I have been a frequent attendee at memorabilia and autograph shows for over twenty-five years. Among the special celebrity guests, seated at long tables stacked with a modest selection of eight-by-ten glossy photos depicting their most notable roles, I always spotted this spry little man at a table overflowing with photos, scripts, booklets, DVDs and VHS tapes. I had no idea who he was, but he was very friendly and always seemed to be engaged in an animated conversation. He leaned on a stack of tapes and, flailing his arms for emphasis, expounded on his career.

After seeing him at a number of conventions, I decided to do a little research. I discovered this man was Conrad Brooks, son of Polish immigrants who met notorious Z-grade filmmaker Ed Wood Jr. in a Hollywood donut shop. A meeting that would change Conrad’s life. The pair collaborated on fifteen short films and several features including the infamous Plan 9 From Outer Space. Conrad was cast as “Patrolman Jaime” in the convoluted, but compelling, shlockfest. Conrad went on to appear in the horrendous The Beast from Yucca Flats, a 1961 sci-fi clunker that rivals Plan 9 for the title of “Worst Film Ever Made.”

After a two decade break, Conrad came back fast and furious in the 1980s. He appeared in and directed a slew of painfully-low budget films with curious titles like Soul Robbers from Outer Space, The Saturn Avenger vs. the Terror Robot, Curse of the Queerwolf  (playing a character slyly named “Wally Beaver”), Zeppo: Sinners from Beyond the Moon!  and many more.

He became a staple at east coast horror conventions, telling tales of his extensive film career with the passion of Robert DeNiro, though not remotely the same success. He seemed to be convinced that Hollywood would come knocking at his door any day now. At one show in the early 2000s, I inadvertently made eye contact with Conrad and, after a lengthy anecdote about his friendship with the late Bela Lugosi during the drug-addicted final years of his acting career, I was coerced into purchasing a photo to add to my collection. With a flourish of his black Sharpie, Conrad inscribed a shiny black-and-white still of Lugosi with his arm around a smiling young man that Conrad assured me was him. When I got home, I discovered the picture was an odd size, larger than the standard 8″ x 10″, yet smaller than the next standard size frame. Even in photos, Conrad was a misfit. But a nice misfit. I found out from the promoter at a recent show, that Conrad signed autographs and sold videos to get money for groceries.

Conrad died on December 6, 2017 at the age of 86. I will miss him at the next convention.

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When Suzanne Crough passed away in 2015, I was sad and I was moved to write this piece on my other blog, It’s Been a Slice. Suzanne was only 52 when she died. After her very brief time in the spotlight, she led a fairly normal life.

Suzanne’s TV “big brother,” David Cassidy passed away at the age of 67, a mere nine months after revealing to the world that he had been diagnosed with dementia. David was determined to continue performing, but his deteriorating condition began to hinder his shows. He would often appear disoriented, forgetting song lyrics he had sung hundreds of times. Finally, in the closing days of November 2017, David succumbed to multiple organ failure as he lay in a hospital awaiting a liver donor.

For some reason, the sadness I felt when Suzanne Crough died escaped me when I learned of David Cassidy’s death.

I loved watching The Partridge Family every Friday night when it ran on ABC between The Brady Bunch and Room 222. The show, originally a proposed vehicle for real-life family pop group The Cowsills, was retooled as a sitcom starring Academy Award-winning actress Shirley Jones and her real-life stepson David Cassidy. The writing and plot lines were typical sitcom fare, but the target audience — prepubescent girls — was very forgiving, focusing instead on the dreamy good looks of chestnut-tressed star Cassidy. Supplemented by relentless coverage in every teeny-bopper publication, David Cassidy’s fame grew exponentially. That is, until the show met its demise when the network moved it to Saturday evenings opposite the fledgling juggernaut All in the Family. The Partridge Family left the airwaves in March 1974, essentially taking David Cassidy’s career with it.

The post-Partridge Family Cassidy struggled to maintain his stardom, while trying desperately (and angrily) to break free of his “Keith Partridge” pigeonhole.. He continued to release albums with modest success, but the singer who once sold out two consecutive nights at Houston’s Astrodome, was now enjoying popularity predominantly in Europe — his domestic fans having moved on to the “next big thing.” Despite scoring the first hit with “I Write the Songs,” months before it would become Barry Manilow’s signature song, David failed to garner the adoration he once received in the United States. In 1978, however, David returned to network television with police drama series called David Cassidy: Man Undercover. The series was cancelled after one season, although the concept was revamped years later as the basis for the hit Fox series 21 Jump Street.

In the 90s, David collaborated with New York Post music columnist Chip Deffaa on his autobiography entitled C’mon, Get Happy … Fear and Loathing on the Partridge Family Bus. I read the book, just after completing Barry Williams’s tongue-in-cheek memoir chronicling his experiences as everyone’s cool older brother Greg Brady. Where Williams’s volume was lighthearted and self-deprecating, David Cassidy’s account was mean-spirited, angry and filled with accusations, blaming everyone for stifling his true musical calling. David derided the “bubble gum” tunes he was “forced” to sing. He dismissed the show that made him a household name, as well as a very rich man.

Looking back on David Cassidy’s career, I can safely say that his was one of the most ungrateful success stories I’ve ever seen. Sure, his life took some unpleasant turns – three times divorced, struggles with drugs and alcohol, bankruptcy. But, he enjoyed success at a level that few can claim. But, he appeared unsatisfied and, yes, ungrateful.

At 67, he certainly died too soon. Perhaps, too soon to fully assess the life he led.

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