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Big Mouths....by Bob Sanders

 

Her professional clothes were designed by "Omar of Omaha," she wrote 75 percent of her material, her nude photos were judged too good by Playboy (the magazine was going for laughs), and she performed as guest pianist with more than 100 of the Nation's symphony orchestras.

Her name was Phyllis Diller.  She died last week in Brentwood at 95 and those at her bedside said she went out with a smile, thoroughly i keeping with her having been a very, very funny lady.  If she hadn't created such a long and successful career starting at age 37, she probably would have died in St. Louis rather than the Los Angeles suburb.

I had lunch with Diller in the Gateway to the West not long after being named TV Guide regional manager of a large chunk of real estate that included St. Louis.  Transportation in those days was of particular importance to entertainers and St. Louis' central location was a major career consideration.  Diller had achieved her initial success doing stand-up at the Purple Onion while working days writing copy at a San Francisco radio station.  That was in 1955 and it wasn't long before she was being seen on the shows of Jack Paar, Red Skelton and Jack Benny.

If memory serves, the luncheon was somewhere in the Gaslight Square area where Diller had held forth at the Crystal Palace, creative home of other talented people--among them song writers Fran Landesman and Tommy Wolf whose credits include "Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most" from their "The Nervous Set."

The Diller luncheon included four other members of what was then called the press and I believe my invitation was decidedly more of an acknowledgement of my magazine's national stature rather than any impressive local strength.  A difficult market for TV Guide in those days, St. Louis had but three stations, one a UHF.  Diller's arrival from suburban Webster Groves was in a Rolls-Royce and she stayed in character complete with the cigarette holder, a crazy hat and clothes tastefully reduced in impact from her TV appearances.  Her cackling voice and references to "Fang," her brilliant and oft-used comedic invention, were on target and her best line, one of many alluding to her attire, was: "You know you're old when someone compliments you on your alligator shoes, and you're barefoot."

My luncheon with Diller was oddly precient involving recognition on my part that her body, then 42, would have been appreciated by Playboy photographers.  Nude photographs of her were submittd to the magazine two years later and I went to work for Hugh Hefner in 1968.  Oddly enough, during my tenure with Playboy, I never became aware of the Diller photographs nor the "rejection" story until the facts were mentioned in her obituaries.

As many of us now know, Hefner began using photographs of celebrities older than the girls next door.  That was more than 30 years ago; Terry Moore has been the oldest at 55 followed by Nancy Sinatra (54), Vicki LaMotta (51) and Farrah Fawcett (50).  One has to wonder if Diller provided the original nudge some six years after the magazine's first issue with Marilyn Monroe on the cover.  It seems a bit surreal to include Phyllis Diller and Marilyn Monroe in the same sentence but life can, indeed, be curious.  Of more than passing interest are those Diller nude shots.  At least one survives and is included in her 2005 autobiography, Like a Lampshade in a Whorehouse.

Diller's greatest contribution to comedy probably was paving the way for a future generation of feminine big mouths including Roseanne Barr, Sarah Silverman and Joan Rivers who, come to think of it, is still being outragous while nearing 80.  The latter's introduction to comedy was as a writer for Diller with the most valuable lesson learned being the mileage achieved from self-directed barbs.

While Diller could be described as a somewhat beguiling big mouth (her work was remarkably clean), such was not the case with Howard Cosell, the sports journalist who transformed an obnoxious one-of-a-kind persona into a much-copied norm for sports broadcasting.

Indeed, there was and continues to be but one Cosell who once said of himself: "Arrogant, pompous, obnoxious, vain, cruel, verbose, a showoff.  I have been called all of these.  Of course, I am."

Until Cosell became a household name in the mid-50s, sports broadcasters were largely a breed inventing their craft as they blathered along with home team announcers most often referred to as "homers."  The term remains in use today largely because of the role played by ownerships, particularly baseball, in choosing broadcast teams.  Vin Scully, now pushing 90, is a notable exception and before him such worthies as Graham McNamee and Ted Husing.  It was McNamee, a budding opera singer, who invented play-by-play prior to Husing coming on board as a crossover from news and political conventions coverage.  Arrogant, opinionated, even coarse, Husing could have been the role model for Cosell.

Cosell also was impressive with none of Scully's class and you either thought he was wonderful or an outrage.  Assuming a "tell it like it is" approach, the one-time lawyer (he was admitted to the New York State Bar in 1941), began on ABC with pre- and post-game shows of the then brand new New York Mets.

While baseball was a springboard to fame for Cosell, it was boxing and "Monday Night Football" that cemented his relationship with fans.  It was Cosell's defense of Muhammad Ali who, while still fighting under his birth name, Cassius Clay, refused to be inducted into the military.   Cosell's four years U.S. Army service during World War II made his defense of Ali a lot easier.

Cosell transformed sports reporting and nothing could have been of greater reportorial contrast than the work of Jerome Herman ("Dizzy") Dean whose approach was more than bizarre.  Baseball was his game (he remains the last National League pitcher to win 30 games) and his base runners "slud" into third base while sometimes "returning to their respectable bases."  Inclined to mount evidence that good pitchers must be of stout heart, Dizzy suggested that one possessed "testicle fortitude." 

Until Cosell came along with an intellectual approach, sports broadcast reporting was heavy on cliches and light on stories behind the stories.  His feuds, particularly with New York sports columnists Dick Young and Jimmy Cannon, were classics.  Cannon once suggested: "This is a guy who changed his name, put on a toupee and tried to convince the world that he tells it like it is;  If Howard Cosell were a sport, he'd be the roller derby."

In a very real sense, Cosell legitimatized the sports loud mouth and probably helped open the door, if briefly, for Rush Limbaugh.  ESPN hired the master of hate radio to contribute his limited football knowledge to "Sunday Night Countdown."  That was in the fall of 2003 with Limbaugh lasting less than a month by making racist remarks about Philadelphia Eagles' quarterback Donovan McNabb.

Sports broadcasting's big mouths are many these days with demands made by cable's 24/7 the biggest factor.  A lot of time has to be chewed up and the need for panels of experts results in an obvious contrast to sports anchors on 30-minute newscasts.  About as colorful as network sports broadcasters are allowed to be can be found on golf coverage now the province of CBS, NBC and the Golf Channel.  Johnny Miller of NBC is often peevish while CBS' Gary McCord is consistently amusing as he makes light of a sport that takes itself too seriously.  McCord, still barred from The Masters for nearly 20 years following his description of the 17th green as appearing to be "bikini waxed," is the same guy who split his pants while bending over a putt at the 1984 Fed Ex St. Jude Classic.  Unfortunately, he was without underwear and, after brief embarrassment, bought fellow pro Peter Jacobson's rain pants for $20.  McCord and David Feherty of Golf Channel are the sport's best.

Such ESPN cable carpers as Tony Kornheiser, Colin Cowherd ("The Herd") and "Mike & Mike in the Morning" have shown promise as certified blowhards.  The best of the bunch may be Samuel A. Smith whose boorishness is decidedly of the Cosell School.  A writer for the Philadelphia Inquirer since 1994, Smith had his column yanked in 2007.  Arbitration ensued and he was reinstated while forced to remove political views from his website and cable news shows.  Called "a self-promoting, race-based gasbag" by the New York Post, Smith does radio shows for stations in New York and Los Angeles.  National exposure comes in the form of ESPN's "First Take" with Skip Bayless who can be counted upon to run counter to most of Smith's opinions.  Smith has referred to himself as "a cross between Bill O'Reilly and Larry King" and has been known to change his mind as often as Mitt Romney.  The NBA is his special province and he was a special commentator on the Michael Jackson memorial funeral service.  

Smith may very well be Cosell's heir apparent yet there have been times when I was convinced any mantle assumption would be by Jay Mariotti whose loud mouth career has been stalled by a series of misadventures climaxed by being charged with stalking and assaulting his ex-girlfriend.  His 2010 court appearance (he pleaded no contest, got five years probation) was highlighted by the charge that he allegedly demanded "as a high profile sports writer and general celebrity" that the ex-girl friend get plastic surgery.  A writer of 17 years for the Chicago Sun-Times, Mariotti was employed by ESPN at the time of his arrest in Los Angeles.  His work there included "Around the Horn" while occasionally hosting "Pardon the Interruption."  He has been without work for three years.

Boistrous and obnoxious, Mariotti was so offensive to Sun-Times film critic Roger Ebert that the Pulitzer winner challenged Mariotti's inclination to write sensationalist columns while working at his paper.

This just in.  Jim Rome, who left ESPN for a CBS radio gig in January, will go CBS  Sports Network  all the way when he finalizes a deal to do "Rome," a 30-minute daily cable TV show on the network that debuted in April.  Rome may be recalled as a guy who works his name into his show titles as in "Rome is Burning."

Rome may be recalled for an in-studio interview conducted early in his career with NFL quarterback Jim Everett.  Convinced that Everett was a bit shy when confronted by NFL tacklers, Rome began calling him "Chris," a reference to female tennis star Chris Evert.  Everett eventually took Rome to the floor while on the air.  A desk that had separated them, was overturned.

Word is that Rome, once again, will make certain his interviews will be conducted over a very sturdy desk.

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Whatshisname?....by Bob Sanders

 

I guess anyone with a computer and a curiosity plays a game I call Whatever Happened to Whatshisname?  I did it the other day and learned that Ray Tarrington left this great party in 1997.  A rather lengthy obituary included his age, 71; the place of death: Washington, Kansas; and the cause of death: heart failure.

There was quite a bit in the obit I didn't know about him.  Raised in Seattle, he played jazz trumpet, had his own band, saw U.S. Navy service in both Pacific and European Theaters including the D-Day Landings in Normandy, and was a graduate of Northwestern University.  We were born within a few months of each other.

Ray Tarrington wasn't his real name but I'll use it out of respect for him.  He was a helluva guy--easily the most enthusiastic person I've yet to meet.  It was that enthusiasm that made him an outstanding sports broadcaster eventually enabling him to pursue radio management and other enterprises.

I met Ray in 1959 shortly after arriving in Kansas City having been transferred by TV Guide from a rather lonely outpost in the Quad Cities where the most exciting aspect of working for the magazine involved the printer and a reluctant press that broke down every month or so.  Not to get too far off this story's main thrust but Ernie Somebody, who directed press operations during my 17-months tenure, once ran his boat aground very close to the bridge that connects Davenport and Rock Island.  It was a bridge too close and enabled Ernie's out-for-a-drive wife to see her thoroughly besotted husband and a very attractive shipmate stumbling around the boat's deck.  With authorities involved, a headline over a picture in one of the local papers proclaimed Ernie's efforts as one of being Scotched on the Rocks.  I promise to write further about highly unlikely Quad City adventures.

I was deligthted to be in K.C.--particularly so because of Tarrington who showed me the town while introducing me to such people as former Mayor Roe Bartle, baseball's Charley Finley and singer Marilyn Maye.  Bartle was a lot of fun, Finley was strange and Maye, then in the midst of an 11-year run at mid-town's The Colony, was eventually discovered by Steve Allen.  With a record 76 appearances on Johnny Carson, she remains a singer of great taste and good enough, at 84, to play such disparate venues as Birdland, Feinstein's and The Metropolitan Room in New York.

Tarrington managed WDAF radio having earned his broadcast spurs while describing University of Missouri and University of Kansas football and basketball games.  He had a solid relationship with Bill Bates, general manager of both WDAF radio and TV, and I quickly realized the childless Bates regarded Ray as the son he never had.  The stations, originally owned by the Kansas City Star, were more of those embarrassment of riches with the newspaper another awkward handler of its electronic wonderkinds.

Sportscasters all have behind-the-scenes stories to tell about the business and Ray was no different.  One of Bates' dictums was that all sports spielers should never allow three minutes to pass without revealing the score.  One of Ray's prized possessions was a Bates' gift, an egg timer whose pouring sands reminded Ray to give listeners the score.   

Early on Ray and I discovered a mutual fondness for golf and it wasn't long before we were spending goodly chunks of Saturdays at Blue Hills where Bates was a member.  Our foursome was filled out by Bob Hanger, an advertising executive who had co-founded Jones & Hanger.  Among the agency's accounts was WDAF.  As related in a prior column titled Golf Linkage, we also played the south side's Hillcrest where our adventures once included the consumption of 64 beers after a round.  The impressive tippling produced impairment of our marriages; one, Tarrington's, was irreparable.  I learned years later than Hanger married Ray's ex-wife.

Ray's second marital venture involved a statuesque daughter of a very wealthy Phillips Petroleum executive.  Although I never met her having been transferred by TV Guide to Los Angeles early in 1966, I did receive details from both mutual friends and Tarrington when we hooked up in L.A. that year.  By that time, Ray had taken leave of broadcasting having decided to provide consul to athletes' general inability to deal with the media.  That aspect of sports remains a problem today although contemporary jocks, spoiled by the remarkable amounts of money thrown at them, are inclined to simply become "unavailable" unless being the producer of, say, a walk-off hit--a certain curtain call for a broadcast interview.  "Was it a fast-ball or a slider you hit into the right field stands?"

Ray's striking enthusiasm was a major factor in his ability to communicate with and teach people like Los Angeles Dodger shortstop Maury Wills how to work with the media.  Among L.A.'s major buzzes back then were rumors that Wills and actress Doris Day had been having a fling since 1962.  The story was told by Wills in his biography On the Run and denied by Day in A.E. Hotchner's look at the actress in Her Own Story.  If true, I believe Ray would have confirmed the rumors.  He didn't.

A decidedly open guy, Ray told me some great stories about his marriage to the stunning blonde who, by the time we re-connected, was an ex-wife once described by him as "looking like something wondrous from a Wagnerian chorus while being imposing enough to carry a sword."  Ray had a way with both words and women.

It was not long after their marriage that Ray, having determined to sleep in one morning heard some strange and powerful mechanical sounds coming from his Kansas City backyard.  More than a bit groggy from excessive libation the night before, a groggy "Tarrington staggered to a window where he observed a very large machine digging a humongous hole in the ground.  The sometimes forgetful wife had neglected to tell him she had ordered construction of a wimming pool.  Details, details.

Relations with her did not improve when the couple made the move to California.  A trip to San Francisco produced another and final adventure when the twosome quarreled in what is now called the Westin St. Francis Hotel.  When Ray awakened the next morning, he quickly realized the blonde bombshell had tossed every stitch of his clothing out a 10th floor window.  

The day of the 1966 Academy Awards offered further insight into Tarrington's relationships with women.  A noon-ish phone call I received was disturbing; it was from a friend of Ray's who said my name had been mentioned by him a number of times and she thought I would be a person to provide some analysis for what she believed was a frightening admission on his part.  The woman was fearful Ray was considering suicide.  I attempted to reassure her that Ray seemed in good spirits the last time I had seen him.

That year's Oscar awards was the one featuring wins for Julie Christie and Lee Marvin.  In the company of the Guide's Joe Finnigan (he wrote the magazine's Hollywood yellow pages), I was positioned in the basement of the Santa Monica Auditorium near a small platform that enabled Oscar recipients to move from the photo op area to one created for print interviews.

Given her award on stage by prior year's winner Julie Andrews,  Christie (she won Best Leading Actress for "Darling") and Andrews ("Mary Poppins") headed for the steps where I stood.  At that time, Andrews was arguably the biggest star in the business and she appeared to be enjoying her fellow Brit's good fortune.  Then I noticed Andrews' bemused smile.

"How quickly they forget," was my observation to her as she hung back on the tiny platform while Christie was enveloped by those anxious to get reaction from filmdom's new flavor of the year.  Andrews laughed and we chatted a few moments while Christie was engaged by the media horde.  The scene offered further suggestion that success in show business can be such a fragile matter.

Soon I was at a party at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel chatting with Angie Dickinson, seated at the end of a bar with then husband Burt Bacharach whose mind seemed elsewhere.  Perhaps he was composing music in his head or, maybe, I was the 28th guy that night to strike up a conversation with his gorgeous wife.

My mind kept shifting back to the conversation about Ray Tarrington.  I had handled the situation rather badly and was giving the woman's concern much more credence.  In an attempt to assume some responsibility in the matter, I called Bates in Kansas City.  It was about 1 a.m. back there and Bill was a bit disgruntled upon picking up the phone, then listened as I told him about the call from the woman and Ray's apparent threat to take his life.

There was a long pause at the other end.  "Bill, Bill.  Are you there?" I pleaded.

Long pause.  "Yes, I am," he answered.

"What do you think?" I asked.  "I mean about Jay killing himself."

"Well, Bob," replied Bates.  "That's what Jay tells all the girls."

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Surveys....by Bob Sanders

 

My relationship with the VIP News folks began unraveling two or three weeks ago.  That was when one of their survey questions produced what we have both known for some time: I don't watch the "Today" show.

VIP News, having determined some two years ago that I am a living, breathing owner of a television set, decided I qualified as a VIP News person and began asking me questions about my viewing habits.  Each session consisted of six to ten simplistic multiple-choice questions, this country's tried but hardly true method of determining knowledge and understanding.  The questions came three or four times a year and I did not stay awake at nights wondering if I was still a member of the "team" during lengthy pauses between contacts.

I must confess acquiring an odd sort of suspicion of VIP News when it became obvious after a couple of questionnaires that the organization is either an arm of NBC or gatherers of information for the network.  Presumption also was theirs because, as information about me became apparent, my answers proved I am a non-network user and one of those people responsible for the precipitous decline in all aspects of what we used to watch exclusively.  I would describe myself as very close to being exclusively a cable viewer whose selection of programming includes little of what we used to rely upon: ABC, CBS, NBC, PBS, and Fox.  A big factor in my turnaround of 20 plus years is the boredom and confusion I associate with commercials.  I put up with them while watching sporting events and my idea of time well-spent is a great commercial-free film viewed by way of the dish or Netflix.

I think my survey answers began to baffle VIP News.  On the surface of things, it appeared I am a heavy viewer of NBC news although the totality of my news selection has been heavily impacted upon by sleep deprivation.  With sleep a problem, I've watched a lot of MSNBC-TV--particularly between 3 and 6 a.m. PST, a time frame coinciding with "Imus in the Morning" (even when that show moved to Fox Business News) and "Morning Joe" where I continue to get many of my political fixes.  Early questions from VIP News were so general that it appeared my allegiance to NBC was more pronounced than actually was the case.

Less than a month ago came a series of questions including one producing my admission that I never watch "Today."  Another set arrived a week ago in which I was asked: "if you watched the Today show today, we'd really like to hear your opinions."  I hadn't and I didn't.  Later I received a heavily-lawyered but brief (now, there's an oxymoron) communique about the VIP News Privacy Policy in which I was warned about posting on websites or other means of distribution.  I also was asked to "promise to maintain the confidentiality of this survey" and "not to post info about it on any blog or other website."  Yes and no boxes accompanied the request.

Curious about VIP News, I found something called Inside Cable News whose reports about the survey group indicates it has been busy determining viewing habits since at least 2006 with one study foreshadowing the debut of "Wake Up" with veteran NBCer Al Roker on The Weather Channel.

The most recent look at VIP News by Inside Cable News suggests many things to me including the likelihood of at least two levels of VIPs, one much more sophisticated as evidenced by questions asked.  Although possible answers in both groupings were limited to strongly agree, somewhat agree, neither, disagree and disagree strongly, the questions suggested one group (let's call them major leaguers) had arrived in the big time by establishing credentials as NBC viewing addicts.  Judging from the general tenor of queries given the obviously addicted, it appears I was destined to be mired in the VIP News equivalent of the Three I League or even worse.  

Questions to me have been of a basic nature along the lines of: do you find watching Today helpful in your everyday life?  I soon learned that the VIP News people are so close to "Today" that quotation marks are never used in references to the program.  Another VIP News verity: a much greater sense of sophistication in questions asked of the major leaguers as opposed to those of lesser NBC enthusiasm.  For example, the use of Maria Bartiromo on a CNBC program sponsored by the Wall Street Journal is, quite obviously, being examined probably because 2012 is the year a Wall Street Journal/CNBC deal is supposed to expire.

It goes deeper than that since WSJ is owned by Rupert Murdoch who also owns Fox properties and something like a third of the rest of the sometimes civilized world.  Other questions regarding l-affaire Bartiromo (rarely does she throw anything but softballs) could intimate curiosity regarding her acceptance by the audience and, if disappointing, the possibility of moving Dylan Ratigan (throwing in the mid-90s) over from MSNBC.  Things got really confusing last weekend when the New York Times reported Ratigan was leaving MSNBC at month's end.  It would be astonishing if Bartiromo were to leave CNBC.  If a trade is being made, this is certainly a strange way to pull it off.  Ratigan's recent book, Greedy Bastards, takes a lot of shots at Wall Street; his will not be the only strident broadcast voice to be muffled these very strange days.

Of more than passing fascination were questions asked by VIP News about viewer attitudes toward the Wall Street Journal including one wondering if "the Journal's  bad reputation is warranted" and another concerning the "perceived view" of the publication in the Nation's economy.  Take that, Rupert!

The last questions dealt with the WSJ television program format while attempting to determine the validity of such subjects as Richard Branson's proposed trip to the moon, what Warren Buffett has in his portfolio and the legitimacy of billionaire interviews.

There was a time when television programming was entirely controlled by the networks with bare bones audience numbers determining the sheer popularity of individual programs.  The make or break giant remains the Nielsen TV ratings that have been around since 1950 and remain in place because it's the only game in town.  Few feel comfortable with the ratings largely because the numbers reflect samplings taken from People Meters that sit atop, under, beside or behind the sets.  A small remote control tells Nielsen which family member is watching.  There are about 50,000 Nielsen viewers in 20,000 homes.  Each family member has his/her own watching button.  In the old days, the only numbers worth anything were those dealing with total audience.  Now, the advertisers couldn't care less.  They are interested only in how many people are watching their ads.  Intensity of interest is one of those mysteries perhaps one day to be determined.  

I worked for TV Guide from 1954-67 moving eight times while earning the nickname "Peripatetic Bob."  The magazine was very fortunate to have as editor, Merrill Panitt, a man who realized very early on that the magazine's strength was being a Dutch uncle to the TV industry.  Thanks to the brilliant and tough Panitt, we were that in spades; anyone checking out today's version of the publication (three owners later) would find comparisons to the original quite laughable.  We took great pride in not being a fan magazine.  What mattered was what was on at 9 p.m.   Stations supplying inaccurate program information were told listings would be dropped if the problem wasn't solved.  We were firm, yet friendly.

Panitt had early problems with the all-powerful ratings that could make or break a given show.  Rare were programs  like "I Love Lucy" and "You'll Never Get Rich" that took some time to click with audiences.  I vividly recall the editor confessing at a yearly convention that we had been wrong about antipathy toward ratings; he had spent a lot of time with the Nielsen people and had become convinced that ratings were, indeed, valid.

Pre-cable days bore little resemblance to today's availability of hundreds of channels.  The most popular show when the '70s rolled around was "All in the Family," a winner each year from 1971-76.  "Gunsmoke" finished first four times (1957-61) while "Bonanza" (1964-67) and "I Love Lucy" (1952-55) each won three times.  The biggest factor: limited selection.  It would be nice to suggest these best of the best would make it big today but who knows?  "Lucy" might but it would likely be as an "actuality" program--shades of the PBS Loud family in "An American Family"--focused on Lucy and Desi's volatile marriage.

In spite of all the competition today, the all-time yearly winner (six times) is "American Idol" whose remrkable 17.6 kicked things off in 2005-06.  Although an announcement has yet to be made, the broadcast winner for 2011-12 appears to be "America's Got Talent" whose audience last week was less than one-third that of the first NBA finals game Tuesday between Miami and Oklahoma City.  Network television had the opportunity a long time ago to take the programming high road and rejected the thought.  The result in terms of programming quality today is all too apparent and, unfortunately, based upon an appeal to the lowest common denominator.

It's a bit bizarre now to look at old TV commercials although a story worth telling concerns Camel cigarettes eventually sponsoring what was originally called "You'll Never Get Rich."  Later re-titled "The Phil Silvers Show," it starred Silvers as the ever-conniving Sgt. Bilko and ran sponsor-less the first six times out.  The reason: it was slotted opposite Milton Berle.  In a plot development reminiscent of today's "Mad Men," the Camels account executive (William Esty Advertising was the agency) gained admittance to the vault where CBS had stashed the first six shows, grabbed the pilot, and took off for Winston-Salem, N.C. and R.J. Reynolds.  Shown the film, those nasty people who killed so many of us, suddenly became sponsors of what became a runaway hit so popular that even more of us perished.

Another story, perhaps apocryphal, made the rounds a couple of years later when the Camels AE offered a strange explanation of the decision to pull all its advertising from the Silvers show.  His quote: "half the money I spend on advertising is wasted; the trouble is I don't know which half."  The highly quotable phrasing was first uttered by either merchant prince John Wanamaker or William Hesketh Lever (Lever Bros.) more than 100 years ago, then credited in yet another version to George Washington Hill who, oddly enough, was president of American Tobacco Co.  With "Mad Men" having just completed a fifth season, perhaps it's time to seek out "The Hucksters," a 1947 film about the advertising business and radio.  Sidney Greenstreet is magnificent as the head of a soap company, a role everyone on Madison Avenue knew was patterned after Hill.

Oh, yes.  I got another message from VIP News this past Tuesday.  They wanted to know if I watched Today without the quote marks last Friday?  Also, I was reminded not to share any vital VIP News information with anyone else.  Such a plot development calls for a very faded phrase:

Mum's the word.   

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Fourth Corner Mayberry....by Bob Sanders

Readers of this space know of my intense perturbation regarding the media's "selling" of Bellingham, the Fourth Corner community I call home.  The remarkable amount of publicity suggesting people move here has become a very real problem.

My thinking is not original.  I first heard such observations from a San Juan Island neighbor, author Ernie Gann, who refused to tell the media where he lived.  The adventure novelist (The High and the Mighty among his triumphs) was convinced the less the rest of the world knew about the island, the better off islanders would be.

It was nearly three years ago that I began undertaking efforts to debunk Bellingham utilizing a campaign that would paint for public consumption a joyless picture of the city.  In my role as the Picasso of PR, that pursuance has included changing our current unofficial motto, "City of Subdued Excitement," to something a bit more pretentious like "City of Sublimely Subdued Subjective Excitement," or even "Tony Soprano's Kinda Town."

Just why 'hamsters are lethargic, indifferent and depressed was examined a couple of years ago by way of an interview with Dr. I.B. Spacey.  It was Spacey, Bellingham's world-renowned master of medical world stuff and all-around smart ass, who targeted vitamin D deficiency as the community's dirty little secret.  Spacey's pioneering efforts produced the intriguing information that more than 90 percent of blood tests here reveal deplorable vitamin D deficiencies.  Interestingly enough, the vitamin D story is now on the back burner because of superior opportunities to inform about the real Bellingham.

Chances are pretty good you don't know that whooping cough in Whatcom County has reached epidemic proportions and is on pace to soon number 3,000 cases.  The county ranks fifth in the state and is first among the 10 largest with populations of more than 150,000.  The reason for Whatcom/Bellingham's record is the increased rejection of the pertussis vaccine.  The past 12 years have seen the rejection figure double so spread the word that there are an awful lot of stupid 'hamsters you wouldn't want living next door to you should a move here be considered.

The challenges of life in Bellingham in addition to the major vitamin deficiency and whooping cough, have been reduced in priority by the Hammer the 'hamsters Committee devoted to reducing our population.  The HHC has chosen to inundate the world's media with information about the community's immature leadership during recent years.  In the committee's sights are: the firing of the city's parks & recreation director for failure to properly reconfigure a golf course pond; the sliding past an asleep-at-the-switch City Council of a hidden camera scheme that led to the mayor's re-election defeat; and the thoroughly bizarre story of two Port Commissioners (there are three) who forced the resignation of the Executive Director in what recalled the Machiavellian maneuvers intrinsic to many of the plot twists of television's "Mayberry RFD."

The firing late in 2010 of veteran and highly-regarded Parks & Recreation Director Paul Leuthold had unusual beginnings.  Upkeep of Padden Lake Golf Course is the city's responsibility and it was mayor Dan Pike who, while checking out the course, made a critical comment to Leuthold about a pond located between the 13th and 15th fairways.  It needed work alternately described as silt removal or drainage and Leuthold, aware of the importance of cost-saving, put friend/city engineer Mark Handzlik to work.  Handzlik, a golfer, was "paid" with free golf.  It was win win for the city.  According to Handzlik, both his boss and the city manager knew of the arrangement.

Suddenly, everything went Mayberry and got either Gooberized or Gomerized to death depending upon one's point of view.  Charges of conflict of interest, violating policies on moonlighting, using city computers, and being on the city's clock while working on the project were bruited about.  The mayor, normally placid (some say right out of "Murder She Wrote") turned nasty levying a sentence that hardly fit the "crime." Result: Leuthold and Handzlik were fired.  As things turned out, the firings were a factor leading to Pike's re-election failure last November.

Another factor was the hidden cameras fiasco, additional proof that you simply stay away from Bellingham unless you want to experience fools gladly as they attempt to myopically claim Subdued City as the Santa Barbara of the North.

It was mayor Pike who signed a contract with something called ATS that would have placed red-light cameras at four intersections in addition to speed snappers in two school zones.  The signing followed a Council closed-to-the-public 6-1 vote that approved the deal.  Earlier, the Council had voted unanimously to encourage public expression.  Subdued City rose up in a wrath most righteous, got an initiative on last November's ballot and there went the traffic cameras.  Pike was defeated, but wait a minute.  The state Supreme Court ruled the initiative against the cameras was invalid.

There was, of course, money involved and Bellingham's plan was to write at least two traffic tickets per location per day to equal a yearly cost of  $28,500 per camera.  Those tickets were to cost $124 at the intersections and $250 at the school zones.  This was in stark contrast to Mukilteo's approach to matters.  Mukilteo, for the geographically-deprived, is halfway to Seattle and set costs at $20 while enabling the public to vote.

The slumbering City Council in March of this year voted to pay ATS $100,000 by June 1 to end all the foolishness.  There is a chilling history of money spent here on surveys, advanced planning documents and architectural renderings plus the disheartening waste of time offered in the name of public good by committees and public commentary.

Another story to pass along to friends and relatives considering a move to Subdued City is a real classic involving the Port of Bellingham whose inability to get things done is legendary.  Turf warfare is what a lot of it is all about and savage infighting has characterized the Port Commission's inability to work with the City Council whose shortcomings are hardly breaking news.

For something like 18 months, Charlie Sheldon worked effectively as Port of Bellingham Executive Director having been hired by Commissioners who couldn't come up with a choice during a first round of interviews.  Sheldon, with an excellent record in a similar position in Seattle, eventually was chosen and did work that pleased everyone including Commissioner Scott Walker who eventually changed his mind.  Meanwhile, former Commissioners, ex-mayors and others of political bent came to believe Sheldon was the real deal.  That is everyone but Walker.

On March 30, the three port commissioners held an executive meeting.  It was closed to the public with only invited staff and counsel also in attendance to discuss "personnel."  The discussion was about Sheldon with Walker unable to convince fellow commissioner Jim Jorgensen to ask for Sheldon's resignation.  According to witnesses, Walker would not elaborate on his disappointment with Sheldon.

It was at this point that an illegal weekend meeting between Walker and Jorgensen was held.  Jorgensen eventually caved and Sheldon was forced to resign.  Walker and Jorgensen had engaged in a "serial meeting" in which two commissioners talked through an intermediary from the Port staff.  It was a violation of the Open Meetings Act of Washington State.

In one of those journalistic embarrassments underlining the Bellingham Herald's lack of responsibility to its readers, the reporter who normally covers the Port for the paper was out of town.  No one stepped in for him and the paper was beaten for two days by John Servais who publishes the on-line Northwest Citizen.  Originally from Green Bay, Wisconsin, Servais was the principal force behind The Independent, now defunct.  Servais, highly sensitive about such matters as inept leadership and lazy journalism, has called for a public response.  One option is to recall Walker and elect a replacement this fall.  The other is to expand the commission to five members, a move that would produce better Port decisions and lessen the possibility of further outrages.  An open to the public Port meeting, at which a problem-solving expansion can be accomplished, will be held Monday (May 14).  No one is holding their breath.

One month after Sheldon left office, Walker's indignation was finally explained by something called the Pacific Maritime Online.  Sheldon had taken a busines trip to the Caribbean and Walker was miffed for his not informing the board.  According to many, Walker's idea of travel exotica might involve a visit to nearby Marietta whose resemblance to Dismal Seepage of "Vic & Sade" is striking.

At this writing, 'hamsters can affix their names to a petition calling for an expansion of Port commissioners from three to five.  Needed are 6,915 valid signatures, a number that amounts to 10 percent of last November's voters.

No way do you want to move to Bellingham.  No way, that is, unless you yearn for a real life version of "Mayberry RFD."

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Last Laughs....by Bob Sanders

 

I see my regular physician something like four times a year.  The other day, I got the good news that, in his opinion, there are no apparent reasons why my life span should not run another five years.  His words were entirely volunteered and not the result of any prompting on my part.  Assuming he's correct, I will make it at least into my 90s.

His words prompted my thinking about the enormously serendipitous aspects of living a life that appreciates improvisation in a world decidedly inclined to schedule just about everything.  I got to thinking about some of the delightful surprises I've experienced  over the years; with such thoughts come hope there are more down the road.

 

It was early on while working for TV Guide magazine that I found myself in Oklahoma City on the way to the airport to pick up Barbara Nichols, an actress whose charms produced deep conviction by some that she made Marilyn Monroe look by comparison like a boy.  Nichols, who made it into many dignified forms of show business by way of men's magazines, had flown in to bring some added attention to the new Oklahoma Edition of the publication.  It was while driving her to the Skirvin Hotel that I learned she was hungry.

We stopped at a very nice Italian restaurant where the food was good and the conversation sprightly.  Quite suddenly, the actress exclaimed: "Oh, my goodness, there I am," and pointed to a brick wall with an oddly mottled look.  With that, she pulled me out of my chair for a closer inspection.  Our examination revealed a great variety of the more interesting pieces of female anatomy that had been cut from magazines, pasted on the wall, then shellacked.

"Look, there's one of my boobs," she exclaimed, her voice trumpeting a manic sense of pride.  Who would know other than the possessor of it or them or, maybe, Hugh Hefner with magnifying glass in hand?  Later on, she found her derriere although she didn't call it that.

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The Chase-Park Plaza Hotel in St. Louis probably is still going strong and I suspect that public relations there continue to be done by a Mary Chase.  Just as there has been over the course of nearly a century something like 18 Rin Rin Tins, so it has been with the hotel and the myriad Mary Chases.

I met the very attractive Mary in 1956 at a party honoring Nat "King" Cole, the jazz great who had shucked his trio, become a pop singer, and had just acquired a TV show that would be rejected by a number of southern stations because he touched singer Peggy Lee.  More about that one at some future date.  

During a john break at the party, I chatted with pal/disc jockey/newsman Bruce Hayward who informed me that Mary, whom I had promised a resumption of our conversation, was very interested in me.  Married for seven years and alert to the "itch factor," I fled the hotel.  A TV Guide transfer to Atlanta occurred a week later.

During the next three years, I was moved four times eventually landing in Kansas City where my responsibilities included St. Louis.  One evening, I entered the Chase Hotel and there, standing precisely and impressively where I had left her, was Mary Chase whom I had stood up three years earlier.  

"What took you so long?" she asked.

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Tom O'Brien, a retired broadcaster who used t live on Orcas Island, left the party a couple of years ago and I recall his good cheer if only because of a story about musician Boyd Raeburn.

Tom was doing dance band remotes back in the early 40s from such places as the Glen Island Casino and Frank Daley's Meadowbrook.  One evening, O'Brien, then making $25.50 a week, was scheduled to do a remote at Ben Marden's Riviera.  It involved the Boyd Raeburn Orchestra, so progressive it made most other big bands sound funky.

O'Brien was approached immediately before airtime by Raeburn whose name was often mangled by announcers.  "Son, don't mess my name up.  It's Raeburn, Boyd Raeburn, Boyd Raeburn.  That's Boyd Raeburn."

"Yes, sir," replied O'Brien.

The engineer then threw the signal, the trumpet section sounded, O'Brien cupped an ear and intoned: "From coast-to-coast on NBC, it's Roy Boidbrain and his orchestra."

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It was on a lengthy tour of Spain and nearby countries that wife Jan and I checked into The Bajandillo in Torremolinas.  Not far from Gibralter, we quickly gave the hotel the not terribly sober sobriquet: The Banjo Dildo.  The hotel's architecture, U-Shaped, provides water views from all rooms and our second floor location was above a central lobby with the hotel wings angled from us.

Halfway into our 10-day stay, we discovered a laundry problem on a Saturday--bad timing in most countries.  Since our room had a balcony, we washed some clothes and hung them out to dry before setting out for a late lunch.

Returning, we noticed that most of our clothes had fallen to the lobby roof so we put retrieval procedures into motion.  To a wire coat hanger's shoulder was attached a clothesline which I lowered to a position above some underwear, then hooked a pair of shorts.  After a few feet of success, the underwear fell off and I resumed fishing for laundry.  This time I extended the middle of the hanger's base to form a V above the hook.  Although I had never attended an engineering school (a thoroughly laughable notion), I figured an engineer would improve the balance of the coat hanger by doing what I did.  Jan, of course, spelled me during what probably was 20 minutes of mostly frustration.  We finally hauled up the last of the laundry.

It was at that moment that a startling burst of rather deafening applause greeted us from the adjoining wings of The Banjo Dildo.  People, gathered on a great many of the hotel's balconies, either were demonstrating their appreciation of American ingenuity or recognizing our Chaplinesque low comedy.  We treated it as a La Scala moment and bowed graciously from our stage.

During the rest of our stay in Torremolinas, the guests of The Banjo Dildo greeted us with applause and more than one drink was sent our way.  The moral of the story is that loopdy Americans are much more appreciated on foreign shores than ugly ones.

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Living 14 years in Friday Harbor, Washington included a number of reminders that made it clear I was living in a small town.

One of them occurred when Lloyd Benedict and I met over lunch at Fords, a Bar & Grill.  Benedict, a retired insurance executive, had been given the assignment of talking me into becoming president of the San Juan Community Theatre's board of trustees.  We began lunch with straight up Beefeater martinis, then settled back to talk about rutabagas and kings, then matters theatrical.  With drinks reduced to the width of one's small finger, we ordered another round after which our waitress did a silent, awkward, table-side hover.

"Is there anything wrong?" asked Lloyd.

"Well, sir," she responded.  "Those are our only straight-up martini glasses and I guess I'll have to wait for you to finish your first drinks."

The story doesn't end there.  About a year after turning Lloyd down (he took on the trustee presidency himself much as Dick Cheney the George W. Bush administration's vice-presidency), we met once more at Fords where we again ordered martinis and laughed about our prior experience there.  A different waitress this time but the result the same: there were still just two straight-ups in the bar.

Figuring a third questioning would surely be the charm to produce proof of more glasses, I asked the obvious of a co-owner of the re-named Fords--still called Haley's Bait Shop.  A diligent search followed amid much laughter.  That was in 2002, eight years after the first incident.  Four months later, I was assured "we now have six or eight more" although no physical proof was offered.  I think it's time for another martini in Friday Harbor.

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Harry Chan was one of my favorite people and remains so because of memories.  A six-foot third-generation Chinese, he fathered film actresses Meg and Jennifer Tilly while married to a Caucasion.  Harry and I became related by marriage when, after a 15-year courtship, he married my second wife's sister, Susan Christenson.

The marriage took place during a very hot summer in Grand Island, Nebraska and was followed by a reception at a country club.  During the celebration, a quite puzzled little old lady toddled over to Harry.  Commenting about what a good time she was having, the quite elderly woman conveyed her puzzlement.

"Mr. Chan," she began, "I have noticed the mosquitoes are out in full force and they are biting everyone but you.  I don't understand."

"Well, mam," replied Harry.  "Those mosquitoes know that if they bite Harry Chan, they are going to be hungry in 20 minutes."

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Bonhomie Bob Cromie....by Bob Sanders

It was while taking the #15 WTA bus to downtown Bellingham the other day that I began thinking about my good fortune to have known Bob Cromie.  Perhaps it was the book I was reading during the ride that reminded me of him.  A classic among journalists, Robert J. Casey's Such  Interesting People is a highly perceptive look at Chicago reporters, writers and editors who, among other things, inspired Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur to write The Front Page.

Cromie, who left us at 90 with six months and change left before the Millennium, was a carry-over from Casey's era.  His book, published in 1943, did not goose me into the field of journalism; rather, it was reportorial efforts on The Heun Gazette, a for-laughs-only publication passed around study halls by restless students at Lakewood High School located in a suburb immediately west of Cleveland, Ohio.  More later about The Gazette, editor Dick Heun and our decidedly bizarre approach to journalism as we created our versions of the first pages of history.

Cromie may be recalled as the host of a nationally syndicated radio show about books plus two TV programs, "Cromie Circle" on Chicago's WGN and "Book Beat," home based at WTTW, the city's public TV channel that fed the shows to PBS stations.  His broadcast triumphs were an adjunct to four decades of reportorial excellence.  He loved words and the people who used them--particularly those who called attention to social injustice, an attitude that characterized every aspect of his work and life.

Successful journalists owe their reputations to many things.  Some dig deeper for stories than their counterparts.  Others, not as persevering, may place greater emphasis on originality while some make effective use of contacts calling upon rolodexes both real and of the mind.  Cromie is the only journalist I ever met who was thoroughly noble and it showed in the way people responded to him.  I never heard him swear and that includes time on the golf course where people are very inclined to do so.

In a business where excessive drinking, more than any other shortcoming, has probably ended more careers, Cromie (to my knowledge) never took a drink.  Whether this was a lifelong consistency or a resolve preceded by a battle with demon rum I know not.  He often sat at John Fischetti's First Amendment celebratory table at Riccardo, joining in and providing hilarity while not imbibing.  Fischetti, a Pulitzer winner for editorial cartooning, was my best friend first at the  Chicago Daily News, then at Sun-Times after the Daily News was folded by Marshall Field V.

Like many outstanding journalists, Cromie was a messy desk person although he was on the neat side compared to sports writer/columnist Bill Gleason of the Sun-Times.  I once made reference to something he had written nine years earlier prompting Gleason to dive into a filing system everyone called Mt. Gleason.  Groping for a moment or two with Herman Cain-like proficiency, he extracted a published piece plus paper-clipped notes and proclaimed: "You mean this?"   

The messy desk possibly continues to be a matter of pride to some contemporary journalists.  I once took wife Janet on a tour of the Chicago Tribune editorial floor during which she met such print paragons as columnist Eric Zorn, critic Gene Siskal (then thumbs-upping it at the movies with TV co-host Roger Ebert) and cartoonist Jeff MacNelly, a three-time Pulitzer winner.  It was in the newsroom that we came upon a remarkable example of clutter whose magnitude suggested it had to have been detritus of an Oklahoma tornado decidedly off course.

"Whose office is this?" asked Jan.

"It's Casey Bukro's,"  I replied knowing what was coming next.

"What does he do?" was the anticipated question.

"Why, he's the Environmental Editor" I giggled in return.  Bukro, responsible for environmental entries, nearly won a Pulitzer for his "Save Our Lake" series.

Born in Detroit and educated at Oberlin College, Cromie joined the Tribunein 1936 and was the newspaper's war correspondent for four years.  Wherever World War II battles raged, whether in Europe or the Pacific, Cromie was there to report--often with a local angle.  His modus operandi nearly always was kicked off by asking if there were any soldiers or Marines from Chicago or Illinois.  Tribune readers had the war "personalized" for them and Cromie was masterful.

Cromie was with the Marines when Guadalcanal was invaded and he put in a lot of miles traveling with Gen. George Patten including coverage of the Battle of the Bulge.  Like Ernie Pyle, he wrote stories about average guys turned into everyday heroes.  Typical of his work was an October 12, 1943 report telling of a raid on Rabaul located, as the dateline proclaimed, SOMEWHERE IN NEW GUINEA.  The writing is rich, spare and aimed at a readership whose heightened interest in the war is in direct contrast to today's indifference.

"As we taxied on the runway," continued Cromie, "I moved into the bomb bay and stood between rows of 1,000 pound bombs.  We had plenty of respect for the 1,000 pounders--Staff Sgt. Fred C. Whitney, 22, Independence, Mo., Staff Sgt. John G. Shaffer of Logan, W. VA, and I.  We didn't return to our comfortable posts in the waist until Bond (Lt. John E. Bond 24 of Scarsdale, N.Y.) had plenty of time to get his plane on an even keel.  Other heavy bombers were all around us.  I could count more than 50 at one time.  We gradually got into formation and headed for Rabaul, soon running into heavy fog which hid the wingtips and sent tiny drops of water running on the windows.  Then into the sun once more.  The morning was all blue and gold and blinding white.  I went forward and stood behind the pilot's seat.  Tech Sgt. H. V. Milarski of 3800 Diversey boulevard, Chicago, was working on the radio.  As he smoked a cigarette he looked as bored as if riding down State street in a street car.  Tech Sgt. Joseph A. Gosseaux, 23, of Grindstone, Pa., the engineer, was busy writing down the names of the personnel.  He did this with ease from long practice, even to putting down each man's serial number from memory--some numbers containing eight digits." 

Cromie's war journalism is something we don't get today because of the military's control explicit in embedding reporters resulting in spoon fed versions far short of what we should be getting.  For that we can thank President George H.W. Bush, Dick Cheney (then Defense Secretary) and other members of the administration who conducted an assault on constitutional freedoms during Operation Desert Storm.  Without question, a strangely passive press also was at fault.

I have two particularly fond memories of Cromie.  One involved attending services for Fischetti who died two weeks after I left Field Enterprises (owner of the Sun-Times).  There were people critical of my leaving for the Tribune but Fischetti was highly supportive during two months of my maneuverings with the marketing and editorial departments of the Boul Mich monolith.

Cromie's eulogy for Fischetti was perfect.  In the company of all who loved the guy, Cromie offered a parting line that recalled a legion of mid-day fun: "I think it's entirely possible that John Fischetti invented the long lunch."

My other indelible memory of the journalist was the result of a question I asked him following a taping of "The Cromie Circle" at WGN.  Of all the authors he had interviewed, with which one would he prefer to spend a lot of time?  Cromie mentioned several but the stickout he decided was Ernest K. Gann.  Gann's many lives were spent as a theatrical manager, film director, painter, writer, pilot and seaman.  Both he and Cromie were man's men for whom laughter was an important ingredient of living.  "He is truly one hell of a guy," was the way he put it.

"'ll tell you something interesting about Gann," observed Cromie.  "His was the only interview I ever conducted in which the subject would not tell me where he lived.  I asked him why and Gann replied: "If I tell you, you'll ask me what it's like and I'll tell you how wonderful it is.  Members of your audience will then get interested in the place and they'll buy property and build homes and the place won't be the same.  That's why."

Our conversation took place in 1985 shortly before Cromie retired.  When more than four years later Jan and I moved to San Juan Island in the Pacific Northwest, we discovered that one of its better-know residents was Gann, author of 25 novels about aviation and the sea.  Among the best known: Fate is the Hunter, The High and the Mighty and Blaze of Noon. 

We met Ernie and spunky wife Dodie (an inductee into the National Ski Hall of Fame, she captained the 1948 Olympics team) at a party a couple of weeks after our January, 1990 arrival in Friday Harbor.  He recalled the conversation with Cromie and thought our meeting indicative of pronounced prescience on Cromie's part.  Among the many joys of our island life were the sensational views offered from our home including the Olympic and Cascade Mountains, the waters of Puget Sound, the Strait of Juan de Fuca and much of Ernie and Dodie's 760-acre Red Mill Farm in the San Juan Valley below.

The farm and its assured future gave further evidence of Ganns' staunch attitude regarding the heaven on earth he had referenced in his conversation with Cromie.  Shortly after donating a conservation easement to the San Juan Preservation Trust thus denying development, Gann told me: "We have to do something to save this land, not only for our children but for ourselves.  People need to stop thinking of money all the time, or the land won't be here." 

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Frank: The Voice....A review by Bob Sanders

 

I finally caught up with James Kaplan's ring-a-dingdingally good Frank: The Voice and, once again, became intrigued by the two Sinatras; one, a singer of remarkable sensitivity able to communicate in thoroughly entrancing fashion, the other an often highly immature, nasty, selfish oaf who fraternized with hoodlums in an apparent attempt to further a reputation for being tough. 

The book, of more than 700 pages,  while largely a re-write of many of the tomes about the entertainer, is a penetratingly good one comprehensively researched.  Like Gary Giddons' examination of Bing Crosby (A Pocketfull of Dreams), it takes the reader up to the break-through moment in the life of a musical sensation.  The Crosby book ended with his entry into films having concentrated on his development as an artist in addition to stories of palship with such notables as Hoagy Carmichael, Bix Beiderbecke, the Rhythm Boys and other members of the Paul Whiteman Orchestra who enjoyed a drink or ten.  Unlike, Sinatra, Crosby was regarded favorably by the public thanks to astute public relations and The Groaner's ability to confine his shortcomings largely to the home.  He was, by nearly all accounts, a complete antithesis of the merry, nice guy next-door screen presence.  Kaplan devotes considerable space in the Sinatra book to Crosby and for good reason.  It was Sinatra's worship of Crosby that inspired a career built on a lot of talent buoyed by intense determination.

Kaplan takes a warts and all approach to the finger-snapping singer from Hoboken, NJ in a kind of hip, semi-wise guy fashion--particularly when telling of gangster connections, piggish behavior and insensitive endings of relationships with women including Ava Gardner.  Yes, Ava is there along with Lana Turner, Marilyn Maxwell and women of less notoriety.  Actually, Ava, according to Kaplan, drove Sinatra up a lot of walls including one time in Palm Springs when the two of them had serious spat #187 (or whatever) with Sinatra taking off for the desert community presumably to resume a relationship with Turner.  Gardner, a good friend of Turner, beat Sinatra to Palm Springs as another Hollywood tale unfolded.  Good reporter Kaplan takes us through a number of versions of that overly-reported story including Kitty Kelley's His Way.  A bibliography of 127 suggests how much digging the author did to come up with what is, above all, a fair look at a most complicated performer.

Many of the musicians who played roles in Sinatra's early days as a band singer are there.  Jo Stafford and the Pied Pipers, Jack Leonard (he preceded The Voice as the boy singer in Tommy Dorsey's band), Harry James & The Music Makers, song writer Jimmy Van Heusen (worth a book himself), Dick Haymes, Alec Wilder (the vastly underrated, eccentric, self-taught composer) and drummer Buddy Rich, a Sinatra nemesis whether it was women or tempos.  Anecdotes of musicians and their lives on the road are particularly effective while providing enormous insight.  The reader gets a vivid sense of what the Rustic Cabin was like when Sinatra waited on tables in the New Jersey joint and sang for his supper while learning his craft before discovery by James. 

One of the book's delights involves the circumstances of some of the 1,300 songs recorded by Sinatra.  Kaplan is particularly adroit at analyzing Sinatra's style revealing small but significant differences between the live and recorded singer.  "Four nights later, on an NBC radio broadcast from the Astor Roof, Sinatra sang 'I'll Never Smile Again' to another houseful of upper-crusters.  The air check of the number reveals a small but striking difference from the recording: on the radio version's out chorus (the last words sung in the song) as Sinatra sings 'Within my heart, I know I will never start/To smile again, until I smile at you,' he uses the vocal trick he'd discovered back at the Rustic Cabin, a breathy little catch in his voice, in this case before the initial h of 'heart.'  It's a small thing, a showman-like touch that would have made no sense on a recording but all the sense in the world before a live crowd--a naked play for the hearts of the rich girls in the audience.  Calculated, and thoroughly effective."

A fan of the Pied Pipers, I once sat next to Jo Stafford on the dais of a Kansas City Advertising Club luncheon where Stafford was a special guest, not the main speaker she should have been.  What a delight.  She was funny, a great teller of stories, totally engaging and the best lead singer of vocal groups I ever heard.  We spoke of Sinatra and her comments about him were almost word-for-word what Kaplan got from her some 50 years later.  "When you sing with a group, it takes a certain amount of discipline, and Frank was excellent at it," Stafford said.  "You can't wander off into your own phrasing.  You've got to do exactly the same thing at exactly the same time.  Very few solo singers can do that.  He could.  When he sang with us, he was a Piper, and he liked it, and did it well.  I don't know any other solo singer, solo male singer especially, that can do that."

Some of Sinatra's not so supporting players come off worse than others.  Hardly surprising, Louis B. Mayer is his usual suspicious, small and vindictive self while being critical of his MGM singer/actor property during a period when Mayor's mistress was former Kay Kyser singer, Ginny Simms.  Simms, vivacious and appealing, was something less than beautiful and some thought her a bit horse faced.  Sinatra had fun with that one.  Seated one day in the MGM commissary, someone threw him a provocative line: "Hey, did you hear about L.B.'s accident?"  Not missing a beat, Sinatra replied: "Yeah, I hear he fell off of Ginny Simms."  The incident immediately preceded the actor's leaving the studio.

Earl Wilson, whose Sinatra: An Unauthorized Biography gets heavy usage by Kaplan, comes off as a guy desperately wanting to be considered a Sinatra intimate.  His column items reflecting various stages of the singer's career--particularly the seemingly never-ending series of Gardner/Sinatra fights--suggests he asked a lot of dumb and self-serving questions.

A typical Wilson/Gardner scene occurred shortly before the actress filmed "Mogambo."   She and the columnist met "in a large eatery run by a large eater" (probably Toots Shor's) and the column item suggests an editor had complainted about Wilson plugs for "eateries."  Continue Wilson, "I happened to mention her Herculean husband whom she considers has negleted her, which--if it's true--makes him this century's man of iron."  Wilson then asks if he can be an intermediary and the onslaught of drivel continues.  

There has always been an understandable disconnect between segments of the public and artists whose personal lives are less than exemplary.  There's the Charlie Chaplin of all his cinematic triumphs and The Tramp's suggested but never proven communist sympathies.  The right's disenchantment with Hollywood goes back to Chaplin.  He was the first movieland "enemy" and it wasn't long before McCarthyism began doing damage to a bunch of people who didn't deserve it.  Kaplan's telling of the Sinatra saga includes the singer's early liberalism but, because the book ends with the career-changing Best Supporting Oscar for his role in From Here to Eternity (1954), we don't learn of his switch to conservatism because of what he felt was a social slight by John F. Kennedy.

Mitch Miller, who produced Sinatra's largely disappointing recordings at Columbia Records, comes off better than expected.  It was Miller who tangled with the singer over such fare as "Mama Will Bark."  The recording, possibly the worst of Sinatra's career, was done at the depths of his career.  The "Mama" on the record was Dagmar (her straight name was Virginia Ruth Egnor) whose description as a "tall, eye-poppingly buxom West Virginia blonde" is not nearly sufficient.  According to Kaplan, Sinatra did not squawk when Miller broached the tune.  The author also reveals that Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney, Stafford and others had to pay for their own recording sessions.

If there's a hero in the book, it's George Evans, a brilliant PR guy who guided Sinatra's career through nearly all the time covered in the book.  Evans was enormously creative, far seeing, loyal, and of tremendous energy.  It was Evans who gave Sinatra the tag that never left him: The Voice.  Evans invented the bobby sox hysteria that provided the singer such overwhelming attention which, nevertheless, brought a great deal of grief to the publicist; Sinatra was not an easy going employer.  Evans, more than a savvy PR practitioner, somehow worked his success in a quaint era where such a thing as bad publicity actually existed; he painted the singer as mostly a family man in spite of reality's red flags.  No one thus far has been named the inventor of spin, but George Evans' name has to be right up there should such a determination be pursued.

While there is little new in Sinatra: The Voice, the writing is crisp and the research exhausting.  James Kaplan has succeeded in giving us a much better understanding of an American icon who dramatically changed popular culture.   

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Polls Raise Cain....by Bob Sanders

 

Excuse me, but have we once again become distracted?

The reference is to the Herman Cain contretemps that started out as another one of those "revelations" planted with an online media outlet.  Knowledgeable observers remain of a mind that one of Cain's rivals in the race to represent the Republican Party in the 2012 Presidential election did the planting.  Suggestions that the Democrats are responsible make no sense.  The race is for Mitt Romney to lose and the Dems would much rather be confronted by Cain in the finals for all the obvious reasons.  Cain, meanwhile, is in impressive denial with the specter of at least four women pooling their experiences on TV chilling in terms of a Cain survival.

It was an odd week of peculiar verbalizing by the rag tag collection of those seeking the GOP nomination aided and abetted by not always helpful associates.  Michelle Bachmann suggested Mount Rushmore recognition for James Garfield who barely had time to check out the rose garden during six months in office.  Then, there was money decider Karl Rove, further distancing himself from the Tea Party by suggesting that celebrity attorney Gloria Allred (Sharon Bialek's mouthpiece) "lends credibility" to sexual harassment accusations leveled at Cain.  Let us not forget big-hearted Rick Santorum who became a rare early bird to not call for Penn State's Joe Paterno's resignation just hours before the old coach was told to clean out his locker.  We certainly can't pass over Ron Paul who once again suggested scuttling the minimum wage nor can we forget a quote, actually a resurrection of a quote, about Newt Gingrich that was first reported a year ago.  We have word from ex-wife Marianne Gingrich who quoted "Newtie" staffers as saying: "He's a sociopath, but he's our sociopath."

Perhaps the biggest gaffe of the campaign was made Wednesday night when Rick Perry, straight from a highly animated appearance in New Hampshire where he gave further evidence that he does a magnificent impression of George W. Bush, couldn't come up with a third department he would eliminate should he make it to the White House.  This guy is so goofy "Saturday Night Live" has zeroed in on his stumbling.

Somehow, and hardly a surprise, the far right wing commentators (identifications are hardly necessary these days), responded to the Cain matter by blaming it all on the "liberal press."  Were Machiavelli around today, he would not be impressed by the lack of subtlety.

Lost in all the ululation was the Cain story's most important factor.  Given 10 days advance warning by Politico.com, Cain handled things with such withering dithering that his guilt or innocence regarding old sexual harassment complaints simply don't matter.  Cain bungled a series of challenges while changing his stories to meet the developing charges finally implying race is at the root of it all when pointed in that direction by the usual hate radio suspects.  The bottom line is that Cain has proved what most people had already figured during his inept campaign; he is not capable of the Presidency although better than most of the candidates.  It seems logical that had Bill Clinton been given 10 days to come up with a superior legalistic use of words, we would have heard something more impressive than a parsing of the word "is."

Cain's run for the Republican nomination has underlined how stunningly short of leadership we are in this country.  The message is clear when a candidate like Cain can gain significant traction with Republican Party primary voters by running as a Beltway outsider who once ran a pizza company and the National Restaurant Association.  His undeniable connection is based upon the well-earned eight percent approval rating currently accorded the 535 clowns who represent us in Washington.  How in the world has there not been a call for Joe, the Plumber to haul us out of this mess?

What we have been getting out of Cain has advanced from puzzlement over the words "settlement" and "agreement" to what sounds strangely like lines from old "Amos & Andy" radio shows with Cain doing a very effective George "Kingfish" Stevens including the kind of upscale speech expected from a representative of the business world.  Those of sufficient memory may recall the Kingfish as a fraudulent observer whose misadventures often involved "The Knights of the Mystic Sea."  Kingish nemesis was Madam Queen and we seem to be gathering a burgeoning cast of featured females more than capable of raising Cain's hackles.  Who knows where the road will lead us but I have the damnable feeling that we're going to hear more about the inner-workings of the hospitality-prone National Restaurant Association than we really deserve.  We may yet see those women on "The View" with the go-getting Barbara Walters, a highly proficient getter of the "get," in fine feminine fettle.

This action distraction in politics, characterized by a deadly seriousness and determined reluctance during shallow TV debates to discuss a lot of highly important subjects, wasn't always so.  Back in the days when Richard Nixon was running for Congress against Congresswoman Helen Gahagan Douglas, the future President was done in for the first time by prankster Dick Tuck, then a student at the University of California, Santa Barbara.  It was an absent-minded professor who made possible Tuck's stunt by asking him to promote a campus appearance by Nixon whose campaign against Douglas remains one of the dirtiest ever.  As advance man, Tuck rented a big auditorium, invited very few people, then gave a long-winded speech to introduce Nixon.  As Nixon moved to the microphone, Tuck asked him to speak about the International Monetary Fund.  When Nixon finished, the candidate asked Tuck his name, then told him: "Dick Tuck, you've made your last advance."  It wasn't.

Tuck quickly became Nixon's avenger with his famous prank, "the Chinatown Caper," a particular winner.  Running for Governor of California in 1962, Nixon pulled into Los Angeles Chinatown where a backdrop of children held "welcome" signs in English and Chinese.  When Nixon spoke, a community elder whispered that one of the signs in Chinese said: "What about the Hughes loan?"  The reference was to an unsecured $205,000 loan that Howard Hughes provided Nixon's brother, Donald.  On camera, Nixon grabbed a sign and ripped it up.  Later, Tuck learned that the Chinese characters actually spelled out: "What about the huge loan?" 

So distinctive was Tuck's mischief-making that arch-conservative William F. Buckley singled him out as a master political prankster.  "You see," wrote Buckley, "Dick Tuck has been an employee of Democrats for many years, and his running assignment is to embarrass Republicans by any means.  He specializes in glorious improvisations which are no doubt more damaging to Republicans than any conversation the Watergaters might have tapped from the telephone of Lawrence O'Brien."

Humor always characterized Tuck's pranks and there was never any suggestion of meanness to what became legendary efforts.  In 1868, Nixon was defeated by Pat Brown in a race best known for his "you won't have Nixon to kick around anymore" comments to reporters.  Nixon's state of mind that day was believed by many to have been irrational and unbalanced; his behavior was partially attributed to Tuck having tricked Nixon twice during the campaign.  Included was the premature departure of a train from which Nixon was speaking.  Tuck modestly denies the event and such is the snow-balling effect of fame where undeserved credits are sometimes awarded.  To connoisseurs of dirty tricks, Tuck's were to politics what Frank Sinatra was to beautiful women.

One of the most fascinating moments of Tuck's career occurred in the White House during a give and take between Nixon and H.R. Haldeman.  On tape, a perplexed President makes references to disclosures by staffer Donald Segretti whose Watergate dirty tricks were deemed inferior to those of Tuck's everyday efforts.  That was in October, 1972 and there is admiration in Nixon's voice in recounting Tuck's triumphs.  "Dick Tuck did that to me," says the President.  "Let's get out what Dick Tuck did!"

It's easy to understand how a lot of people credit Tuck with an inspirational role in Watergate.  Segretti was hired by Dwight Chapin who reported directly to Haldeman.  It was during the Watergate hearings that Tuck ran into Haldeman, asked to resign the month before along with John Ehrlichman.

"You started all of this," said the former White House chief of staff.

Replied Tuck: "Yeah, but you guys ran it into the ground."

No one ever accused the Nixon White House of having a sense of humor and I think it fair to believe that Nixon and his staff didn't understand that Tuck was almost exclusively a merry prankster and a decided contrast to most of those who surrounded the President.  I was twice interviewed in 1967 by Haldeman and Ron Ziegler, both employed at the time by J. Walter Thompson Advertising in Los Angeles.  They were looking for a Ziegler replacement on the Disney account and my two sessions with them were enormously serious.  I didn't know it at the time but they had been tapped by Nixon for future White House work with Ziegler taking on a job for which he was disastrously ill-prepared: press secretary.

Tuck ran for office once and it was a failure.  That was in 1966 and his race for a newly-created California State Senate seat happened when he was late for a meeting with fellow Democrats.  By the time he arrived, his pals had chosen him.  He lost big time but his concession speech lives on: "The people have spoken...the bastards."

Two years later he joined the Robert Kennedy campaign following his candidacy announced in March, 1968.  Tuck did press relations and occasionally walked Kennedy's dog, Freckles.  Kidded by journalist friends, Tuck observed: "To you, this is just a dog, but to me it's an ambassadorship."  Tuck was walking behind Kennedy when the candidate, celebrating his California primary victory, was shot by Sirhan Sirhan.  Tuck tended to the fallen Kennedy and rode with police to the hospital where the candidate died.

Tuck also had the last laugh on Nixon when he helped give the public a better understanding of Watergate.  While the unedited transcripts were made available in August, 1980, no tape excerpts had been played on national media.  The National Archives would not allow any public access to the tapes other than being able to hear them at the Archive building.  Acquiring tapes from an undisclosed source, Tuck called an October 21 press conference in the Aspen (Colorado) Hotel's Jerome Bar.  He played excerpts for an hour, the media recorded the material, and the public acquired a better understanding of how venal and paranoid was our 37th President.

Dicktuck.com has a wealth of information about the prankster who lives in Tucson, Arizona.  Now 87 with a birthday coming up in January, Tuck has much to look back upon.  He had a lot of laughs and so have those of us who know how devastating humor can be in the political arena.  Nixon was almost forever a stranger to fun and breathed his last believing that a 1968 "Sock it to Me" appearance on "Laugh In" got him elected President.  My best guess is that he never really understood the why of it.

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Breaks of the Game....by Bob Sanders

 

In writing recently about some strange adventures involved in a Chicago Tribune public relations program suddenly dumped in my lap as the 1980s were winding down, I promised additional commentary about the guy who played dumper to my dumpee.

Dickey was one of three executives brought to theTribune in 1984 from the Orlando Sentinel, a sister publication where highly favorable marketing conditions made it almost impossible to do anything other than succeed.  Suddenly, publisher Charles Brumbach, editor-in-chief Jim Squires and Dickey were calling the shots.

It was shortly after my wife, Mickey, began chemotherapy treatments that I became aware my employment at the Trib was on shaky ground.  In retrospect, it still seems bizarre that my bosses could criticize my not coming to work for three days after Mickey's funeral services.  True, I had achieved bad paper status by leaving work at 2 p.m. each Thursday to take her home following treatments.  On the other hand, I always made up the time.  My work at the Trib was probably the best of my career and I won a number of major national awards including one for the White Sox send-up detailed earlier in "Pale Hose Humbuggery."

Because of my editorial background and news sense, I enjoyed excellent working relations with reporters and editors.  They trusted me thanks to word first put out by managing editor Bill Jones and others.  I doubt that any marketing employee at a major newspaper in this country at that time had my accessibility.  It was highly unusual and, in truth, I took a great deal of pride in being more a part of the editorial department than marketing.  Such a setup can invite problems.

A clue to my uneasy employment occurred about the time I won a national award from the American Newspaper Marketing Association for effectively positioning the Tribune in the White Sox craziness that included a threatened team move to Tampa-St. Petersburg.  I bailed Dickey out of a mess by giving focus and structure to his germ of a badly mounted idea.  Ironically, the project was deemed good enough for second prize in a monthly Tribune marketing department competition run by Dickey.  I had just turned 62, an event that prompted the usual birthday cake and singing of "Happy Birthday" followed by Dickey's comment that I was the oldest person in the department and almost 20 years senior to his marketing eminence.  His comment was a textbook lesson in how not to handle what might be proved as age discrimination.

In all honesty, I probably committed one of the biggest no no's of the workplace: killing the job.  Brought aboard to, among other things, give prominence to Tribune reporters and editors, I had booked a total of 1,500 broadcast appearances the first year eventually hitting 5,000 the last years of a highly effective run.  Obviously, I didn't have time to make all those bookings; rather, a snowball effect evolved with the paper gaining a tremendous lead over the Sun-Times whose circulation was concentrated in the city.  The Trib had become an even more significant regional newspaper with stories and editorial personnel appearing on those radio and TV stations whose signals helped enlarge the paper's circulation area.  Bureaus were created in the hinterlands, a sharp contrast to today's continuing pullback.  Like my work at Playboy whose circulation peaked during my tenure, so it was at theTribune during, as today's developments suggest, what was arguably the last golden yeaers of print journalism.   

Giving a lot of thought to hiring a lawyer and suing the paper for age discrimination, I decided I didn't want to go through 10 or 15 years of legal hell that dominates such pursuit, then took retirement in January, 1989.  Having married elegant and fun-loving Jan Quinn the prior year, we had discovered the San Juan Islands during a four-week look at some of this country's national parks.  The Pacific Northwest move would not have been possible had I been working for the Tribune.  Jan and I took up residence on the island in Washington State where we moved in January, 1990 having bought a home in a very elevated spot with glorious views of water plus the Olympic and Cascade mountain ranges.  Being corporate toast, however, rankled.  Something very wrong had happened and I knew a second shoe had to drop; when it did, I was astonished at what a thud it made in addition to a lot of sense.

Six months after moving to the island, the mail started bringing us clippings about Dickey.  The stories told of his being charged with bilking the Tribune out of about $890,000 over the course of three years.  Early published pieces, obviously controlled by the Tribune, about the executive's scam were somewhat lacking in detail although one report did mention his having been arrested in 1986 for stealing fishing lures from a shop in suburban Skokie.  Dickey pleaded he was a kleptomaniac, a problem described by his attorney as "diminished mental capacity."  One theory about the fishing lure theft suggested he had created an excuse in the event he was caught at his much grander larceny.  Cooperating with the newspaper, Dickey made restitution of $720,000--some of it realized from the sale of a home in swanky Kenilworth.   

In its June 22, 1991 issue, Advertising Age reported Dickey's biggest misappropriation was a false billing for a total of $748,352 in American Eagle gold coins.  Federal prosecutors said Dickey altered several of the invoices for the coins so that the "AE" appearing on the bill from a "Waukegan, Illlinois coin dealer suggested references to a Tribune employee rewards program know as "Advertising Excellence."  Dickey later sold the coins for cash and there is no record of any marketing department staffers (or anyone else, for that matter) winning the gold.  Perhaps one of those coins was "earmarked" for your faithful scribe's contest excellence although my second place finish probably wouldn't have qualified me.

Those American Eagle coins, hawked enthusiastically on Fox News and Fox Financial Channels, must remind Dickey of what might have been--particularly considering the price of gold ($1,765.50) as this is written.  Averaging around $400 an ounce during those halcyon years of thievery, Dickey's take would now be worth more than $3 million.  Had he not been caught, Dickey would likely be a fervent follower of Glenn Beck whose messages of fear helped drive the price of gold up to a record $1,917.90 early in August.  

During Dickey's profligate pilfering, he had the authority to approve payment of any promotional expense up to $50,000, according to charges.  About $140,000 in fraudulent goods and services invoices enabled him to convert to his personal use.  Included was $31,493 for landscaping, $7,844 for carpentry work and $2,071 for painting at his home.  Hey, living the good life isn't cheap.  Another payment went to a furniture business indicating the purchases would be used on the USS Chicago anchored at Navy Pier.

Whatever budgetary linkage there was between the purchase of coins and the costs of my work, salary and expenses (a yearly total of around $225,000 including staff appearances at $35 a pop) is anyone's guess.  I was not replaced.  Ah, irreplaceable me.

A rather odd series of visits to San Juan Island by Tribune staffers occurred during those early years of my retirement.  Two were by editorial department personnel and one from marketing.  Only one of the three, foreign news editor Michael McGuire, was anyone I had spent any time with while the other two hardly qualified as pals with the marketing department emloyee someone I had spoken to less than a half dozen times during about five years of her employment.  I'm certain all three took back stories that I was happy in my retirement and fully aware of how the Dickey drama had played out.  

The greatest satirical writers could not possibly come up with what happened to Tribune Company during the past four years.  The highly toxic Zell, who bought the firm in 2007, has done what corporate monsters do so effectively: mess up a good thing by not understanding, in this case the communications industry, and by making stupid decisions.  Among them: turning the firm over to Randy Michaels, a former shock jock (think Howard Stern) whose only media experience was with radio giant Clear Channel Communications.  Possessing no knowledge of print journalism, he was in vivid contrast to Col. Robert R. McCormick, the highly conservative and controversial editor/publisher who ran his fiefdom (1910-1955) much as an army battalion.  In a very short time, Michaels turned Tribune Tower into what one observer called a "sexist frat house atmosphere" where sexual behavior after hours became commonplace.  Some of the shenanigans took place in McCormick's old office.  In a deep financial hole, Michaels and his playmates managed to give themselves $57.3 million in bonuses while slashing 4,200 jobs in a wicked display of American greed.

Tribune Company is so screwed up that a guy I knew when he was working on the Trib's sports desk, Owen Youngman, is being sued for $328,049.  The money, received in the form of a check, was stock-based compensation he had accululated during 37 years at the newspapee.  Now a professor at Northwest University's Medill School of Journalism, he is one of 200 former excutives who find themselves targets of legal action in a Delaware bankruptcy court dealing with the company' s disastrous leveraged buyout.  Youngman didn't even work directly for Tribune Company.  All his 37 years were with Chicago Tribune, a fact being dismissed by a committee of unsecured creditors who want to claw back about $180 million in compensation.

I took a satisfactory chunk of money with me upon retirement in 1989 thanks to the then soaring value of company stock I accumulated and matched by the  newspaper.  My selling of the stock couldn't have been better timed.

Sometimes, while meandering down life's not always merry yellow brick road, we incur problems suggesting unfortunate consequences.  Thoes situations often turn out to be lucky breaks, but we don't know it at the time.  Every once in a while, Jan and I hoist a toast to Bob Dickey, 44, at the time of his arrest and a year older when releasd from prison.  We never would have wound up in the Fourth Corner for what has been nearly 22 terrific years had it not been for the thievery of Bob Dickey.

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"Prohibition"....by Bob Sanders

 

Fourth Corner TV viewers fortunate enough to have seen Ken Burns' absorbing documentary, "Prohibition," probably are unaware there's a second shoe that, understandably, never dropped during the fascinating look at Roy Olmstead, a featured bootlegger in part two of the three-part PBS series.  First a cop, then Seattle's biggest mover of booze, Olmstead received a lot of attention from Burns.

That second shoe involves what happened after Olmstead, a Robin Hood-like character, was finally done in by a series of events during the last four months of 1924.  It was in September of that year that a trusted Olmstead lieutenant turned informant revealing intimate details of Olmstead's operation.  A series of raids by federal agents, aided by wiretaps and surveillance on Olmstead's home, was followed by the bootlegger's arrest November 17 of that year.  Arrested with him: a wife and 15 guests.

Because of time constraints involved in packing a sprawling and complicated story into five and one-half hours, Burns was understandably unable to expand upon Olmstead's remarkable tale by including material likely of interest only to people of the Pacific Northwest.

Let's back up a bit while adding details.  Olmstead had joined the Seattle police force in 1907 rising through the ranks to be named its youngest lieutenant in 1917.  That was one year after the State of Washington became one of 23 states to enforce "dry laws" that produced Prohibition.  It was while making bootlegging arrests that Olmstead noticed a lack of "professionalism" among the criminals and decided he could do a better job.  Soon, as the Burns film indicates, he was making more in a week than he could as a cop in 20 years.  His entrepreneurial spirit was reminiscent of Willie Sutton who targeted banks because "that's where the money is."

Olmstead's rum-running success, whose key factor was proximity to Canadian liquor where there were no prohibitive laws, lasted nearly four years.  Early on, his criminal activities were discovered and his police career was over.  His only charge was a $500 fine; the experience strengthened a belief that bootlegging offered more advantages than police work.

Olmstead also changed wives marrying Elise Caroline Parch, something of a dazzler whom he met in the summer of 1924.  They wed August 5 of that whirlwind year.  Friends observed Elise as quite an improvement over former wife, Viola, and it was the young and vivacious Englishwoman (they met in Vancouver, B.C.) who maneuvered Olmstead into purchasing a knockout of a mansion in the Mt. Baker area.

Possessor of an agile mind, Olmstead had become interested in the possibilities offered by new-fangled radio broadcasting and a logical progression of thought produced an exciting use of extra space in his home.  Whether Burns chose to ignore Olmstead's creation of a radio station in his mansion (a matter of record) or because, as Seattle author Emmett Watson learned, all of the bootlegger's police records were destroyed, is anybody's guess.

Evidence does exist that Olmstead's radio station, KFQX, was Seattle's first; further, the station's broadcasts were from what had been a bedroom in the home the two often referred to as their "snow white palace."  The good times rolled in Olmstead's Gatsby-like existence with old-timers insisting that wife Elise's dulcet English voice was employed to signal rum-running boats in Puget Sound through codes sprinkled among Mother Goose rhymes and Hans Christian Andersen stories.

Alise's broadcast persona was as "Aunt Vivian" who read to "children" of the Puget Sound as twilight approached for the daytime-only station.  Those possessed of a sense of humor wondered if more appropriate station call letters might be KRUM?  It is now the venerable and all-news KOMO.

Since those were the days before radio newspaper columns and awards shows, there are no records indicating the quality of the programs originating in the Tara of Radio.  The only audience that really mattered: crews of rum-running boats.  In retrospect, it appears radio neophyte Olmstead was stumbling around in what would become the hallowed halls of broadcast narrowcasting.

During all of this, Olmstead was a popular member of a Seattle society aware that more than half of the city's police force was in on the game.  Although rum-running was hardly a walk in the park, Olmstead's employees were prohibited from carrying firearms.  He was often quoted as saying he would rather lose a shipment of booze than a life.

Not to stray too far from the core of this story, but the online Encyclopedia of Washington State History insists Alfred M. Hubbard, a young inventor, built the radio station in a spare bedroom of the Olmstead mansion.  Highly mysterious, Hubbard has various online accreditations including being called "the Johnny Appleseed of LSD."  Apparently, he also worked for the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) later called the CIA.  It was Hubbard who informed on Olmstead in the fall of 1924, a career move for the young man who swapped life in the mansion to become a prohibition agent that led to the CIA gig.

Thanks to Hubbard, the booze balloon burst on Thanksgiving Day, 1924 when the mansion was invaded by gendarmes including Federal Agent William Whitney, long an Olmstead nemesis.  The November 27 date was big in New York as the first Macy's Parade and even bigger in Seattle with a scene that would have worked in The Untouchables.  Whitney arrested the Olmsteads and, perhaps inspired by the show business setting, began making phone calls to area bootleggers urging them to come to a party ("don't forget to bring some booze") by doing a voice impression of the rum-runner/broadcaster.  The heavily attended party saw 48 revelers charged with breaking the laws of Prohibition.  Details of the rollicking party and Olmstead's remarkable life are told in Watson's book, Once Upon a Time in Seattle.  

Olmstead was sentenced to four years in the McNeil Island Federal Penitentiary and fined $8,000.  With his bootlegging empire in disarray, Olmstead dispatched an underling with orders to re-locate Station KFQX.  He chose Aberdeen, a particularly quiet community in the southwest corner of the state.  Enter Rogan Jones, a businessman and owner of the building chosen by the Olmstead lieutenant to house the station.  Within a few weeks, the station was closed down by the Feds and Jones, whose knowledge of radio equaled an ability to write Sanskrit, eventually inherited KFQX because no one wanted it.  He had become a broadcaster in the strangest of ways.

That was in 1928 and he quickly achieved success although Aberdeen had its limitations.  Looking about, Jones learned that Bellingham, 20 miles south of the Canadian border, had a dormant station available. 

Like Roy Olmstead, Louis Kessler had established a Seattle station in his home.  With call letters KVOS (Voice of Seattle), he began broadcasting in 1926 from an apartment on tony Queen Anne Hill.  A bit overwhelmed by the big city, Kessler moved the station to Bellingham where it folded.

Jones became a huge success in Bellingham.  The future member of the Broadcast Hall of Fame was a natural in his new-found career.  The public appreciated his approach to broadcasting--particularly his battle with the wire services.  While so much of broadcast news today builds its stories around published reports (the New York Times is the most utilized), it wasn't always so.  Back in Jones' time, the wire services refused to sell stories to radio stations.  Jones told his news staff to rewrite newspaper copy and in 1936 the Supreme Court backed him up in a landmark decision.  He then created KVOS-TV largely because the Vancouver area had but one station.  That was in 1953 and much of the advertising placed on the channel was Canadian.  A signal tower atop Orcas Island's Mt. Constitution (elevation 2,400 ft.) did not hurt.

Jones had become the recipient of what critics caustically called "a license to steal" but he became a much-loved and respected broadcaster because of his sense of public service.

The old KVOS radio is now KGMI, a station whose far right programming (Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Glenn Beck, et al.) is in stark contrast to its origins.  Burns would enjoy the abundant ironies as would Jones, an outspoken liberal, and Olmstead whose life took new direction even before his release from prison in 1935.  Franklin D. Roosevelt granted a full presidential pardon with the $8,000 fine and $2,288 court costs returned.  It would be nice to report that wife Alice of the dulcet voice continued her broadcast career and became "The Singing Lady" or some other significant performer but such was not the case.  She filed for divorce in 1943 claiming Olmstead "deserted her without just cause."

Olmstead wasn't finished with his already highly interesting life.  Having converted to the Christian Science faith while in prison, he spent a great deal of time visiting jails and working with prisoners while castigating demon rum.  Headquartering his ministry in an obscure downtown Seattle office, Olmstead lived an exemplary life his remaining 35 years.  He became everything he wasn't during the first 44.  

The twists and turns of the story are complex but certain conclusions are rather easy.  If Roy Olmstead had not switched careers and become a bootlegger, it's extremely doubtful that Rogan Jones would have become a broadcast pioneer.  Further, had Louis Kessler not failed as a Bellingham broadcaster, the city's FCC license would not have been available to Jones.  Taking another look backwards, the Aberdeen station location, hurriedly switched from Seattle, would not have become a reality had an Olmstead aide not turned informer sending the cop turned bootlegger to prison.

One wonders how our own lives might have been affected had those of greatest impact on us taken different turns in the road? 

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