from my sketchbook: lillian hall-davis

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For me and Lily are together in my dreams
At 19, Lillian Hall-Davis entered the world of acting. Hoping to convey a sophisticated upbringing and high social status, she listed her place of birth as the fashionable Hampstead section of London. In reality, she hailed from the working-class neighborhood of Mile End, where she led a far-from-glamourous life as the daughter of a cab driver. The charade obviously was successful and by the early 1920s, Lillian was one of the most respected and popular actresses in British silent films.

Lillian became one of Alfred Hitchcock‘s favorite actresses. He directed her in two of his early silent pictures, The Ring  in 1927 and The Farmer’s Wife  the following year.

When silent films gave way to talkies, Lillian wasn’t able to comfortably make the transition. After a small role in 1931’s Her Reputation,  Lillian, experiencing exhaustion and chronic dizziness, suffered a nervous breakdown. Soon, the demand for her acting services dwindled to nothing.  On October 25, 1933, Lillian locked herself in the kitchen of her home, turned on the gas, stuck her head in the oven, and cut her own throat with a straight razor. She was 34 years old.

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from my sketchbook: robin graham

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Somebody bless all these girls that I never have met/But damn you and curse you after all that you’ve done/You’re the one girl I’ll never forget
On November 14, 1970, Robin Graham went out with some friends. Around quarter-to-two in the morning, after a night of fun, Robin was dropped off at her car, which she had left in the parking lot of the Pier 1 Imports store where she was a part-time employee. Robin waved and bid her friends ‘good night’ and hopped on the Hollywood Freeway for her drive home.

Robin’s car only made it a little over a mile on Route 101 when it conked out. In the days before cellphones, Robin found her way to a California Highway Patrol roadside call box. She told the police dispatcher that she had run out of gas. A CHP officer on patrol saw Robin standing alone by her car. When the officer circled back, a late 1950s model Corvette was parked on the shoulder behind Robin’s car and she was speaking with the driver – a white man in his 20s with dark hair. The officer assumed Robin knew him and he continued southbound in his cruiser.

When Mr. and Mrs. Graham arrived at their Echo Park home around 2:30 am, Robin’s younger sister relayed the phone message from the CHP emergency operator. They hurried out to the location on the Freeway and found Robin’s locked car parked on the shoulder, but Robin was gone.

And she was never seen again.

In 1987, a small, mysterious ad appeared in the classified section of the Los Angeles Times.  It read:

DEAREST ROBIN You ran out of gas on the Hollywood Frwy. A man in a Corvette pulled over to help. You’ve not been seen of since. It’s been 17 years, but it’s always just yesterday. Still looking for you. THE ECHO PARK DUCKS.

The ad caught the attention of police who discovered, after a brief investigation, that it was placed by a neighborhood friend who just didn’t want Robin to be forgotten.

The case remains unsolved.

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IF: tall

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This week’s Illustration Friday word is “tall”.
chalk on the sidewalk
Daniel Boone was a man,
Yes, a big man!
With an eye like an eagle
And as tall as a mountain was he!

Of course, the portrayal of Daniel Boone on the NBC television show that ran from 1964 until 1970 was very inaccurate. It was just actor Fess Parker reprising his popular role as Davy Crockett from the 1950s Walt Disney mini-series. Despite the theme song proclaiming Daniel Boone to be a “big man” in a “coonskin cap”, and the “rippin’est, roarin’est, fightin’est man the frontier ever knew!”, it didn’t really describe the real Daniel Boone well at all.

But it was a great show.

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IF: teacher

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Teacher, I need you/Like a little child/You got something in you/To drive a schoolboy wild

I entered George Washington High School in the Fall of 1975, just a short summer vacation after my older brother, Max, took his diploma and his reputation and headed off to college (as a commuter, but college just the same). Max was smart, athletic, good looking, a very good student and quite popular. I was… um…. an awkward former eighth-grader. It was not unlike the time Tommie Aaron replaced his power-hitting older brother, Hammerin’ Hank, for a brief period in the 1962 Milwaukee Braves lineup.  I’m not saying that my brother’s departure and my arrival had the same significant impact as that baseball  scenario, but there was a vague comparison that could be made. But, I digress.

My first day as a high school freshman was very hectic and a little overwhelming. I had to become accustomed to a huge, confusing maze of hallways and staircases. I needed to familiarize myself with the location of my classrooms, as determined by the computer-printed cardboard roster I was issued while half-asleep in my homeroom. After lunch in a lunchroom that was triple the size of any school cafeteria I’d ever seen, I navigated my way to the last scheduled class of my day — English.

I found an empty desk in the second row and sat down among a roomful of unfamiliar students my own age. As the clock ticked past the appointed class start time, there was still no teacher to lead the assemblage. Suddenly, the classroom door swung open and what appeared to be another student crossed the threshold. However, she approached the large desk at the front of the room and deposited the unruly stack of papers and folders she cradled in her arms on its surface. She was an up-to-date reflection of the “Charlie’s Angels -pre-disco” fashion of the time, wearing a tight-fitting jumpsuit with the full-front zipper undone well below an appropriate level. She had long, dark, feathered hair that fell down her back, cascaded around her shoulders and framed her face – a face that boasted a thousand-megawatt, pearly-white smile. She introduced herself to the class as “Mrs. Shacker” and Mrs. Shacker was pretty fucking hot.

Mrs. Shacker shuffled through the papers on her desk and produced a class attendance sheet from the pile. She took a seat on the edge of the desk, seductively swinging her leg while she took roll. She announced each name in a sensuously low, throaty timbre. Upon declaration of “here”  or “present” or the Philadelphia-centric “yo!”  from the student in question, she made a quick check-mark of confirmation in the proper column on the attendance form. She wended her way to the end of the alphabetical list and when she called out “Pincus”, she stopped — and her previously wide smile widened even more. Her dark eyes scanned the room until she spotted me in the second row, my hand timidly raised in hesitant acknowledgement.

“Are you Pincus?,” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “Josh Pincus.”

She eased her derriere off the desk and sauntered towards me in languid, deliberate strides. I gulped.

“Are you Max’s brother?,” she cooed, emphasizing my sibling’s name and bringing her face closer to mine.

“Yes.,” I gulped again.

A dreamy look captured the gaze in her heavy-lidded eyes and she sighed, “Tell him I asked for him.” She turned and started back towards her desk, her hips swaying as though adrift on an ocean. She finished roll call and began the first lesson of the school year. The first English lesson, that is.

At quarter-to-two in the afternoon, classes were dismissed and I headed home. Once through the front door of my house, my mom assailed me with a barrage of “how-was-your-first-day-of-school” questions. I described the vastness of the building, my varied classes and the population of unfamiliar students. I also told her, in the most homogenized, detail-free way possible, about Mrs. Shacker and her message to my brother. Max was in the next room, home for several hours and enjoying the far more leisurely schedule of college. He overheard our discussion and, upon the mention of his name, entered the room to join us.

“Shacker?  That name doesn’t sound famil…” My brother stopped in mid-sentence as a new thought popped into his head. “Oh!,” he remembered. His face lit up and he snapped his fingers, “Blum! She was ‘Blum.’ She got married over the summer.”

My mother rolled her eyes as a memory surfaced. When Max was in his freshman year he was having a bit of difficulty in his high school English class. The problem seemed to be a lack of focus and this was very unusual for my otherwise academically-proficient brother. My mom arranged for a meeting with his teacher, the mono-syllabic “Blum” — as he dismissively referred to her — pronouncing her surname like the sound of a boulder dropping to the ground. One afternoon, long after student dismissal time, my mom entered Blum’s classroom. It was 1972 and Miss Maxine Blum (the future Mrs. Shacker) was dressed in a flowery, nearly see-through blouse, a micro-mini skirt and leather go-go boots and she was four years younger and four years hotter than she was now. “Well,” my mom thought to herself as she gave this pitseleh the once-over, “no wonder a 15-year-old boy can’t pay attention in this class.”

Sometime during my next week of ninth grade, Mrs. Shacker was discussing syllables, a typical subject for a freshman English class. She talked about how some words, even names, pair up nicely — even poetically — based on the same number of syllables in each.

“As an example,”  she began, “If my husband had a single syllable name, people would use my nickname to introduce us. Say my husband’s name was Max,” — and she looked right at me when she said “Max” — “we’d be introduced as ‘Max and Max’ … y’know short for ‘Maxine’.”  Mrs. Shacker slowly strolled among the students seated in the room while giving her lesson. As she finished her sentence, she lightly brushed my shoulder with her hand on her way past my desk.

Several weeks later, just before the long Thanksgiving weekend, Mrs. Shacker announced to the class that she had a visitor earlier in the day. She explained that a famous wrestler stopped by to say “Hello.” Again, she looked right at me as she informed the class that one Max Pincus, a member of Temple University’s wrestling team, had paid a visit. The class expressed their disappointment, hoping that a rousing tale of an encounter with Andre the Giant would follow. But, Mrs. Shacker wasn’t really interested in the class’s reaction. She just winked at me and flashed a smile.

The story of Max’s relationship with Mrs. Shacker continued to unfold through further investigation. After extensive questioning and maybe a little bribery, a few of my brother’s friends seemed to remember an incident at a school dance (perhaps a prom) where Mrs. Shacker (then Miss Blum) cornered Max and planted a pre-graduation kiss square on his lips. A claim of the inclusion of tongue is unsubstantiated and, to this day, still fervently debated.

Mrs. Shacker didn’t make it to my senior year. As a matter of fact, she didn’t return after I advanced to sophomore. She may have transferred to another school, moved to another locale or perhaps, even more likely, she left to give private instruction to a young Mary Kay Letourneau.

*****

The story you have read is true; the names have been changed to protect myself from broken bones. 

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from my sketchbook: i love television

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Turn on the TV/Let it drip right down in your eyes
I love television. But, my relationship with television has changed over the years. My formative years with television were the late 60s and early 70s. In the pre-cable days of television, I watched weekly series with diligent regularity – both comedies and dramas. On local UHF* stations, I revisited some of the classic shows from my youth. Once networks like TV Land and Nick at Nite began, I barely got any sleep because I couldn’’t tear myself away from that glowing cathode ray tube time machine. Now,  I rarely watch any regular programming on the “Big Three” networks. Instead, I have discovered Antenna TV and MeTV and my television-watching has come full circle. I have a difficult time leaving the house while I weigh the benefits of going to work versus watching forty-year-old reruns of Family Affair.

So today, on my 51st birthday, my TV habit was further indulged when I attended the final day of the Mid-Atlantic Nostalgia Convention.  At 10 a.m., Mrs. Pincus and I set out for the drive to Cockeysville, Maryland (that’s right – Cockeysville) for this annual gathering of people who haven’t quite accepted the fact that television broadcasts are now in color.

As mentioned previously, I collect celebrity autographed photos and I have been frequenting these shows for over twenty years to add to my collection. Mrs, P, on the other hand, loves buying memorabilia and haggling with the dealers who display their wares in the marketplace areas alongside the featured stars.** (With very few exceptions, my spouse steers clear of the celebrity autograph area, or as she refers to it, “the human zoo.” )

We arrived at the suburban hotel that hosted the festivities. Once we strapped on our all-access wristbands, we strolled the first-floor level of dealer-lined hallways of the convention center. There were vintage theatrical posters, publicity stills of long-forgotten matinee idols and DVDs of obscure B-grade movies – all for sale with mostly over-inflated price tags.  The downstairs housed a huge ball room outfitted with more vendors. The centerpiece of the room was a squared blockade of long banquet tables, stocked with glossy photos and manned by celebrities eager to sign them. I was anxious to get to the lower level to see the ‘special guests” and happily pay them for their signatures. (That sounds tacky when phrased so bluntly. It makes me sound like a “trick” and them sound like “Sharpie pen whores.”)

We descended the escalator and headed to the main room. While my wife examined a display of antique Lone Ranger publicity shots, I spotted Shirley Jones. I excused myself, explaining to Mrs. P, “I’m going to talk to Mrs. Partridge over there.” The white-haired, yet still-striking, Miss Jones was seated behind an array of items chronicling her long and illustrious career, from her motion picture debut in 1955’s Oklahoma  through her Oscar-winning turn in Elmer Gantry  to The Music Man  to, of course, The Partridge Family.  Meeting Shirley Jones was surreal, to say the least. My wife joined me and we sang her praises and gushed as we mentioned our favorites of her roles. She seemed a tad distant, but politely and graciously accepted our compliments. I selected a photo (a reproduction of the Oklahoma  lobby card) and presented it to Shirley for a twenty dollar inscription. With her pen poised in anticipation, she asked, “Would you like a name on it?” “Yes,”I replied, “preferably yours.” Shirley chuckled and I added, “Look at me! I’m smart-assing Shirley Jones!” She laughed again. We offered our collective thanks and expressed our pleasure to have met her. Before making our way to the next table, I asked Shirley, “Where’s your Oscar?” She mockingly raised a half-empty water bottle and waved it high over head, an ersatz solemn expression on her face.

Seated alongside Shirley Jones was the one and only Geri Reischl, whose claim to fame consisted of nine episodes of the infamous Brady Bunch Hour, a 1977 variety show deemed by TV Guide  as one the 50 worst television series in American history. When the original The Brady Bunch  was canceled in 1974, producers Sid and Marty Krofft assembled the original cast for a series featuring singing, dancing, and hokey comedy skits (even hokier than the sit-com). Actress Eve Plumb, the original “Jan,” wanted no parts of this potential fiasco and perky Geri Reischl was recruited to replace the troubled middle sister. Miss Reischl has playfully acknowledged the casting mis-step and has embraced the negativity associated with being “Fake Jan.” Geri, whose attractively zaftig figure was poured into a black mini dress, was a pure delight to talk to. She was cute and animated and exhibited an audacious sense of humor. (During our conversation, I smart-assed her,  as well.) She took an instant shine to my wife (who could blame her?!)  and happily posed for a photo with my wife’s little pal.

Next, we approached a strapping older man – six-foot-four with fire-white hair contrasting his glowing bronzed complexion. I extended my hand in greeting and it was immediately swallowed up in his massive grasp. He flashed a mouthful of pearly-white teeth and announced, “I’m Ron.” He was Ron Ely, one of a long line of Hollywood Tarzans. Ron starred as the wily jungle dweller for two seasons on the 1966 weekly NBC series. At 74, Mr. Ely still possesses the rugged good looks that made him a heartthrob in the eyes of young girls who preferred loin cloths over mop tops. My wife, moon-eyed and swooning, lavished praise on Ron as I debated over which nearly-naked photo I’’d have him autograph. Having already introduced myself, Ron asked if I’d like a name on the photo. Slyly, I used the same line that worked so well on Shirley Jones – the “preferably yours” line. Ron wrote “To Josh,” and handed the picture to me without his signature. Ron Ely had just smart-assed me. It was awesome. (He laughed and eventually signed it with his name.)

Our final celebrity encounter was one I looked forward to, yet turned out to be most unusual. I recently began watching Dennis the Menace,  the late 1950s series based on Hank Ketcham’s syndicated comic strip. I disliked the show as a kid, but I have gained a new respect for it as an adult. Dennis only wanted to help. Mr. Wilson was an irascible jerk and Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell were blithely oblivious. Chockfull of one-dimensional supporting characters, it was TV sitcom at its naïve best. The show’s star, Jay North, was announced early as the convention’s special guest and soon after, Jeannie Russell, who starred as his nemesis Margaret, was added to the roster. I couldn’’t have been happier.

Prior to leaving for the show, I printed out three illustrations from my blog featuring characters from Dennis the Menace. (This one, this one and this one.) Jay was sitting alone when I approached his table. He was turned in his folding chair, bored and lost in thought, staring off at nothing in particular. I broke up his daydream with a hearty ““Hi Jay!”” He looked up. Although gray-haired and a bit stocky, that mischievous twinkle was still present in his eye and the cocky grin of a six-year-old curled across his lips. I slid my drawings out of a manila envelope and presented them to Mr. North, explaining that I have a blog and these had been featured on several posts over the years. His smile widened. “Wow!,” he began, as he examined my artwork, “You got Herb and Billy and Joe. These are great!” I was very pleased. Jay liked my work! From his inventory, I selected a promo shot of Dennis and Margaret for personalizing. Jay took the photo and said to me, “I think we can make an even trade.,” implying that he was accepting my drawings  in exchange for a signed pic. While that certainly was not my intention, I wasn’’t going to argue. I asked if I could get Jeannie Russell to autograph it as well. Jay said “Sure” and called over to Miss Russell, who had wandered off to talk to a show staffer. Jeannie returned to the table and smiled at me as she scribbled her sentiment across the photographic Margaret’s legs. She handed the photo back to me and said, “That’s twenty dollars.” Jay jumped in, extended an arm around her and said, “I’ve comped  this one, Jean. Look at these drawings he did.” Jeannie Russell was less than impressed – by neither my artwork nor the situation at hand. “Comped?,” she questioned. “Yeah,” Jay replied.Jeannie was not happy. Not happy at all and Jay could sense this. I interjected, “Are we cool?” Jay smiled and waved me off. “Yeah, I got it.,” he said as he turned his attention back to Jeannie Russell and actually reached for his wallet. “I’ll  give you the twenty bucks,” he said, as he fished through his paper money for the appropriate currency. I would have gladly paid for the photo, but seeing a pissed-off, grown-up Margaret was worth the price of admission. (Jeannie Russell, I might add, is a very successful chiropractor to the stars in Hollywood. Very successful.)

We circled the perimeter of the room, taking in the various offerings from the collectibles vendors. My wife purchased this giant inflatable jar of mayonnaise and we left.

We stopped for gas just off of I-95 North. Across the street from the gas station was this restaurant.

How fitting. I hope Uncle Charley was out in the kitchen.

(Here is an account of last year’s Mid-Atlantic Nostalgia Convention.) 

– – –

* you have the internet – look it up.

** I use the word “stars” in the loosest of contexts

(photo of Jay North and Jeannie Russell by Mid-Atlantic Nostalgia Convention.)

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from my sketchbook: maggie mcnamara

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Capital punishment, she's last year's model
While she attended Textile High School in New York, Maggie McNamara worked as a teen model, becoming one of the most successful models at the John Robert Powers’ modeling agency.

At 23, she made her acting debut, replacing Barbara Bel Geddes in a stage production of The Moon is Blue.  Later the same year, she debuted on Broadway in The King of Friday’s Men,  a comedy that lasted a mere four performances. In 1953, respected director Otto Preminger recruited Maggie to reprise her role in the film version of The Moon is Blue.  Her critically acclaimed performance earned her an Oscar nomination for Best Actress. She followed that role with the romantic comedy Three Coins in the Fountain  alongside Louis Jourdan, Clifton Webb and Dorothy McGuire. Maggie appeared once more on Broadway, in the play Step on a Crack,  which closed after one performance.

After two more films, Maggie concentrated on the growing medium of television, with appearances in the anthology series Twilight Zone, The Alfred Hitchcock Hour  and The Great Adventure.  She also was cast in an episode of the popular medical drama Ben Casey  and the not-so-popular circus program The Greatest Show on Earth,  a Desilu production with Jack Palance that lasted one season. Maggie briefly married director/screenwriter David Swift, a Disney Studios protégé, who was the creative force behind films like Pollyanna  and The Parent Trap,  in addition to non-Disney offerings like How To Succeed in Business (Without Really Trying)  and the TV shows Camp Runamuck  and Mr. Peepers.

Mysteriously, the 1964 installment of Alfred Hitchcock  was her last screen appearance. She dropped out of public view and took a job as a typist in New York City. In 1978, after bouts with depression and a history of mental illness, Maggie was found dead in her apartment from an overdose of prescription sleeping pills. There was a suicide note by her side. She was just a few months shy of her 50th birthday.

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IF: lonely

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This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “lonely”.
Hey there lonely girl, lonely girl/Let me make your broken heart like new/Oh, my lonely girl, lonely girl/Don't you know this lonely boy loves you

In 1939, Judy Garland won a Juvenile Academy Award (the category no longer exists). She went on to receive two Academy Award nominations. She is a two-time Grammy Award winner and Grammy Hall of Fame inductee. She had a 40-year career in movies and television. The American Film Institute placed her among the ten greatest female stars in the history of American cinema. Fred Astaire called her “the greatest entertainer who ever lived.”

Judy said of herself: “If I am a legend, then why am I so lonely?”

She died at age 47 of an accidental overdose of barbiturates.

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