Having posted observations since last July, I must confess a nagging uneasiness about the name of what it is I do: blog. Without putting too much emphasis on my confusion, the word blog, as defined by something called Free Dictionary by Farlex, suggests it is diary-like as in: “I blogged today and told you and the rest of the world about how much weight I’ve already lost this week. Between that and some awesome clothes I almost bought and this diary being about the most important thing in my life, I’ve been busy, busy, busy. Seen any good movies lately?”
The Free Dictionary is provided by MSN to whom I am indebted for the magic at my often stumbling fingertips. I’ve used FD but once for the above and that because I’m a feely sort of communicator who prefers reaching for Webster’s Dictionary, my old standby. For whatever it’s worth, I find it deliciously ironic that neither Webster’s nor another reliable, Spell Check, recognize the word blog or any of its offshoots. While the case can be made that such forms of blogging as diaries are democracy in action, my hope is that we can create classifications that will set various approaches to blogging apart. Not attempting to come off as some kind of Fourth Corner snob (and I submit there is less of that sort of thing in the Pacific Northwest than elsewhere), I have a solution to my quandary. Because my blogged meanderings tend to be essayistic recollections, from now on all references to them by me will be as blessays. There, I’ve invented a word. I trust this isn’t latent self-absorption raising its ugly head.
While the self-absorbed are everywhere, I submit that actors are up there near the top. That’s probably the biggest motivating factor in their getting into such a crazy business.
A case in point involved the long gone and very great Frank Fay whose personal life was a continuing meltdown compared to his success on stage. You missed something if you didn’t see him in Harvey. He made Jimmy Stewart look like a road show version.
Once upon a tumultuous time for Fay, the actor had been hauled into court on a serious matter and his attorney, knowing the judge’s feelings about Fay’s lack of respect for the law and his monumental vanity, warned the actor to play down his egocentricity. “When he questions you, give him simple answers and don’t embellish a thing,” pleaded the attorney. Asked by the judge for his name and livelihood, Fay replied. “I am Frank Fay, the world’s greatest entertainer.”
After justice had been administered (Fay thought unfairly), his attorney asked him why he had behaved in such boorish fashion?
“Well,” offered the actor, “I was under oath.”
One evening in the southwest, I observed the kind of self-centeredness I’m sure Sigmund Freud would have found fascinating. You may recall Dr. Freud as the man who inspired the term “Freudian slip” which is what results when a person says one thing and means a mother.
Enter Barbara Nichols, perhaps best remembered for her portrayal of Mildred, Jack Benny’s TV girl friend. In 1955, TV Guide purchased a successful Oklahoma City programming publication and I was dispatched to train an editor, play big brother to an infantile manager, and create a state-wide weekly of programming accuracy.
We chose the Skirvin Hotel in Oklahoma City for a party and bought booze in Texas--Oklahoma then a dry state. As an extra added attraction, as the vernacular went in those days, Nichols was invited for photo op purposes. TV Guide’s home office in Philadelphia (later suburban Radnor) was represented by circulation director Dwight Yellen and other members of the company including my first boss, Art Shulman, who later co-authored How Sweet It Was--a nostalgic look at TV including lots of pictures, some of which I supplied.
Somehow, I wound up having dinner with Nichols the evening before the party. I have a vague memory of picking her up at the airport and heading for an Italian restaurant.
Barbara Nichols, born in Queens, New York, got into reasonably dignified forms of show business by way of men’s magazines where her magnificent body graced page after page. As sex symbols go, Nichols was easily an 11. I won’t go so far as to suggest she made Marilyn Monroe look like a boy, but you get the idea. Today, we would say Barbara is exceedingly hot.
Dinner progressed very nicely when, quite suddenly, Nichols exclaimed: “Oh, my goodness, there I am,” and pointed to a brick wall some 15 feet away. The wall had an oddly mottled look. With that, she pulled me out of my chair for a closer inspection. Our examination revealed the more interesting pieces of female anatomy had been cut from magazines, pasted on the wall, then shellacked.
“Look, there’s one of my boobs,” she exclaimed. Who would know better than the possessor of it or them? Later on, dinner cooling, her thoroughgoing inspection produced a derriere claimed as her own although, in her self-absorbed exuberance, she didn’t call it that.
# # # #
Comments