked Tucson I couldn't tell you. But I did. And I left little Julie behind.
There was a popular TV commercial slogan that said "Move your sinuses to Arizona". Perhaps that gave me the idea.
It was February, 1964. I got a job as a cameraman at KGUN-TV but it only lasted a few weeks because I came down with the flu and missed a lot of work.
There was a new hamburger chain selling 15 cent burgers and I ate lots of them to stay alive at the time. They were the best tasting things around, too. Some place called McDonald's.
They had just opened a location in Tucson. I couldn't wait to tell my friends back in Dallas about how good these cheap burgers were. And filling, too.
I'd rented an apartment on Swan Avenue off Speedway, one of the main drags.
One day a young Univ. of Arizona student named Brent Stein came by asking if any mail had come for him: he was the former tenant. There was some, I gave it to him and he invited me to a beer bust later that night at one of his friend's apartments. I wasn't much of a beer drinker and felt very out of place.
Bored, I left.
Brent would go on to be an iconoclastic leader of the radical hippie movement in Dallas. He was not a “team player” where the “establishment” was concerned and he became a target of their wrath.
He was arrested though not convicted several times for various deeds. Finally he was busted for marijuana possession when the police found a “roach”, the tiny nub end of a joint, in his car and he was astonishingly sentenced to ten years and a day in prison. The “day” meant he wouldn’t be eligible for early release.
He served about a year of his sentence before a petition demonstrating the public’s outcry against its severity and unjustified term for possession of little more than a few seeds resulted in its commutation.
Lesson: They’ll gittcha in Dallis!
Not long after arriving in Tucson I met a guy named Richard who was a DJ at one of Tucson's radio stations. He was into photography and when he learned I was pretty good at figure photography we found we had a little in common.
He and I decided we'd be great and famous figure photographers. I found a woman who didn't mind undressing in the middle of the surrounding desert and the three of us went to work.
It wasn't a sexual thing with the girl. We shot some pretty nifty shots at a little "oasis" I'd found while exploring out in the middle of nowhere: a little stream flowing over some picturesque rocks surrounded by ancient Saguaro Cacti and sand...lots of sand.
One day Richard got us a paying job: photographing a corpse as it lay "in state" in a chapel.
It was my first up close look at a dead person. To this day I could swear the eyes moved.
We snapped the geezer from every possible angle. Twice, maybe three times. Richard took the film for developing.
I never saw the prints because about that time I was getting lonely for Julie and decided to head back to Dallas. I left a bunch of equipment and files and belongings with Richard and his wife and headed back to Texas, but I lost track of them over the next couple of years and never got my things back.
Amongst them were two photographs I had taken on November 22, 1963.
I’d returned from Europe November 7th and lived at home with the a.m. but it was intolerable being around her.
"You're just waiting for me to die, aren't you? Well, you just might have a surprise waiting for you young man", she used to go on and on.
On that fateful day I'd gotten her to front me money for my own apartment, which prompted the daily tirade. I was in the process of renting a nice one around noon when the manager said they'd need time to work up the lease for me and why didn't I go get some lunch; the papers would be ready for my signature when I got back.
I headed for my favorite spot: Kip's Big Boy Restaurant on the corner of Lemmon Avenue and Inwood Road near Love Field Airport, right in the middle of Dallas’ near northwest side.
When I got to the intersection there was a massive traffic jam. Cars were backed up 4 or 5 deep in all 6 lanes on Inwood. I figured there was a hell of an accident up ahead because the cars in front of me were empty: their drivers had, obviously, abandoned them to see the carnage.
I grabbed my camera off the seat next to me and made my way to the intersection. There was angst to be photographed here. Maybe I could sell some of the shots if they came out good, I thought. Everyone loves angst.
Nothing! No wreck. No wringing of hands or shards of glass and metal strewn about.
What was the big fuss?
I looked to my right and saw a line of black limousines coming towards us. All this for a funeral? I wondered. Big deal.
And then I noticed the two people in the back seat of the first car coming toward me. Jackie Kennedy was looking right at me and waving.
I got that shot of them as they drew even with me. You could just barely make out my reflection in the side of the car in the final print. I got off another shot as they passed that clearly showed both the President and his First Lady.
I was impressed and a bit full of myself. I knew they were in town but I had no idea they were still in the neighborhood. I thought they'd come and gone by now.
I went into Kip's, and chatted with other customers who'd been watching the caravan. It was a big deal to have the President of the United States in town.
I ate my regular meal which consisted of a Big Boy sandwich, an order of fries and a hot fudge sundae (hold the nuts) for dessert.
Full, again, I went back to sign the lease.
When I walked in everyone was in tears.
"Kennedy's just been shot!"
Those two photos were in the stuff I left with Richard and his wife in Tucson. I can't remember their names and over the years people can throw away a lot of clutter, so I’m positive everything’s gone. I’d told them I’d be back in a few weeks after I got some money from the a.m.
I drove straight through to get back to Dallas and my Julie. I think I made it in about 14 hours.
It was dawn when I roared down Mockingbird Lane blowing my horn as I passed her house. I knew she was asleep but I fantasized she'd know it was me.
Turns out she didn't hear me. Didn't matter. I was back and we were on again. And brother were we on!
We saw each other daily, just like before but more intensely. And our smooching became more intense as well.
We weren't having sex yet but we got rather familiar with each other physically.
She was a daring young woman. She liked discovering her sexual side and since I wasn't all that much more experienced, I was enjoying it too. My previous experiences consisted of basically getting quickly laid. I wasn't necessarily having any love relationships with the women at the time. We called it “making out”.
It was recreation, not love. It was Europe, where sexual activity carried considerably less of an onus.
My first time was with Penelope Needham-Clark, a tall British/Kenyan with reddish long hair and impressive breasts. I'd met her while living in a villa with a bunch of guys in Vevey, Switzerland not far from my school, the College du Leman, in Versoix.
It was a "party" house. A couple of Americans, 2 or 3 Aussies, and a couple of Brits lived there. Friday and Saturdays would be party days and the place would rock with wine and song and good hearted, heathy debauchery.
Three women in particular came to these parties regularly. They lived together in Geneva, 8 or 10 miles down the road: Penny, Judy Bell, and Eva.
After the party wound down for the night they liked to sleep with me. Sadly, not all at once. They rotated.
See, I have always taken "no" for an answer. We'd engage in a certain amount of intense making out and petting; but when they said to stop, I'd stop.
It bothered the other guys no end when they found this out because they felt they were missing out on "sure-things" by letting the girls sleep with me. It actually led to my leaving the house.
And moving in with the three ladies!
Lesson: Sometimes accepting NO means getting YES…sooner than you think.
“Yes” happened one night while I was in bed reading my 1st James Bond novel, "Goldfinger". It was April/May of '63 and 007 was just becoming the popular read. I'd had a date with my regular casual girlfriend from school, Jacquie.
Jacquie and I had spent that afternoon in a rowboat on Lake Geneva, mildly petting and necking. We were both virgins and by the time I got home I was rather hot and bothered.
Penny came home from her date and appeared to be unfulfilled, herself. She, however, was more experienced than I by a factor of once.
Now, Penny and I were not unaccustomed to each others sexuality.
She and I had spent plenty of time locking lips and generally exploring each other's erogenous zones.
She had a slightly disturbing habit of sucking the devil out of my tongue. She'd suck so voraciously it would actually swell up in my mouth. It took some time to subside. But who was talking at a time like that, anyway?
Yeah, I thought about it...what if she did the same with...but if the effect on my tongue was any indication of the end result...I would be considerably more uncomfortable than the evident fantasy result might allow.
That night she came and sat on the edge of the bed and draped her arm over my hips. I was on my back and my penis was directly below her armpit and it twitched. I tried to ignore it.
Joan Goren, my sock hop partner, came to mind.
Penny didn't make any move to indicate she'd noticed anything. Put Penny was a tease. She asked what I was reading. I showed her the book. I was engorging as we spoke. She was definitely aware of this by now. She sat up and then laid her elbow right down on my penis. I wriggled away and the play began: she was trying to "spear" me!
By now I was as erect as I was ever going to be and we silently decided this was the time to consummate our roommateship.
I'd had other evening's of attempting the sex act with a few other women. Unfortunately, I'd never been schooled in the correct procedures involving insertion.
I knew what went where, I just didn't know you could use your hands to get it there. Those early attempts were mainly a lot of thrusting and asking, "Is it in?" followed by a disappointed, "No!”
This would continue for a few thrusts till I would become frustrated by the whole thing and give up.
It became apparent the young ladies didn’t know they could use their hands either.
After a few of these encounters I began to think I was impotent. They should have covered the mechanics a little more thoroughly in P.E. class when they showed us those stupid films.
On this night I decided Penny and I would do the deed or I'd die trying. I was going to use my hands or a shoe horn if need be, anything to get inside her and begin what I knew would be a wonderful thing.
After a bit of the now unnecessary making out and foreplay I was on top of her. I placed my penis in my palm and pointed my thumb at her vagina. I brought my hand up to her and inserted my thumb.
At least part of me was having a good time. I figured to make a track and slide along it to get inside.
It worked! Eureka! Stop the presses! How La Lu Lia!
I was having sex! I was screwing! I was doing the bad thing! The good thing! The dirty deed! My cherry was popping! The little man in the boat had a buddy! Good heavens to Betsy, I was getting laid!
"Oh My God! This feels good!” was all I could think at the moment.
It didn't take long and both of us came, thunderously. I was a very happy, relieved and an undeniably non-impotent fella.
But with Julie, she was the whole world to me. Although we were head over heels in love, we remained chaste.
Her mother, Grace, didn't like me one bit, though. I never could read her father. I'm not too sure he liked me too much either, but it seemed he had more things on his mind than to worry about me. He deferred to Grace.
They were an odd couple. I never once saw any emotional or affectionate gesture on either’s part toward the other.
They were pretty mean people, her parents were. They, or primarily Grace I am cerain, did what they could to break us apart in the long run.
Grace's favorite saying was from Matthew 19:6: "What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder". She repeated this over and over to Julie throughout our marriage and Julie realized it was her way of telling her she knew we were living together without benefit of clergy.
In the eyes of the state we were legal, though. We were common law husband and wife. As far as I was concerned we were married, too, in the eyes of God.
But Grace took it as her ordained task to put us asunder since she didn't feel God had afforded us his protection in the matter.
Their meanness was vividly displayed to me the Christmas before we were married.
Julie had been given a beautiful cashmere sweater and matching skirt outfit. It was a rich light blond/tan combo that clung to her petite curves as if it had been designed expressly for her, alone. Its color made her luscious hennaed hair stand out even more. It was absolutely stunning on her, and she in it.
But she had done something that upset Grace and, as punishment, the ensemble was taken away from her and given to her younger sister, Susan.
Julie was told she could never borrow it or wear it again.
So much for keeping Christmas.
In July of '64 –a month before our marriage, Grace announced that she felt Julie and I were seeing too much of each other. She said two healthy young people should spend less time together, not more.
Well, I was having nothing of it and decided to bring things to a head. Julie and I had agreed to be "engaged" to be married unofficially for several months. We spoke of it often.
Grace mandated we could only see each other every other day. We began to talk about eloping. Julie was all for it. She didn't like the restrictions any too well, either.
We agreed we’d forgo asking for her aunt and uncle’s decorated ladder.
On my birthday in August we agreed the time was near. A few weeks of the every-other-day routine had gone by and now we began devising a plan.
It was simplicity itself.
We began telling our friends, who were in on the scheme, that we planned to elope to South Carolina where the age of consent was 16.
Julie would be 17 in two weeks, legal age in Texas. I'd just turned 19 and my "disabilities of minority" had been legally removed by the court. I was an adult in all things except drinking and voting.
We planned the elopement thusly: Julie would tell her parents I was going to pick her up at 6 am on one of our "on" days. Her folks would still be asleep, but it was not uncommon in those days for all the kids to be up before them.
She told them we’d go to breakfast and then to Six Flags Amusement Park in Arlington to spend the day. After that, dinner and maybe a movie and then back by midnight, her curfew.
The plan was feasible and raised no suspicions.
Soon it was August 19, 1964: the day before the elopement. Julie and her friends had been packing. After her parents went to sleep they loaded her baggage into her car in the carport as per our arrangement.
It was to be loaded by 10 pm after which I would come by and reload it into my car. I’d pick her up at midnight and we’d be off on our journey.
Everything came off without a hitch. At 12:00am on August 20, 1964 Julie and I began our life together. Only we weren't going to South Carolina. We were going to Vegas!
No one knew that. No one. It was imperative that her friends believe we were headed east because we knew they'd break down eventually and tell her parents the truth.
Because her parents and sisters would be asleep when we ostensibly left and returned, no one would even know we had disappeared until around 9 or 10 the next day, the 21st!
And by then we'd be well on our way. And were.
After several hours of driving we stopped at a motel in the middle of nowhere. I don't even know what town it was in, but it was our "wedding night" and we consummated our marriage in the traditional manner.
Later that morning we got lost trying to make it to Interstate 10 and ended up in Crowell, Texas; where we tried to get married by the Justice of the Peace by acting dumb about not having any ID.
It didn't work.
We decided to wait till Vegas.
It was a pleasant drive. We sang songs and talked and laughed the whole way. Only once did Julie get cold feet.
It was somewhere in the New Mexico desert that she said she'd dozed off and heard the tune "There's No Place Like Home" being sung to her. I told her she was dreaming and that we were doing the right thing and that we loved each other and that's all that mattered. She agreed.
We really were in love.
I got a job right away, busing tables at the Thunderbird Hotel in Las Vegas. We were pretty broke by the time we got to town and had rented an apartment. The waitresses took pity on me and pitched in some of their tips so we'd have something to eat till payday.
Swanson frozen pot pies were 4 for a dollar in those days and pretty tasty, too.
Julie and I both wanted to be actors and we found a theater company in town: The Gallery Theater. It turned out to be the only legitimate theater in the entire state of Nevada!
I stayed on at the Thunderbird a couple of weeks but lugging bus trays up and down a long flight of stairs from the kitchen to the buffet hall was a bit much and we decided to call the a.m. for cash.
We knew full well this meant letting Julie's parents in on the caper, but by then we'd been away too long for them to do anything about it, we rightly felt.
The apartment we rented on a weekly basis was eating up our money quickly; so we moved into the theater and slept on a mattress, backstage. It was quite comfortable, and we both loved the "romance" and color it all. So Bohemian.
Lesson: It is indeed possible to make a living in the theatre.
Shortly after we moved in I called the a.m. and Julie contacted her parents.
Mine said she’d been contacted by Grace, but that was pretty much the extent of her remarks; no well-wisher, she.
Grace wasn’t too pleased at all, but was resigned to the state of affairs as they stood. She told Julie they were coming West “on vacation” and would drop by to see us on their way back to Texas.
It was Julie's first time away from home and she was very happy to see them. They didn't show me any affection, but I felt a modicum of acceptance into the family, albeit a grudging one.
I was too naive to pay any attention to that at the time.
Grace took me aside (she did all the talking in the family) and made a point of telling me, quite sternly, they had contacted the police to “do something about me” but she'd been told we'd been gone too long and were legally married and there was nothing they could do.
Looking back I realize it must have chapped her butt not to have been able to bust my ass and send me to jail forever for falling in love with her little girl.
I've always had a lucky guardian angel watching over me, I guess.
We never did get married.
To get a marriage license in Vegas I masterfully altered Julie's Texas Driver's License to show her to be 18, the age of consent for women in Nevada.
In those days driver's licenses were made of 2-ply paper. It was easy to exactingly cut a number from one place on the license and relocate it somewhere else. The trick was to not cut all the way through the layers, but only lift off the top layer with the appropriate number on it and then duplicate the process where you wanted to switch them. The cuts were invisible on the reverse side and I made sure the front side was sufficiently smudged; not only over the cuts, but also in several other places so as to look normal to the casual observer.
At the County Clerk's office her altered ID passed without a blink.
I was asked for my ID. I handed it over without fanfare and added the copy of my court papers.
Unfortunately, Nevada doesn’t recognize emancipation of minors and we were denied our license.
Lesson: Lady Luck is a fickle mistress.
Texas and many states in the union recognize common law marriages: where two people publicly proclaim themselves to be married and live together as husband and wife.
We did that. We told everyone we were married. And she had her name changed on her driver’s license. We were legal.
The Gallery Theatre was run by Perry Dell, a former probations officer/counsellor working with youths. He'd taken over a storefront that had been a church, and then a carpet store, and made it into a theater in the round.
Theater in the round had been pioneered by Dallas’ Margo Jones and furthered by her protégé Norma Young, the director of Theatre Three, where I got my start.
We’d gotten to Vegas just in time. I was cast in one of three one-acts they were presenting next: High Sign by Lewis John Carlino, who also wrote the film The Great Santini. The other two shows on the bill were Edward Albee's Zoo Story and Tennessee Williams' Mooney's Kid Don't Cry.
Julie worked crew and costumes. I did publicity and sold ads on commission for the program during the day. I was made Vice President of the corporation for my efforts.
We had a fairly successful run...more so critically than with audience attendance.
One evening we emoted for five people. There were more bodies on stage that night than in the bleachers.
One of those in attendance was Ayn Rand, celebrated author of "The Fountainhead" and "Atlas Shrugged" and the originator of the Libertarian Party's philosophy. She and a friend and three others were quite enthusiastic about our evening's entertainment.
She signed her name in the guest book we put out for patrons to sign.
Lesson: If someone’s willing to pay to see the show, you give them their money’s worth, and more.
The theater's financial success was its children's show, "Aladdin", with four performances on weekends. The house was always packed!
One weekend I went on as an understudy for the Sultan. It was terrible. The actor didn't show up and I foolishly said I'd do it...at the last minute. I never had a chance to learn the lines, had never even read the script.
I'd cram what I could into my mind before each entrance and what I couldn't remember we'd ad lib or the other cast members would incorporate into their speeches.
Somehow we got through the weekend.
Lesson: Never volunteer.
Auditions were held for the next show at the theater and there was a perfect role for Julie as the ingénue lead.
She didn't get it; and, since we'd worked hard for the theater for the last three months, we felt she was due the role. In protest we decided to head for points west: San Francisco in particular.
The sleepy little town on the bay was about to change forever, as was its wont throughout its history.
It was a time when Lysergic Acid Diethylamide was becoming increasingly popular among the burgeoning counter culture, as it would become known! It was all the rage. It came on sugar cubes and people were taking it at things called "happenings" in a neighborhood which would become known as "The Haight" or "Haight/Ashbury" (after an intersection).
Julie and I rented a room in a house on Haight Street a block down from Ashbury. We met and made friends with a young film maker named Christopher Brown.
Chris filmed happenings. He even sponsored them. He'd buy a keg of beer and invite everyone he met to come to a cellar somewhere, get drunk, “drop” the acid (LSD) and do anything they wanted while he filmed it all, no holds barred. He invited us to come one night and partake of a sugar cube.
At that time it was still legal!
The establishment was doing it’s best to scare users away by proclaiming it to cause chromosomal damage in babies.
Lesson: Don’t give LSD to babies.
Julie and I were way too straight and innocent and so declined his invitation to participate.
Mind you, this was literally the beginning of the beginning of "The Haight".
We’d opted out of history!
Meanwhile, I was busy trying to be a great and famous public relations man and had rented an office on Market Street to make it official. I didn't have a clue. But I had moxie.
I wrote letters to potential clients. I even wrote one to Broadway star Zero Mostel asking for funding.
Julie had met him years earlier during a visit to New York. In the letter I mentioned their meeting backstage after one of his shows. He ignored my request with vigor.
Lesson: Just because you meet a star once, you’re not the closest of friends.
The neighbor across from my office said he had an idea that would make us rich. He had a contact in Japan that could manufacture anything. Anything at all. All his contact needed were photographs of any product with measurements and they'd do all the work. All we had to do was sell it to the consumer.
I passed. I figure who has time. If they want pictures of everything they can come over here and take 'em themselves. Then they can paste 'em all together and have one big photograph of the entire United States.
Little did I know they would!
Lesson: Sometimes you can be psychic and not even know it.
When we first arrived in “The City” I landed a non-paying job as public relations director of the San Francisco Repertory Theater on O'Farrell Street. They had the habit of putting on full length Greek tragedies.
Obscure Greek tragedies. Six hour long obscure Greek tragedies. Trust me, “Nicholas Nickleby” it wasn’t.
Audiences were encouraged to bring box meals.
Coffee, wine, soft drinks and finger munchies were sold at intermissions. Seating was cafe style: an eclectic assortment of chairs in varying degrees of discomfort with tiny round top cafe tables to hold the munchies, not to mention the sumptuous box meals.
There was no truth to the rumor that Kampgrounds of America was negotiating for space.
We saw one show there, once. I haven't any idea what we looked at. It went on and on and on with a couple of intermissions thrown in for good measure, and then they all came out and took bows to appreciative applause.
Lesson: It’s all Greek to someone.
It was a very hip audience.
Lesson: You can be hip and still not have a clue.
In trying to promote the theater I got a chance to meet Herb Caen, the renowned “three dot” columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, noted not only for his humor but for his style of linking phrases with ellipses...three dots.
I just walked into the newsroom of the paper one day with some copy about the theater and asked to see him.
Yes, there really was a time when people could just walk right into a newspaper office and ask to speak to the writers without being stopped by armed security behind bullet proof glass.
Caen -a tall weathered man with a kindly face- strode across the newsroom toward me and shook my hand vigorously.
I introduced myself and handed him the press material and told him a little about the theater. He'd heard of us and said he'd look at what I'd given him. He wished me well and then he went back to work.
Years later, when Jeanette and I were living in Denver and I was trying to become a great and famous writer myself, I wrote to him a couple of times about my work.
I was thrilled he was kind enough to answer me on his personal note paper. I still have the notes. I have no idea if he ever published any of my submissions.
I have no idea how long the San Francisco Repertory stayed in business after Julie and I left; but it's most notorious reincarnation was as the O'Farrell Street Theater: a live-action/porno film palace run by the Mitchell Brothers -one of whom shot the other to death in the early 90's.
For fun Julie and I attended a couple of meetings of the San Francisco Comedy Workshop, a fledgling group of comics intent on improvising their way to fame and fortune.
Nothing came of the meetings. I didn't feel they had too much going for them but the seed of an idea was planted in my mind that wouldn't come to fruition until we returned to Dallas.
After a month in the Haight our money was gone again and San Francisco seemed less and less like the town I would become great and famous in. We packed up and went back to Dallas.
I had started to think about becoming a great and famous comedian myself.
I sent press releases to both the Dallas Morning News and The Dallas Times Herald announcing my formation of The Dallas Comedy Workshop.
Several people came to the meetings and we immediately began putting together a show. The fun of it was that it was a lot like in the old Mickey Rooney/Judy Garland Andy Hardy movies: “Hey! Let’s put on a show!”
We all started working on bits and gags and refining routines and were having a grand time doing it.
Everyone had their own schtick they wanted to do. We put it into a semblance of an evening's entertainment and rehearsed it a few times.
I rented the Highland Park Town Hall across from Julie’s old home, for two nights and sent out invitations to the press and all the talent agents in town. I was a guest on TV and radio talk shows to promote it. We sold tickets to family and friends alike.
Justin Moeller’s Showcase of Comedians opened to a packed house. We sold out both nights! Everybody and his brother was there. It was marvelous. We had a hit!
One member of the workshop was Patrick Cranshaw.
Pat Cranshaw -I changed the caption
“Somebody made a mint on that one”, he’d say.
Unfortunately, Pat wasn't a participant in the financial success of the posters. He’d only been paid for the photo session. No royalties. It's probably still around, hanging on old auto repair shop walls or in nightclub back rooms.
He attained cult star status in 2003 with his role as “Blue”-an 80 year old Frat boy in “Old School”, when star Will Farrell screamed out “You’re my boy, Blue!”
He died in his home in Ft. Worth in December, 2005.
Meanwhile, I parlayed the "success" of the show into a fledgling nightclub career.
My first stand-up job was at the Pompeii Club in Dallas.
The liquor laws in Texas in the sixties made it illegal to sell liquor by the drink, so people had to belong to private clubs.
Membership was about as easy as falling off a toothpick; such was the legislation the Baptists had made the Legislature come up with.
It was a formality. The Baptists were certain it was saving the state from Godlessness: you signed a card and paid a buck. Boom. You’re a member.
I was hired to do two fifteen minute shows a night between band sets for a week.
I spent my entire week's pay on a full tux and a white dinner jacket. The dinner jacket, formerly a rental, had been the regular tux for an up and coming young singer at the time: Trini Lopez.
One of the regulars of the club was Eddie Fontaine, an actor and singer who'd always do a set or two with the band. Eddie played Pvt. D'Angelo on the classic World War II TV series Combat.
He used to tell me after my sets that my delivery and timing was fantastic, that I was a funny guy, but my material stank.
I agreed with him, but it was all I could steal and get away with. I was a comedy re-cycler in the mold of Milton Berle: I recycled old jokes off party records along with some original material that needed a lot of work.
All clubs in Texas closed at midnight. But at l am The Pompeii reopened again as a hot after-hours breakfast club.
People would lineup around the block to get in, mostly because of the WRR-AM radio show that broadcast live from the club every night (everything was AM in those days…FM was for Dentists offices).
Entertainers from around town and any luminaries in town for various reasons made an appearance and most of them graced the audience both on hand and next to their radios with a song...or in my case, a joke or two. I was a recurring regular.
The first week I worked there the club was owned by the Felix Brothers, Nick and Frank, who also owned the Fred Astaire Dance Studio franchise for the area. They were kind to me and took care of me. I’ve always been grateful to them for giving me my 1st break.
At the end of my week’s run I was told to come back for another week. I was thrilled. But when I came back to work the next day the Pompeii had changed hands.
It was now owned by dapper Tony Caterine.
Tony was good to me too. He put up with my mediocre material and let me grow as a performer.
In the sixties there were no comedy clubs with open mike nights where a comic could try out his material.
We got experience working in bars and strip joints or wherever we could find an audience to sit still long enough to get a joke out. I was grateful, too, to Tony for letting me stay on.
I started getting gigs at other clubs around town: The Golden Garter, The Oar House, The Rafters, The Fire House –where I first saw Cranshaw’s Air Force poster- and a slew of others that let me come in for a few minutes during band breaks.
Julie rarely came with me to these gigs preferring to stay at home. I'd make the rounds nightly. I'd hit clubs all over the Dallas area trying to get a few minutes at the mike. More often than not, I was paid in drinks.
I liked screwdrivers in those days. And whiskey sours. I was a pretty big man, weighing in at around 300 -and gaining- and it took a lot of liquor to get me drunk. As a matter of fact I rarely got drunk. I’d never really finish a whole drink when I was working and when I was table hoping I'd make sure to leave the drink behind.
I never liked being drunk. And most of all, I detested drunks. I didn't mind a person who was drunk as long as he or she wasn't "a drunk". I wouldn't give them the time of day.
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