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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IF: carry

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This week’s Illustration Friday‘s challenge word is “carry”.

Hawkeye Pierce, Chief of Surgery at the 4077 M*A*S*H, offers his view on gun control.
There'll be peace when you are done
“I’ll carry your books, I’ll carry a torch, I’ll carry a tune, I’ll carry on, carry over, carry forward, Cary Grant, cash and carry, carry me back to Old Virginia, I’ll even hari-kari if you show me how, but I will not carry a gun!”

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from my sketchbook: betty blythe

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here she comes a-struttin'/In her birthday clothes

After her five-year contract expired, silent film sex symbol Theda Bara retired from the silver screen. Fox Studios scrambled for a suitable replacement. Stage actress Betty Blythe fit the bill. Betty was recruited to appear in a series of costume productions originally tagged for Bara, including the famously risqué The Queen of Sheba  in 1921. Betty was one of the first actresses to appear nude in a mainstream Hollywood film. She described her Queen of Sheba  wardrobe by noting “I had 28 costumes in that picture, and if I’d worn them all at once I couldn’t have kept warm”.

Betty was a major star in Hollywood in her time, starring in roles opposite top box-office draws like Lon Chaney. As silent movies gave way to talkies, she continued her career for the next four decades taking one uncredited character role after another.

Betty’s last film appearance was in a crowd scene in 1964’s My Fair Lady.  Her ground-breaking impact on movie history long forgotten, Betty succumbed to a heart attack and died in near obscurity in 1972. She was 78.

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IF: lost

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This week’s Illustration Friday word is “lost.”
I once was lost but now am found

Let me tell you about Pudge.

In the summer of 1982, just after Mrs. Pincus and I met, we went on a day trip to Hershey Park. Just barely into our 20s, the appeal of an amusement park still held excitement for us. In between turns on the roller coasters, bumper cars and Mrs. P’s personal favorite, the Tilt-O-Whirl, we wandered into a few souvenir shops that dotted the park’s layout. Among the Hershey-emblazoned t-shirts, snow globes, mugs and giant pencils was a shelf displaying an array of plush animal characters. On the second shelf below eye-level sat a slightly over-stuffed brown bear looking very dapper in a blue and red striped shirt. That bear was Pudge. The expression on Pudge’s face made him look a bit forlorn and Mrs. Pincus was instantly smitten. I convinced Mrs. P that the last thing she needed was another stuffed animal. (At the time, I did not realize the gravity of the mistake I was in the process of making.) Pudge was placed back on the shelf and we left the store. The one-sided conversation on our ride home was me being berated for not allowing the purchase of Pudge. The next several months saw my beloved bride scouring every conceivable outlet within a fifty-mile radius that would have the remotest of possibilities of stocking the elusive Pudge. (This was in a time before a simple Google search would yield any number of global retail establishments and purchases could be made without putting on shoes, getting dressed, burning gasoline or contact with another human being.) Finally, after what seemed like an eternal exercise in futility, Pudge was tracked down and located at a mall a little under sixteen miles from our home. Mrs. Pincus purchased that little brown fellow, brought him home and soon his adventures began.

Pudge has accompanied my family on many trips to many places. From short jaunts around the corner to my in-law’s house to exciting, multi-day automobile treks down the eastern seaboard to elaborate, cross-country flights to the Pacific coast, Pudge has been there and he has the pictures to prove it.

I've been everywhere, man, I've been everywhere.
L to R (top row): At the Statue of Liberty; On the Kiss production line at Hershey, PA; With the Monster.com mascot at eBay Live in Boston; Pudge receives the Emmy; In Graceland’s visitor parking lot; At the Haunted Mansion in Disneyland; With the 2008 World Series trophy.
L to R (bottom row): At the famous Randy’s Donuts in Inglewood, CA; On the front steps of Gianni Versace’s house in Miami; On Winnie the Pooh’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame; Waiting for the Strasburg Rail Road; Having fun on a Carnival cruise; Riding a Nittany Lion at State College, PA; Riding the bus with Rosa Parks at the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis.

Pudge has seen the roaring waters of Niagara Falls and the stirring majesty of The Statue of Liberty. He has paid his respects to the late King of Rock and Roll at Graceland and viewed memorabilia of Elvis’ contemporaries at The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. Pudge has witnessed tributes to legendary ballplayers at the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown and the star-studded Walk of Fame in Hollywood. One trip, however, is the topic of limited discussion — the details of which are related in hushed tones and then quickly the subject is changed before emotions bubble over. Over twenty-five years after Pudge joined our family, he was nearly lost forever. (Sure, one time my wife absent-mindedly stuck Pudge in a drawer at her parent’s seashore apartment in Ventnor, New Jersey. But, once we retraced our moves, Mrs. P was again united with Pudge in a tearful reunion.)

As spring became summer in 2008, the planning stages began for a complicated, multi-legged, two-week drive to Florida — involving my in-laws, my brother-in-law and his family and other assorted and uncategorized extended family members — with a lengthy stop in Orlando before proceeding to the ultimate destination of Miami Beach to visit yet more relatives. My wife would be accompanying her parents alone, serving as travelling companion, as well as navigator and chauffeur of their vehicle for the lion’s share of the journey. I would not be joining them, as securing two consecutive weeks off from my full-time job would be difficult, plus, it was implied that my son and I were not invited on this trip. (I surmised this when my wife’s brother informed her rather bluntly, “Your miserable husband and your miserable son are not invited.” I was quite proud of my brilliant deduction skills.) My wife carefully packed all the necessities she would require for a fortnight in the Sunshine State including a travelling companion of her own — Pudge. Snug within the confines of her backpack, Pudge stayed secure between Mrs. P’s make-up bag and her wallet, occasionally popping out for a seat on the dashboard, providing company when Mrs. P’s Mom and Dad dozed off in their seats.

I kept in regular phone contact with my wife during her trip. She’d call to document the day’s activities, the sights they saw, the pictures Pudge posed for. I’d tell her about the concerts my son and I attended in her absence and reassured her that we were eating well and taking care of each other. As she began her week in Orlando, the phone conversations evolved into reports of the petty arguments and unusual behavior she witnessed among her family as an unattached observer. Mrs. Pincus was the first one up each morning and, subsequently, the first one out the door as my sister-in-law’s sister staggered about in a hangover-induced stupor and my two nieces bickered over which pair of Crocs they would wear and who picked all the green clovers out of the box of Lucky Charms. With a smile on her lips and Pudge in her backpack, Mrs. Pincus exited the mayhem in the claustrophobic time-share and drove her own rental car off to enjoy a Disney theme park. She’d spend several days experiencing all that Disney offered in EPCOT, the Disney Studios and, of course, The Magic Kingdom. (She skipped the Animal Kingdom because, no matter how persuasive Disney tries to be with the idea that it’s “Natazu” … it’s a zoo.) Her solo adventures were interrupted infrequently by the briefest interaction with her parents (based on their limited capacity of mobility) or her brother’s family (based on their limited capacity of getting their shit together). So, for the most part she was alone — except for Pudge.

On the final day before departure to their more southerly course, Mrs. Pincus wished to spend her remaining hours at the Magic Kingdom, her favorite of the Disney parks. Before she set out that morning, Mrs. P’s sister-in-law presented her with a heaping stack of special “line jumper” passes — allowing immediate access to the ride-boarding area — that they had received from a Disney “castmember” (The Walt Disney Company’s universal word for “employee”) in order to pacify a (possibly-imagined and most-likely exaggerated) “horrible situation.” It was explained that they couldn’t conceivably use all of the passes they were awarded in their allotted time, so Mrs. P took them with the instruction: “use as many as you can.” With the majority of her group awkwardly traipsing their way across EPCOT, Mrs. P languidly strolled down Main Street, meandered through the faux-exoticism of Adventureland, leisurely moseyed along the wooden-planked walkways of Frontierland and lazily sauntered the winding paths of Fantasyland. As dusk approached and the ambient lights came on, the once sun-brightened surroundings now sported an otherworldly glow and Mrs. P found herself in Tomorrowland. Choosing a ride on the fearsome Space Mountain as the capper to her visit, she entered the queue line and distributed fistfuls of the special passes to delighted strangers who happened to be in the right place at the right time.  At the ride’s conclusion, she was breathless and parched. She reached into her backpack for a bottle of water. With her thirst sufficiently quenched, she headed towards the still-open shops on Main Street when her cellphone rang. It was her brother.

“Are you still at the Magic Kingdom?,” he inquired.

“Yes. Why?,” replied Mrs. Pincus.

“I forgot to get Mouse Ears for the girls. Can you get them?” he asked, hopefully. It was nearing closing time on the last day of a six-day vacation and it had just occurred to my brother-in-law that the single most popular Disney souvenir had not been purchased for his children.

“I’d be glad to.,” my wife answered cheerfully. She truly is the nicest person on this otherwise God-forsaken planet. She memorized the details of her brother’s request, dutifully noting the style of head wear and the desired inscriptions, and made a beeline towards the Main Street hat shop. Engulfed by the throng of exiting guests, she came upon a cheerful group of castmembers wearing Mickey Mouse-style gloves and waving “Good Night” to the tired and contented patrons. Mrs. P thought this would make for a great photo of Pudge. She opened her backpack to retrieve her camera and, to her horror, Pudge was gone. A cold sweat burst upon her forehead, her throat tightened and her heart thumped uncontrollably in her chest. She tossed the contents of her backpack from side to side. Pudge was indeed gone. Tears began to well in her eyes as she frantically scanned the ground in her immediate area. Panicked, she retraced her steps for several yards and replayed her recent activity in her mind. Space Mountain, water, phone call, castmembers. It all swelled into a big confusing blur. Suddenly, a lucid thought was triggered and she beat a determined path to the renowned Lost & Found at Main Street’s City Hall.

Taking her place at the end of a line populated by the optimistic owners of lost sunglasses and misplaced flip-flops, a tearful Mrs. P fidgeted until the woman in front of her said, “You look like you lost something very  important. Please. Go ahead of me”. My wife thanked her and approached the castmember behind the desk. With tears streaming down her cheeks, my wife’s voice cracked as she spoke.

“I lost a small brown plush bear. He has a red and blue striped shirt and I am not leaving this place without him.”

The young lady behind the desk smiled reassuringly and said, “Just a minute. I’ll look.”

A few excruciatingly-long moments later, the young lady emerged from a hidden cache somewhere behind the reception area. Resting in the cupped hands of her outstretched arms was Pudge.

“Is this him?,” she asked. Before she had reached the word “him”, Mrs. Pincus had nearly leaped over the desk and snatched Pudge out of her hands. She hugged the little bear to her face, wetting his matted, plush fur with her tears. She thanked the City Hall staff profusely, still crying. Somewhere between Space Mountain and the end of Main Street, Pudge must have tumbled out of the backpack. Then, a thoughtful, concerned and compassionate guest picked him up and brought him to the Lost & Found, figuring that someone might be looking for this little, and obviously, well-loved bear.

And Mrs. Pincus still managed to get the Mouse Ears for her nieces.

 * * * * * * *

Footnote: Pudge still travels with us, only now he uses this helpful accessory.
clupped

Follow Pudge on Twitter HERE. 

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