After dinner, there was “Free Play”, during which campers could participate in any activity they wanted, (including my favorite activity – doing nothing). After “Free Play”, there was “Evening Activity.” There were three units in our camp – Junior, Intermediate and Senior – and every night, a separate unit-wide activity was arranged for each of them.
“Evening Activity” could be anything, from “Bingo” to watching a medical student mutilate a frog. “Evening Activity” could also mean outdoor games – quasi-military endeavors like “Capture The Flag”, as well as familiar “running-around-looking-for-things” games, such as Scavenger Hunts and Treasure Hunts.
“The Magnificent Blunder” involved a Treasure Hunt. I call it “The Magnificent Blunder”, because when it comes to Treasure Hunts, it would be impossible to mess one up more magnificently.
This was truly a disaster.
I imagine you know how Treasure Hunts work. Two teams, two sets of hidden clues, each clue directing you to the place where the next clue is hidden, until the last clue directs you to the “treasure”, and whoever gets there first, wins the Treasure Hunt.
It’s all pretty simple.
Among their other responsibilities, counselors, on a rotating basis, were responsible for arranging the evening activities. Arranging a Treasure Hunt is one of the easier assignments. You devise two sets of clues, and you hide them. And that’s it.
Every clue contains a “secret message” which, when “deciphered”, will direct the “Treasure Hunters” to the next hiding place. A typical clue would go something like this:
“Forget your racket, drop your saddle
Go to the place where they keep the paddles.”
That would be the Canoe Dock.
“A place for breakfast, this place ain’t
Your next clue’s hidden where there’s paste and paint.”
The Arts and Crafts Cabin. Are you getting the idea?
We’re not talking about a “Sherlock Holmes” level of deduction here. The clues were instantly decipherable. In truth, the real goal of the Treasure Hunt had nothing to do with finding the treasure. The actual objective was to run the kids ragged, exhausting them, so they’d fall asleep more easily when they got back to the cabin. That was pretty much the point of all camp activities:
To wear out the campers.
Okay, so, the counselor in charge of the Treasure Hunt devises two sets of clues, and he hides them. He’s done for the night.
Or so he thinks.
Minutes before the activity is to begin, the counselor in charge of the Treasure Hunt realizes he’s committed a horrible blunder. There is really only one mistake you can make in setting up a Treasure Hunt. And he has made it.
The mistake is this.
Instead of taking the clue directing the “Treasure Hunters” to go to, say, the Mess Hall, and hiding it at, say, the riding stables, the counselor in charge of the Treasure Hunt has taken the clue directing the “Treasure Hunters” to go to the Mess Hall and hidden it
at the Mess Hall.
That’s a problem. At the time the campers are reading the clue directing them to proceed to some designated location on the campgrounds
They are already there.
Hence, “The Magnificent Blunder.”
To wit: The counselor in charge of the Treasure Hunt has hidden each clue not at the location before the location the campers are meant to be directed to. He has hidden the clue at the location itself.
Advice to future Treasure Hunt planners:
Don’t do that. The counselor in charge of the Treasure Hunt did that. That was a mistake.
The problem is: You’ve made the mistake. What do you do now?
In a stroke of good fortune, the counselor in charge of the Treasure Hunt has prepared a “Master List” indicating the “hiding places” of all the clues. To salvage the evening – and to prevent the campers from returning to their cabins considerably less than worn out – he distributes a copy of the “Master List” to the counselors in charge of supervising each of the teams through the treasure hunting process. This is helpful, because now, those counselors have a list of the correct sequence of the hiding places.
The only trouble is, the clues don’t fit. Each clue is clearly telling the Treasure Hunters to go someplace specific. Unfortunately, that “someplace” is clearly the place where they’re already standing. The supervising counselor’s job is now to “reinterpret” the clue, so that it reasonably indicates the next hiding place. Even though it doesn’t.
It’s absurd, but at that point, it was the only thing they could do.
The campers find a clue:
“If you’re feeling sick or ill
Go to this place and they’ll give you a pill.”
“To the baseball diamond!” yells the supervising counselor.
And the campers race to the baseball diamond. Except for the confused ones.
“Why are we going to the baseball diamond?” they reasonably inquire.
“Because…a slang word for a baseball is “the pill.”
The supervising counselors are making this up on the fly, insisting that campers proceed to certain places, even though the clues are giving no such indication whatsoever.
“On hot days this place is really handy
The water’s wet and the sand is sandy.”
“To the archery court!”
“Isn’t that the beach?”
“It can’t be the beach. We’re at the beach.”
Somehow, the kids never caught on. Except for the smart ones, but who listens to them? One team reached the “treasure” first, they were pronounced the winners, everyone had snack, and they went back to their cabins.
Worn out.
Still, it was a Magnificent Blunder.
And the most glorious thing of all?
The “Magnificent Blunderer” wasn’t me.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Sunday, July 19, 2009
"I Threw A Better First Pitch Than The President of the United States"
Last week, President Obama threw out the ceremonial first pitch at the All-Star Game. It wasn’t a great pitch. It barely made it to home plate. His throwing motion seemed a little tight, an affliction usually generated by nerves. They call it “short-arming” the ball. It’s like “choking” in your armpit.
(By contrast, George W. Bush really had it. Whatever criticisms he may have earned elsewhere, fair people – and this could actually be a test of fairness – would have to acknowledge that “43” was a superior Ceremonial First Pitcher. His delivery was crisp, and his throw was on the money. The man may have missed his calling.)
Which brings us, as this blog inevitably does, to me.
For about fifteen or so years, I was the part owner of an “A” ball – the lowest level – baseball team in South Bend, Indiana. The team was originally called the South Bend White Sox. Later, the “parent” Chicago White Sox sold the team to the Arizona Diamondbacks, at which point the team became known as the South Bend Silverhawks – named after the Studebaker “Silverhawk”, a model of a car they used to manufacture in South Bend, but don’t anymore, though they still have an enjoyable Studebaker museum. I guess that’s what you do when your factory goes away. You put dust on the inventory and you call it a museum.
I don’t remember if I told you this already, so I’ll tell it fast. The first time, I attended a game at South Bend’s Coveleski Stadium (named for Hall of Famer, Stan Coveleski, one of the last “spit ball” pitchers in the Major Leagues), I was stopped as I was coming through the turnstiles. I’d be tabbed as “the three hundred thousandth fan”, or something, which entitled me to a basket full of “goodies”, including the free rotation of my tires at a South Bend auto shop, and a portrait of my family snapped by a South Bend photographer.
General Manager, John Baxter, had selected me, he later reported, because I looked like “a typical South Bend fan.” I urged him to pick someone else, urgently whispering, “I’m an owner!” But he ignored me and I ended up the winner a basket of stuff I couldn’t use, except for the team logoed seat cushion.
I loved being an owner. “Owner” meant I got an “Owner’s Discount” at the Souvenir Stand. “Owner” meant I received tickets redeemable at the “Food Court” for hot dogs and peanuts.
“Owner” meant I was permitted WALK ON THE FIELD!!!
AND I DID!!!
I watched “batting practice” from directly behind the batting cage. I met actual players. (When a ball got loose, I would run it down, and actually toss it back to one.)
I chewed the fat with the various South Bend managers, one of whom was Terry Francona, who would later go on to win two World Series as the manager of the Boston Red Sox. Terry was the most affable baseball person I ever met. You could tell he had a promising future. During our conversation, he invited me to come down after the sixth inning and watch the rest of the game with him from the dugout. My response was highly characteristic:
“I’m not allowed to do that.”
Terry assured me it was okay. So, after the sixth inning, I left my seat – a great one, visiting “owners” always gets great seats – I went downstairs, made my way through the home team’s clubhouse, and stepped into the dugout. There was a chair waiting for me behind the dugout’s protective fence. Right beside the manager’s.
I watched the rest of the game from the dugout, sitting beside (possible, maybe even likely, future Hall of Famer) Terry Francona.
That was really good.
But best of all, was this.
Singer John Fogerty, who was scheduled to throw out the first pitch, had neglected to appear. So John Baxter’s wife, Rita – who does everything – asked me if I’d be willing to take his place. A “pinch pitcher”, as it were.
I, uncharacteristically, said yes.
I’m currently looking at three four-by-six photographs, framed and arranged vertically, immortalizing the historic event. In the top picture, I’m standing on the mound, dressed in jeans and a red sweatshirt with Major Dad emblazoned on it in military-stenciled yellow lettering. Behind me, you can see EARL POMERANTZ!! spelled out in lights on the Coveleski Stadium scoreboard.
Second Picture: I’m standing on the “rubber”, the spot where the real pitchers stand. Many “ceremonials” stand closer, so they won’t embarrass themselves with a pitch that doesn’t make it to the plate. I don’t give that a moment’s consideration. I don’t know why. (Probably a “man” thing.) This picture immortalizes “The Throw.” My form looks impressively professional.
The picture not taken – I believe, because they don’t make film that’s slow enough – was a shot of my “ceremonial first pitch” in flight. Let me say this. I wound up throwing a perfect strike. The catcher didn’t even have to move. On the “down” side, the ball took about twenty minutes to get there. Children were being born in mid-pitch.
The third picture shows the catcher is returning the ball. You know what he said to me?
“You t’rew a helluva pitch.”
And that man was a professional!
I’ll never be president. I wasn’t born here. So I’ll never get to measure my “ceremonial first pitch” prowess against Taft and Roosevelt and Truman and the rest of the gang. But that’s okay. I had the honor once, and in an only slightly less auspicious setting.
Was it the Opening Day? No. Was it an All-Star Game? No. Was it the World Series? No. But I threw out the first pitch at a regular season “A” ball game in South Bend, Indiana. Because John Fogerty didn’t show up.
The most exciting experiences of my life?
It’s definitely in the Top Five.
(By contrast, George W. Bush really had it. Whatever criticisms he may have earned elsewhere, fair people – and this could actually be a test of fairness – would have to acknowledge that “43” was a superior Ceremonial First Pitcher. His delivery was crisp, and his throw was on the money. The man may have missed his calling.)
Which brings us, as this blog inevitably does, to me.
For about fifteen or so years, I was the part owner of an “A” ball – the lowest level – baseball team in South Bend, Indiana. The team was originally called the South Bend White Sox. Later, the “parent” Chicago White Sox sold the team to the Arizona Diamondbacks, at which point the team became known as the South Bend Silverhawks – named after the Studebaker “Silverhawk”, a model of a car they used to manufacture in South Bend, but don’t anymore, though they still have an enjoyable Studebaker museum. I guess that’s what you do when your factory goes away. You put dust on the inventory and you call it a museum.
I don’t remember if I told you this already, so I’ll tell it fast. The first time, I attended a game at South Bend’s Coveleski Stadium (named for Hall of Famer, Stan Coveleski, one of the last “spit ball” pitchers in the Major Leagues), I was stopped as I was coming through the turnstiles. I’d be tabbed as “the three hundred thousandth fan”, or something, which entitled me to a basket full of “goodies”, including the free rotation of my tires at a South Bend auto shop, and a portrait of my family snapped by a South Bend photographer.
General Manager, John Baxter, had selected me, he later reported, because I looked like “a typical South Bend fan.” I urged him to pick someone else, urgently whispering, “I’m an owner!” But he ignored me and I ended up the winner a basket of stuff I couldn’t use, except for the team logoed seat cushion.
I loved being an owner. “Owner” meant I got an “Owner’s Discount” at the Souvenir Stand. “Owner” meant I received tickets redeemable at the “Food Court” for hot dogs and peanuts.
“Owner” meant I was permitted WALK ON THE FIELD!!!
AND I DID!!!
I watched “batting practice” from directly behind the batting cage. I met actual players. (When a ball got loose, I would run it down, and actually toss it back to one.)
I chewed the fat with the various South Bend managers, one of whom was Terry Francona, who would later go on to win two World Series as the manager of the Boston Red Sox. Terry was the most affable baseball person I ever met. You could tell he had a promising future. During our conversation, he invited me to come down after the sixth inning and watch the rest of the game with him from the dugout. My response was highly characteristic:
“I’m not allowed to do that.”
Terry assured me it was okay. So, after the sixth inning, I left my seat – a great one, visiting “owners” always gets great seats – I went downstairs, made my way through the home team’s clubhouse, and stepped into the dugout. There was a chair waiting for me behind the dugout’s protective fence. Right beside the manager’s.
I watched the rest of the game from the dugout, sitting beside (possible, maybe even likely, future Hall of Famer) Terry Francona.
That was really good.
But best of all, was this.
Singer John Fogerty, who was scheduled to throw out the first pitch, had neglected to appear. So John Baxter’s wife, Rita – who does everything – asked me if I’d be willing to take his place. A “pinch pitcher”, as it were.
I, uncharacteristically, said yes.
I’m currently looking at three four-by-six photographs, framed and arranged vertically, immortalizing the historic event. In the top picture, I’m standing on the mound, dressed in jeans and a red sweatshirt with Major Dad emblazoned on it in military-stenciled yellow lettering. Behind me, you can see EARL POMERANTZ!! spelled out in lights on the Coveleski Stadium scoreboard.
Second Picture: I’m standing on the “rubber”, the spot where the real pitchers stand. Many “ceremonials” stand closer, so they won’t embarrass themselves with a pitch that doesn’t make it to the plate. I don’t give that a moment’s consideration. I don’t know why. (Probably a “man” thing.) This picture immortalizes “The Throw.” My form looks impressively professional.
The picture not taken – I believe, because they don’t make film that’s slow enough – was a shot of my “ceremonial first pitch” in flight. Let me say this. I wound up throwing a perfect strike. The catcher didn’t even have to move. On the “down” side, the ball took about twenty minutes to get there. Children were being born in mid-pitch.
The third picture shows the catcher is returning the ball. You know what he said to me?
“You t’rew a helluva pitch.”
And that man was a professional!
I’ll never be president. I wasn’t born here. So I’ll never get to measure my “ceremonial first pitch” prowess against Taft and Roosevelt and Truman and the rest of the gang. But that’s okay. I had the honor once, and in an only slightly less auspicious setting.
Was it the Opening Day? No. Was it an All-Star Game? No. Was it the World Series? No. But I threw out the first pitch at a regular season “A” ball game in South Bend, Indiana. Because John Fogerty didn’t show up.
The most exciting experiences of my life?
It’s definitely in the Top Five.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
"A Little Story That Says It All"
It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Anna and I are enjoying our pool. Our family, generally, prefers to keep the water temperature at a friendly eighty-eight degrees. It is my view that an abrupt change in temperature can make your heart stop. And I’m against that.
Anna and I are engaged in conversation, standing chest deep in what most people would call bathwater. Suddenly – Ouch! – I feel this intense stinging sensation on my back.
It hurts. I’m unhappy. Though I detect no bee or anything similar in the vicinity, I have the unmistakable feeling of having been insectually attacked.
Anna springs into action. She splashes to my side, quickly discovering a black pointy thing sticking out of my back. You know what’s next.
The pointy thing has to come out.
Taking charge, Anna dispatches Dr. M for tweezers. I have a knee-jerk reaction to the word “tweezers.” A narrowing of the eyes, a quivering of the lips, sweaty palms, even in water. Catching the signals, Anna responds with these words:
“Dad. It’s me.”
I know what she’s saying. We have a history in this department. And she’s always come through before.
“Dad. It’s me.”
Three words, ringing with reassurance. They immediately settle me down.
Till Dr. M returns with the tweezers.
I am now displaying every quiver, twitch, moan and shudder in my Arsenal of Wimpiness.
It’s going to hurt.
And there’s nowhere to hide.
Anna takes hold of the tweezers. Before “going in”, she reminds me again.
“Remember. It’s me.”
The operation runs smoothly. A yank and a yelp, and the spiny intruder is successfully removed.
My ordeal is over.
I tell Anna, “Thanks.”
I sense a tear in the corner of my eye.
It wasn’t from the sting.
-------------------------------
Late Bulletin: Anna says it didn’t happen that way. Dr. M took out the stinger. Somehow, I remember it differently.
Though I did have my back turned.
Anna and I are engaged in conversation, standing chest deep in what most people would call bathwater. Suddenly – Ouch! – I feel this intense stinging sensation on my back.
It hurts. I’m unhappy. Though I detect no bee or anything similar in the vicinity, I have the unmistakable feeling of having been insectually attacked.
Anna springs into action. She splashes to my side, quickly discovering a black pointy thing sticking out of my back. You know what’s next.
The pointy thing has to come out.
Taking charge, Anna dispatches Dr. M for tweezers. I have a knee-jerk reaction to the word “tweezers.” A narrowing of the eyes, a quivering of the lips, sweaty palms, even in water. Catching the signals, Anna responds with these words:
“Dad. It’s me.”
I know what she’s saying. We have a history in this department. And she’s always come through before.
“Dad. It’s me.”
Three words, ringing with reassurance. They immediately settle me down.
Till Dr. M returns with the tweezers.
I am now displaying every quiver, twitch, moan and shudder in my Arsenal of Wimpiness.
It’s going to hurt.
And there’s nowhere to hide.
Anna takes hold of the tweezers. Before “going in”, she reminds me again.
“Remember. It’s me.”
The operation runs smoothly. A yank and a yelp, and the spiny intruder is successfully removed.
My ordeal is over.
I tell Anna, “Thanks.”
I sense a tear in the corner of my eye.
It wasn’t from the sting.
-------------------------------
Late Bulletin: Anna says it didn’t happen that way. Dr. M took out the stinger. Somehow, I remember it differently.
Though I did have my back turned.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
"The Monarchs"
As I write this, I am happily attired in a cream-colored Monarchs t-shirt, its signature red lettering outlined in black. Who were the Monarchs? The Kansas City Monarchs were a team that played in what they called the Negro Baseball Leagues, during a time when black ballplayers were prohibited from playing in what they called – and still call – the Major Leagues.
I’m interested in Negro League baseball. Every year, when solicited, I send money to support the Negro League museum (coincidentally housed in Kansas City). In return, I receive some kind of appreciative souvenir – a commemorative wooden ball, a miniature bat key chain, or the aforementioned team logoed Monarchs t-shirt.
Though Dr. M contributes to many charities, there are only two I contribute to directly: the Negro League museum, and the Jewish cemetery in Tombstone, Arizona. Although no Jews participated in Tombstone’s infamous “Gunfight At The O.K. Corral”, it is rumored that one of them may possibly have booked the venue.
Just funnin’.
I read a book once called In The Shadow Of The Senators, concerning a legendary Negro League team called the Homestead Grays. (The ball club relocated from Homestead, Pennsylvania to Washington D.C.)
The Grays played in the same stadium as the National League’s all white Washington Senators, scheduling their games when the Senators were out of town. It was not unusual for the Grays to regularly outdraw the Senators in attendance.
It’s not surprising. The Negro Leagues offered spectacular baseball, featuring all-time superstars like Leroy “Satchel” Paige, Josh Gibson and “Cool Papa” Bell. I wish I could have seen them in action. Though I have no idea whether white people ever attended Negro League games.
I also don’t know whether black fans frequented at Major League games. I am shamefully spotty on my racial history. I grew up in another country.
What I do know is that the “color line”, as they called it, was broken in 1948, when Jackie Robinson was promoted from their minor league affiliate in Montreal (a less volatile terrain for a black player to break in) and brought in to play for the “parent” team in the Majors, the Brooklyn Dodgers.
After that, more black ballplayers gradually made the move. Larry Doby was invited to play for the Indians. Ernie Banks joined the Cubs. The Yankees welcomed Elston Howard, though not until 1955.
As the integration of black players accelerated, Negro League baseball became increasingly marginalized. The institution was no longer necessary. At least not for original purpose.
The Negro leagues were created to showcase great ballplayers who were restricted from playing where their talent indicated they belonged. Then things changed. With the Major Leagues accepting black players, what was the rationale behind an alternate baseball league specifically created for a time when they didn’t?
The top black ballplayers made good money in segregated baseball, from their salaries as players, supplemented by side activities, such as special appearances and exhibition games. But they all coveted the stamp of approval bestowed by the mainstream culture, a stamp that could only be earned by crossing over into the Major Leagues.
The handwriting was on the wall. As black stars continued to defect to the Majors Leagues, Negro League baseball was unable sustain itself as a viable source of entertainment.
So.
As the result of a good thing happening – America’s, albeit belated, moving forward on racial inclusion – a rich and once-vibrant institution inevitably had to disappear. I imagine there was a devoted fan base that had a passionate attachment to that institution. They must have hated to see it go.
Still, it’s important to remember: Negro League baseball was never the ideal option. The ideal option just wasn’t available.
And now it was.
My opinion? (Which, I’m aware, on racial matters, ranks somewhere between “Stay out of this” and “Who cares?”)
For what it’s worth…
There are these ultimate goals you’re shooting for. And when you finally attain them, that’s got to be a good thing. Allowing cherished but no longer needed institutions to fade away may be painful, but you’ve gotta make that deal, don’t you?
The era of Negro League Baseball inevitably had to end. But it needs to be remembered, for what it was, for why it was necessary, and, most importantly, for the magnificent entertainment those now-mostly-forgotten players delivered its the fans.
I am honored to play a small part in keeping that memory alive.
I’m interested in Negro League baseball. Every year, when solicited, I send money to support the Negro League museum (coincidentally housed in Kansas City). In return, I receive some kind of appreciative souvenir – a commemorative wooden ball, a miniature bat key chain, or the aforementioned team logoed Monarchs t-shirt.
Though Dr. M contributes to many charities, there are only two I contribute to directly: the Negro League museum, and the Jewish cemetery in Tombstone, Arizona. Although no Jews participated in Tombstone’s infamous “Gunfight At The O.K. Corral”, it is rumored that one of them may possibly have booked the venue.
Just funnin’.
I read a book once called In The Shadow Of The Senators, concerning a legendary Negro League team called the Homestead Grays. (The ball club relocated from Homestead, Pennsylvania to Washington D.C.)
The Grays played in the same stadium as the National League’s all white Washington Senators, scheduling their games when the Senators were out of town. It was not unusual for the Grays to regularly outdraw the Senators in attendance.
It’s not surprising. The Negro Leagues offered spectacular baseball, featuring all-time superstars like Leroy “Satchel” Paige, Josh Gibson and “Cool Papa” Bell. I wish I could have seen them in action. Though I have no idea whether white people ever attended Negro League games.
I also don’t know whether black fans frequented at Major League games. I am shamefully spotty on my racial history. I grew up in another country.
What I do know is that the “color line”, as they called it, was broken in 1948, when Jackie Robinson was promoted from their minor league affiliate in Montreal (a less volatile terrain for a black player to break in) and brought in to play for the “parent” team in the Majors, the Brooklyn Dodgers.
After that, more black ballplayers gradually made the move. Larry Doby was invited to play for the Indians. Ernie Banks joined the Cubs. The Yankees welcomed Elston Howard, though not until 1955.
As the integration of black players accelerated, Negro League baseball became increasingly marginalized. The institution was no longer necessary. At least not for original purpose.
The Negro leagues were created to showcase great ballplayers who were restricted from playing where their talent indicated they belonged. Then things changed. With the Major Leagues accepting black players, what was the rationale behind an alternate baseball league specifically created for a time when they didn’t?
The top black ballplayers made good money in segregated baseball, from their salaries as players, supplemented by side activities, such as special appearances and exhibition games. But they all coveted the stamp of approval bestowed by the mainstream culture, a stamp that could only be earned by crossing over into the Major Leagues.
The handwriting was on the wall. As black stars continued to defect to the Majors Leagues, Negro League baseball was unable sustain itself as a viable source of entertainment.
So.
As the result of a good thing happening – America’s, albeit belated, moving forward on racial inclusion – a rich and once-vibrant institution inevitably had to disappear. I imagine there was a devoted fan base that had a passionate attachment to that institution. They must have hated to see it go.
Still, it’s important to remember: Negro League baseball was never the ideal option. The ideal option just wasn’t available.
And now it was.
My opinion? (Which, I’m aware, on racial matters, ranks somewhere between “Stay out of this” and “Who cares?”)
For what it’s worth…
There are these ultimate goals you’re shooting for. And when you finally attain them, that’s got to be a good thing. Allowing cherished but no longer needed institutions to fade away may be painful, but you’ve gotta make that deal, don’t you?
The era of Negro League Baseball inevitably had to end. But it needs to be remembered, for what it was, for why it was necessary, and, most importantly, for the magnificent entertainment those now-mostly-forgotten players delivered its the fans.
I am honored to play a small part in keeping that memory alive.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
"Summer Times - 'Night Duty'"
Aside from taking care of campers – making sure they didn’t run away, write home “I hate camp” letters, or die – counselors had a plethora of other responsibilities as well. In fact, counseloring was pretty much a 24/7 undertaking. From a salary standpoint, our pay rate worked out to less than a nickel an hour.
This was especially true for the Junior, or first year, Counselors. In my day (young fella), Junior Counselors received a salary of twenty-five dollars for the entire summer. Except they didn’t. There were deductions for the purchases of toothpaste, soap, flashlight batteries, the occasional candy bar, stamps, a camp t-shirt, et cetera. After my first year as counselor, I was sent a check for eight weeks of sweat and toil in the amount of a dollar sixteen.
Among the counselor’s myriad responsibilities was “Night Duty.” Basically, it was babysitting. But that doesn’t really distinguish it, since the whole job was babysitting. “Night Duty”, as reflected by the name, was babysitting at night.
At Camp Ogama, each unit – Junior, Intermediate and Senior – consisted of three boys’ cabins a three girls’ cabins, which, except for the Juniors, were situated at opposite ends of the camp. “Night Duty” involved counselors taking turns, on a rotating basis, patrolling their respective areas after the campers had gone to bed.
During “Night Duty”, counselors would sit on nearby benches, reading by flashlight, battling mosquitoes and trying to keep warm (August nights were particularly bone-chilling). Every twenty minutes or so, “Night Duty” would get up and reconnoiter the terrain, making sure all was quiet and nothing was on fire.
After-dark troublemakers were given warnings, and if those didn’t work, they were invited outside to join the “Night Duty” person on the bench. “Trouble” generally involved talking, joking around, fake and/or actual farting, and generally goofing around after “lights out”, which was frowned upon, because it was supposed to be bedtime, and bedtime was for sleeping. So that’s what we made them do.
There were rumors of “Night Duty” atrocities for chronic misbehavers, talk of dragging the kid outside in his pajamas, and making them hold out two rubber boots filled with water at arm’s length for thirty minutes, or till they promised to behave, whichever came first. I can’t imagine that actually happening, at least not often. And if it did, who could last longer than twenty seconds? It’s hold out the boots, “I’ll be good!”, and you’re back in your bed. Any longer, and that kid’s going to have really sore arms. And they’re never coming back to that camp.
In contrast to the other units, the Junior Unit’s cabins of both genders were situated in one area, comprising a cozy, little persons’ community. As the result of this arrangement, the boys’ and girls’ “Night Duty” representatives would generally sit together, usually on one of the cabin’s bulb-lit porches, the porches and on-site bathrooms being amenities uniquely available to the Juniors’ cabins.
On particularly chilly nights, the boy-girl tandem might choose to fortify themselves under a blanket. However, at least in my experience, the mere glimmer in the mind of making any kind of a “move”, and the camp’s owner would suddenly materialize out of nowhere, strongly encouraging separate blankets.
Junior Unit “Night Duty” also involved a distinguishingly “extra.” One summer, the cabin I was in charge of consisted of eight six year-old boys. Three of them were listed, according to their application forms, as “frequent bedwetters.”
It might have been wiser if they’d gotten the bedwetting issue behind them before being shipped off to camp. But no sir, there they were. I guess the thinking was, why should they miss out just because… I don’t know. But it was problematic. Each bedwetter came supplied with an obligatory rubber sheet, to protect the camp’s mattresses from the consequences. The bedwetter’s sheets were entirely on their own.
Now here’s the thing. Bedwetting is a biological and, who knows, maybe a psychological concern. It’s inconvenient but manageable. To be teased as a bedwetter, however, is terminal. You may survive the incident, but the scars are everlasting. (Not speaking from personal experience, though I bear everlasting scars from other matters.)
Therefore…
For the entire summer, it was my job to keep my non-bedwetting campers from discovering that their cabin-mates included three players from the other team. I had to be prepared with a “cover story” at all times.
“How come Howie needs a rubber sheet?”
“He’s allergic to the mattress.”
A keen eye could ferret out the bedwetters with little difficulty. Other campers brought two sets of sheets to camp. Bedwetters brought six. When the inevitable “accidents” occurred, the telltale sheets would be spirited away for early laundering, or, if they were needed immediately, for “hosing.” Just another of the counselor’s countless duties.
What does all this have to do with “Night Duty”? Well, sir, the only known way of averting “accidents” was a procedure known as “lifting.” Each night, at exactly eleven o’clock – I’m not sure how this particular hour was selected, but that’s what we were instructed – “Night Duty” counselors would step into the cabin, wake up the bedwetters, and, preemptively, walk them to the bathroom, which, as mentioned, was located on the premises. You came out the cabin door, turned left on the porch, and there were the bathrooms.
Two stalls.
Unfortunately, I had three bedwetters.
Okay.
What I neglected to mention earlier was that not only was it necessary to protect the bedwetters’ identities from the non-bedwetters, it was also necessary to protect their identities from each other. Maybe they wouldn’t do this today. Maybe they’d find an empowering value in “group identification.” You wouldn’t feel it was “just me.” But back then, the rule was crystal clear:
No one was to know that anyone else was a bedwetter.
Two stalls and three bedwetters not only created “privacy” concerns, it was a practical problem as well, because despite the two-stall limitation, all three bedwetters had to be “lifted” at the “magical hour” of eleven P.M. If you think I’m exaggerating the urgency, there were times when we’d “lifted” two campers, and when we came for the third kid, it was already too late. Apparently, they’d become conditioned to “letting go” at eleven. Wherever they happened to be.
Good thing the Junior Unit provided “Night Duty” teams, even though one of the duo was female. (Somehow, this was a “medical problem”, and that made things okay.) Two “lifters” was the minimum. There was no way one person could “lift” three bedwetters by themselves, and get everybody where they needed to go on time.
It almost felt choreographed. A sleepy-eyed “Camper One” is ushered out of the cabin, into “Stall One.”, and you close the door. “Camper Two” is then brought out, and directed into “Stall Two”, and you close the door. When he’s finished, “Camper One” is led out of “Stall One”, to be returned to his bed, though rarely without curious inquiries.
(Indicating “Stall Two”) “Who’s in there?”
“The other ‘Night Duty’.”
When “Camper One” is back in bed, you wait till he falls asleep. Then “Camper Two” is returned to his bed, and you wait for him to fall asleep. At which point you hurry over to “Camper Three”, praying to God that you’re not too late.
It was a frantic race against the clock. On a good night, two counselors capably executed the “Three-Campers-Two-Toilets” routine, returned them happily to their beds, and gone back to sit on the porch.
Under separate blankets, of course.
------------------------------------
You’re right, writer-inners. I didn’t mention all the “period” comedies. I guess I was focusing on were shows set in earlier centuries, rather than earlier decades. In the earlier century-type shows, the settings and costumes proved, in my view, to be too great for the willing suspension of disbelief. Your televising something that took place before the invention of television. For many people, that’s more suspension than they can handle.
In response to another question, Major Dad was in its way a cowboy show, at least in the way I imagined the lead character. The Major embodied many of the values associated with a Garry Cooper cowboy. The funny part was to carry that embodiment into modern times.
Keep those questions coming. They challenge my views, and give me new things to think about. Sometimes I’m embarrass for having written incomplete posts, but as I’ve written elsewhere, “I embarrass; therefore I am. Embarrassment seems to be the only reliable proof of my continued existence.
This was especially true for the Junior, or first year, Counselors. In my day (young fella), Junior Counselors received a salary of twenty-five dollars for the entire summer. Except they didn’t. There were deductions for the purchases of toothpaste, soap, flashlight batteries, the occasional candy bar, stamps, a camp t-shirt, et cetera. After my first year as counselor, I was sent a check for eight weeks of sweat and toil in the amount of a dollar sixteen.
Among the counselor’s myriad responsibilities was “Night Duty.” Basically, it was babysitting. But that doesn’t really distinguish it, since the whole job was babysitting. “Night Duty”, as reflected by the name, was babysitting at night.
At Camp Ogama, each unit – Junior, Intermediate and Senior – consisted of three boys’ cabins a three girls’ cabins, which, except for the Juniors, were situated at opposite ends of the camp. “Night Duty” involved counselors taking turns, on a rotating basis, patrolling their respective areas after the campers had gone to bed.
During “Night Duty”, counselors would sit on nearby benches, reading by flashlight, battling mosquitoes and trying to keep warm (August nights were particularly bone-chilling). Every twenty minutes or so, “Night Duty” would get up and reconnoiter the terrain, making sure all was quiet and nothing was on fire.
After-dark troublemakers were given warnings, and if those didn’t work, they were invited outside to join the “Night Duty” person on the bench. “Trouble” generally involved talking, joking around, fake and/or actual farting, and generally goofing around after “lights out”, which was frowned upon, because it was supposed to be bedtime, and bedtime was for sleeping. So that’s what we made them do.
There were rumors of “Night Duty” atrocities for chronic misbehavers, talk of dragging the kid outside in his pajamas, and making them hold out two rubber boots filled with water at arm’s length for thirty minutes, or till they promised to behave, whichever came first. I can’t imagine that actually happening, at least not often. And if it did, who could last longer than twenty seconds? It’s hold out the boots, “I’ll be good!”, and you’re back in your bed. Any longer, and that kid’s going to have really sore arms. And they’re never coming back to that camp.
In contrast to the other units, the Junior Unit’s cabins of both genders were situated in one area, comprising a cozy, little persons’ community. As the result of this arrangement, the boys’ and girls’ “Night Duty” representatives would generally sit together, usually on one of the cabin’s bulb-lit porches, the porches and on-site bathrooms being amenities uniquely available to the Juniors’ cabins.
On particularly chilly nights, the boy-girl tandem might choose to fortify themselves under a blanket. However, at least in my experience, the mere glimmer in the mind of making any kind of a “move”, and the camp’s owner would suddenly materialize out of nowhere, strongly encouraging separate blankets.
Junior Unit “Night Duty” also involved a distinguishingly “extra.” One summer, the cabin I was in charge of consisted of eight six year-old boys. Three of them were listed, according to their application forms, as “frequent bedwetters.”
It might have been wiser if they’d gotten the bedwetting issue behind them before being shipped off to camp. But no sir, there they were. I guess the thinking was, why should they miss out just because… I don’t know. But it was problematic. Each bedwetter came supplied with an obligatory rubber sheet, to protect the camp’s mattresses from the consequences. The bedwetter’s sheets were entirely on their own.
Now here’s the thing. Bedwetting is a biological and, who knows, maybe a psychological concern. It’s inconvenient but manageable. To be teased as a bedwetter, however, is terminal. You may survive the incident, but the scars are everlasting. (Not speaking from personal experience, though I bear everlasting scars from other matters.)
Therefore…
For the entire summer, it was my job to keep my non-bedwetting campers from discovering that their cabin-mates included three players from the other team. I had to be prepared with a “cover story” at all times.
“How come Howie needs a rubber sheet?”
“He’s allergic to the mattress.”
A keen eye could ferret out the bedwetters with little difficulty. Other campers brought two sets of sheets to camp. Bedwetters brought six. When the inevitable “accidents” occurred, the telltale sheets would be spirited away for early laundering, or, if they were needed immediately, for “hosing.” Just another of the counselor’s countless duties.
What does all this have to do with “Night Duty”? Well, sir, the only known way of averting “accidents” was a procedure known as “lifting.” Each night, at exactly eleven o’clock – I’m not sure how this particular hour was selected, but that’s what we were instructed – “Night Duty” counselors would step into the cabin, wake up the bedwetters, and, preemptively, walk them to the bathroom, which, as mentioned, was located on the premises. You came out the cabin door, turned left on the porch, and there were the bathrooms.
Two stalls.
Unfortunately, I had three bedwetters.
Okay.
What I neglected to mention earlier was that not only was it necessary to protect the bedwetters’ identities from the non-bedwetters, it was also necessary to protect their identities from each other. Maybe they wouldn’t do this today. Maybe they’d find an empowering value in “group identification.” You wouldn’t feel it was “just me.” But back then, the rule was crystal clear:
No one was to know that anyone else was a bedwetter.
Two stalls and three bedwetters not only created “privacy” concerns, it was a practical problem as well, because despite the two-stall limitation, all three bedwetters had to be “lifted” at the “magical hour” of eleven P.M. If you think I’m exaggerating the urgency, there were times when we’d “lifted” two campers, and when we came for the third kid, it was already too late. Apparently, they’d become conditioned to “letting go” at eleven. Wherever they happened to be.
Good thing the Junior Unit provided “Night Duty” teams, even though one of the duo was female. (Somehow, this was a “medical problem”, and that made things okay.) Two “lifters” was the minimum. There was no way one person could “lift” three bedwetters by themselves, and get everybody where they needed to go on time.
It almost felt choreographed. A sleepy-eyed “Camper One” is ushered out of the cabin, into “Stall One.”, and you close the door. “Camper Two” is then brought out, and directed into “Stall Two”, and you close the door. When he’s finished, “Camper One” is led out of “Stall One”, to be returned to his bed, though rarely without curious inquiries.
(Indicating “Stall Two”) “Who’s in there?”
“The other ‘Night Duty’.”
When “Camper One” is back in bed, you wait till he falls asleep. Then “Camper Two” is returned to his bed, and you wait for him to fall asleep. At which point you hurry over to “Camper Three”, praying to God that you’re not too late.
It was a frantic race against the clock. On a good night, two counselors capably executed the “Three-Campers-Two-Toilets” routine, returned them happily to their beds, and gone back to sit on the porch.
Under separate blankets, of course.
------------------------------------
You’re right, writer-inners. I didn’t mention all the “period” comedies. I guess I was focusing on were shows set in earlier centuries, rather than earlier decades. In the earlier century-type shows, the settings and costumes proved, in my view, to be too great for the willing suspension of disbelief. Your televising something that took place before the invention of television. For many people, that’s more suspension than they can handle.
In response to another question, Major Dad was in its way a cowboy show, at least in the way I imagined the lead character. The Major embodied many of the values associated with a Garry Cooper cowboy. The funny part was to carry that embodiment into modern times.
Keep those questions coming. They challenge my views, and give me new things to think about. Sometimes I’m embarrass for having written incomplete posts, but as I’ve written elsewhere, “I embarrass; therefore I am. Embarrassment seems to be the only reliable proof of my continued existence.
Monday, July 13, 2009
"'Period' Comedy"
Recently fellow-blogger, Ken Levine (bykenlevine.com), asked me to contribute an answer to a question he’d received concerning what they call “period” comedies, which just means comedies that are set in another time. Since I created a comedy western series called Best of the West, Ken thought I might have some useful observations. This in an expansion on those thoughts.
They don’t make many “period” comedies, and, other than the Garry Marshall series, Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley, set in the fifties – which is sort of “period”, even though nobody rode a horse – I can’t recall one “period” comedy, including my own, that was truly successful.
The question is “Why?”
Let me start by explaining why I decided to write a “period” comedy. Up till that time, I had provided scripts for contemporarily set series, such as The Mary Tyler Moore Show. My involvement in the Mary show occurred late in that show’s run, and by then, fresh and exciting story ideas were getting harder to come by.
It was pretty much down to “Mary Gets A Bad Haircut”, “Mary Breaks A Nail”, and “Mary Chips A Tooth.” (That was me exaggerating for effect. Mary never did any of those stories. Though I do remember a “bad haircut” story on Taxi.)
The truth is, I was tired of stories that, perhaps, had deep, psychological implications, but which were, to me at least, not all that interesting. Dating problems. Mary went through every imaginable variation. The date was too short. The date was too old. The date was poor. The date was bald.
I rather quickly grew weary of dating problems. I wanted a story about something I could care about, something that really mattered. (That’s why I came up with “Ted’s Change of Heart”, an episode where Mary regular, Ted Baxter, was stricken with a heart attack. This was a “reactive” suggestion. For once, I wanted someone on the show to have an actual problem.)
One day, a breakfast meeting was arranged between me and then ABC executive, Tom Werner (who would go on to make billions with The Cosby Show and Roseanne, and win two World Series as co-owner of the Red Sox). When Tom asked me what kind of TV show I really wanted to create, my response was immediate:
“Cowboys.”
Why “cowboys”? I love cowboys. Old cowboy movies are still my favorite today. Years of watching them had trained me in understanding how westerns worked, and I felt confident (or at least as confident as I get) that I could do a funny version of one. But, arguably, the primary reason I wanted to do a western was because I was certain that the storylines in such a series would never, or at least rarely, deal with dating.
They’d deal with outlaws. They’d deal with Indians. They’d deal with stagecoach robberies, hostage taking, shootouts in the center of town. We’re talking about life and death issues here, not “I’m meeting my boyfriend’s parents for the first time and his Dad’s wig in on crooked.”
My enthusiasm carried the day. I got to make Best of the West, a creation that retains a special place in my heart. But despite my passion for westerns and my “take” on how to pull one off comedically, should anybody really have been betting on a “period” comedy?
Probably not.
(Regular readers are familiar with my negativity. I never believe anything’s going to work. But this time I actually have reasons. Well, I always have reasons, but this time I have good reasons.)
The way I sees it, all successful television series rely on audience identification. People identify with the characters, they identify with the situations, and through that identification, a bond is created, linking the audience with the program, insuring they’ll be back week after week.
So you’re flipping around the channels, and there’s Best of the West. What do you see? People wearing holsters and cowboy hats, living in dirt-floor cabins, and talking about a “passel of owlhoots fixin’ to ‘tree’ the town and tear the place six ways from Sunday.”
Your first question is:
“Why are they dressed like that?”
Your second question is:
“What are they talking about?”
And your third question is:
“What has this got to do with me?”
So much for audience identification.
Contrary to the successful formula, an absence of identification leads to distancing between the audience and the program, a distancing that is supplemented by the fact that Best of the West was filmed in front of a live studio audience, leading to Question Number Four:
“What’s a live studio audience doing in the West?”
The final nail in the coffin? If there’s no personal identification, an audience might still have connected with Best of the West if there had been other westerns on the air to give them some familiarity with what exactly we were going for. How many westerns were on TV when Best of the West premiered in 1981? I believe there were none.
But wait a minute. If Best of the West was such an obvious long shot, why did ABC agree to air it in the first place?
Because the pilot episode was extremely funny.
This was the show’s only hope, that is was so funny that everything else didn’t matter. All you needed was for the network to keep it on long enough for the “it’s strange but it’s funny” buzz on it to spread.
They didn’t.
Best of the West was cancelled after twenty-two episodes.
Was ABC behind Best of the West? You can gauge their support from their scheduling strategy. Best of the West was first scheduled against the Tom Selleck-starring Magnum, P.I., and when that show took off, ABC moved Best of the West, running it against the Number One series then on the air, Dallas. You don’t do that to a show you believe in.
“Period” comedies are always a difficult “sell.” (They do better in England. But England has a stronger attachment to history, and a greater tolerance for the silly and the bizarre.)
The good thing about “period” comedies is that they’re different. Writers like them, because they offer fresh avenues for comedic exploration. The bad thing about “period” comedies is that they’re different. You’re fighting the “What’s that?” factor.
A “period” comedy’s only hope is that the audience is more tickled by the
“different” than put off by it. And that the network gives it sufficient time to settle in.
Otherwise, the wardrobe goes back to the costume rental place, and it’s wall-to-wall modern dress.
And stories about dating.
They don’t make many “period” comedies, and, other than the Garry Marshall series, Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley, set in the fifties – which is sort of “period”, even though nobody rode a horse – I can’t recall one “period” comedy, including my own, that was truly successful.
The question is “Why?”
Let me start by explaining why I decided to write a “period” comedy. Up till that time, I had provided scripts for contemporarily set series, such as The Mary Tyler Moore Show. My involvement in the Mary show occurred late in that show’s run, and by then, fresh and exciting story ideas were getting harder to come by.
It was pretty much down to “Mary Gets A Bad Haircut”, “Mary Breaks A Nail”, and “Mary Chips A Tooth.” (That was me exaggerating for effect. Mary never did any of those stories. Though I do remember a “bad haircut” story on Taxi.)
The truth is, I was tired of stories that, perhaps, had deep, psychological implications, but which were, to me at least, not all that interesting. Dating problems. Mary went through every imaginable variation. The date was too short. The date was too old. The date was poor. The date was bald.
I rather quickly grew weary of dating problems. I wanted a story about something I could care about, something that really mattered. (That’s why I came up with “Ted’s Change of Heart”, an episode where Mary regular, Ted Baxter, was stricken with a heart attack. This was a “reactive” suggestion. For once, I wanted someone on the show to have an actual problem.)
One day, a breakfast meeting was arranged between me and then ABC executive, Tom Werner (who would go on to make billions with The Cosby Show and Roseanne, and win two World Series as co-owner of the Red Sox). When Tom asked me what kind of TV show I really wanted to create, my response was immediate:
“Cowboys.”
Why “cowboys”? I love cowboys. Old cowboy movies are still my favorite today. Years of watching them had trained me in understanding how westerns worked, and I felt confident (or at least as confident as I get) that I could do a funny version of one. But, arguably, the primary reason I wanted to do a western was because I was certain that the storylines in such a series would never, or at least rarely, deal with dating.
They’d deal with outlaws. They’d deal with Indians. They’d deal with stagecoach robberies, hostage taking, shootouts in the center of town. We’re talking about life and death issues here, not “I’m meeting my boyfriend’s parents for the first time and his Dad’s wig in on crooked.”
My enthusiasm carried the day. I got to make Best of the West, a creation that retains a special place in my heart. But despite my passion for westerns and my “take” on how to pull one off comedically, should anybody really have been betting on a “period” comedy?
Probably not.
(Regular readers are familiar with my negativity. I never believe anything’s going to work. But this time I actually have reasons. Well, I always have reasons, but this time I have good reasons.)
The way I sees it, all successful television series rely on audience identification. People identify with the characters, they identify with the situations, and through that identification, a bond is created, linking the audience with the program, insuring they’ll be back week after week.
So you’re flipping around the channels, and there’s Best of the West. What do you see? People wearing holsters and cowboy hats, living in dirt-floor cabins, and talking about a “passel of owlhoots fixin’ to ‘tree’ the town and tear the place six ways from Sunday.”
Your first question is:
“Why are they dressed like that?”
Your second question is:
“What are they talking about?”
And your third question is:
“What has this got to do with me?”
So much for audience identification.
Contrary to the successful formula, an absence of identification leads to distancing between the audience and the program, a distancing that is supplemented by the fact that Best of the West was filmed in front of a live studio audience, leading to Question Number Four:
“What’s a live studio audience doing in the West?”
The final nail in the coffin? If there’s no personal identification, an audience might still have connected with Best of the West if there had been other westerns on the air to give them some familiarity with what exactly we were going for. How many westerns were on TV when Best of the West premiered in 1981? I believe there were none.
But wait a minute. If Best of the West was such an obvious long shot, why did ABC agree to air it in the first place?
Because the pilot episode was extremely funny.
This was the show’s only hope, that is was so funny that everything else didn’t matter. All you needed was for the network to keep it on long enough for the “it’s strange but it’s funny” buzz on it to spread.
They didn’t.
Best of the West was cancelled after twenty-two episodes.
Was ABC behind Best of the West? You can gauge their support from their scheduling strategy. Best of the West was first scheduled against the Tom Selleck-starring Magnum, P.I., and when that show took off, ABC moved Best of the West, running it against the Number One series then on the air, Dallas. You don’t do that to a show you believe in.
“Period” comedies are always a difficult “sell.” (They do better in England. But England has a stronger attachment to history, and a greater tolerance for the silly and the bizarre.)
The good thing about “period” comedies is that they’re different. Writers like them, because they offer fresh avenues for comedic exploration. The bad thing about “period” comedies is that they’re different. You’re fighting the “What’s that?” factor.
A “period” comedy’s only hope is that the audience is more tickled by the
“different” than put off by it. And that the network gives it sufficient time to settle in.
Otherwise, the wardrobe goes back to the costume rental place, and it’s wall-to-wall modern dress.
And stories about dating.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
"Robert Goulet Punched Me In The Shoulder"
I was a performer on The Bobbie Gentry Happiness Hour, a CBS summer replacement series which hoped to be picked up for the regular season but wasn’t. We did four episodes. You know how you hear you can find anything on YouTube? You can’t find The Bobbie Gentry Happiness Hour. That fact may actually define “obscurity.”
Bobbie Gentry, a country singer who’d had a big hit with Ode To Billie Joe, was a pretty woman with a strong voice and a lot of wigs. Bobbie’s nightclub connections led to the show’s booking Vegas-style performers – Rich Little, Wayne Newton (who had a bodyguard who looked exactly like Wayne Newton), and musical comedy star (Camelot), turned Vegas headliner, Robert Goulet.
We were rehearsing a comedy sketch in which Goulet and myself would appear. It turns out Mr. Goulet had this kind of a quirk. Wherever he said something funny, or at least he thought was funny, Robert Goulet would punch me in the shoulder. It could be a line from the script, or it could be some quip that just came to mind, he’d deliver it, and wham! – he’d punch me in the shoulder.
I had a problem. Here I am, this new guy just down from Canada, and Robert Goulet, an internationally renowned entertainer, is punching me continually in the shoulder. The problem was
It hurt.
I’m looking around, and everyone, including the puncher himself, was laughing their heads off. It was pretty clear I was on my own.
Sometimes – for me, extremely rarely – you don’t think about what to do, you just do it. We’d been rehearsing for a couple of days. During a break, Goulet’s telling some anecdote of some kind, and after he delivers the payoff, he, once again, socks me in the shoulder. It turns out, this was my “Popeye Moment.”
“That’s all I can stands; I can’t stands no more.”
I punch Robert Goulet right back, accompanying my response with an angrily uttered, “Don’t punch me!”
It’s happened to me, maybe, four times in my life. I do, or say, something unexpected – and maybe unacceptable, I don’t know. It’s always spontaneous. I respond a certain way, and after it’s over, there’s always this thunderous silence, an enveloping Sound of Emptiness, a roaring “seashell to the ear” echo chamber filling the room.
It’s almost like the world blinks, or it hit the "Pause" button, confused, like it’s trying to piece together what it just saw. “Did he just do that?” "Did he just say that?" “To him?”
The action doesn’t seem to fit – a kid abruptly nailing their father. How do you follow that? What are you supposed to do?
In my experience – those four occasions – what happened next was always this:
Nothing.
A momentary glitch. A skip on time. “Temporary Difficulties – We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming.”
There was a temporary crack in the earth, the earth closed up, and people went back about their business, behaving as if the event itself had never occurred.
That’s what happened when I punched Robert Goulet. No comments. No follow-up whatsoever. We just went back to work, no difference between before the event and after.
Except that Robert Goulet never punched me again.
I kind of missed it.
Bobbie Gentry, a country singer who’d had a big hit with Ode To Billie Joe, was a pretty woman with a strong voice and a lot of wigs. Bobbie’s nightclub connections led to the show’s booking Vegas-style performers – Rich Little, Wayne Newton (who had a bodyguard who looked exactly like Wayne Newton), and musical comedy star (Camelot), turned Vegas headliner, Robert Goulet.
We were rehearsing a comedy sketch in which Goulet and myself would appear. It turns out Mr. Goulet had this kind of a quirk. Wherever he said something funny, or at least he thought was funny, Robert Goulet would punch me in the shoulder. It could be a line from the script, or it could be some quip that just came to mind, he’d deliver it, and wham! – he’d punch me in the shoulder.
I had a problem. Here I am, this new guy just down from Canada, and Robert Goulet, an internationally renowned entertainer, is punching me continually in the shoulder. The problem was
It hurt.
I’m looking around, and everyone, including the puncher himself, was laughing their heads off. It was pretty clear I was on my own.
Sometimes – for me, extremely rarely – you don’t think about what to do, you just do it. We’d been rehearsing for a couple of days. During a break, Goulet’s telling some anecdote of some kind, and after he delivers the payoff, he, once again, socks me in the shoulder. It turns out, this was my “Popeye Moment.”
“That’s all I can stands; I can’t stands no more.”
I punch Robert Goulet right back, accompanying my response with an angrily uttered, “Don’t punch me!”
It’s happened to me, maybe, four times in my life. I do, or say, something unexpected – and maybe unacceptable, I don’t know. It’s always spontaneous. I respond a certain way, and after it’s over, there’s always this thunderous silence, an enveloping Sound of Emptiness, a roaring “seashell to the ear” echo chamber filling the room.
It’s almost like the world blinks, or it hit the "Pause" button, confused, like it’s trying to piece together what it just saw. “Did he just do that?” "Did he just say that?" “To him?”
The action doesn’t seem to fit – a kid abruptly nailing their father. How do you follow that? What are you supposed to do?
In my experience – those four occasions – what happened next was always this:
Nothing.
A momentary glitch. A skip on time. “Temporary Difficulties – We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming.”
There was a temporary crack in the earth, the earth closed up, and people went back about their business, behaving as if the event itself had never occurred.
That’s what happened when I punched Robert Goulet. No comments. No follow-up whatsoever. We just went back to work, no difference between before the event and after.
Except that Robert Goulet never punched me again.
I kind of missed it.
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