from my sketchbook: joe flynn

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What is it McHale, what do you want what, what, what?
Joe Flynn almost made his motion picture debut in Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window, however his scene was left on the cutting room floor. But after a run of bit parts in movies and TV through the 1950s and early 1960s, Joe’s career took off. He enjoyed major success as Captain Binghamton, the spoiler to Ernest Borgnine‘s schemes in McHale’s Navy, including two theatrical spin-offs. He was also featured in a number of Disney live-action comedies, including three in which he played perpetually agitated Dean Higgins of Medfield College. Joe’s comedic talents were in high demand for sitcoms, films and commercials through the 60s and early 70s. In the early 1970s, Flynn was one of the leaders of a Screen Actors Guild group that sought a more equitable distribution of TV residual payments.

In the early summer of 1974, Joe had broken his leg just after completing his voice-over work on the Disney animated movie The Rescuers. Alone one afternoon, he waded into his backyard swimming pool. Joe suffered a heart attack. Hours later, his family found his lifeless body at the bottom of the pool, held down by the weight of his wet and waterlogged leg cast. He was 49 years old.

How prophetic was McHale’s nickname for Captain Binghamton — “Old Leadbottom”.

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IF: pretend

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I got no tears on my ice cream but you know me/I love pretending
In the summer of 1980, I took my first real vacation without my parents. It was just before my nineteenth birthday. My two best friends, Alan Salkowitz and Scott Sadel, and I decided that another summer with a three-day trip to Betty’s Rooms in Atlantic City was more than we could stand. We thought a trip to the magical land of Florida was what we wanted. Wanted? No, deserved!  We discussed our Sunshine State destinations — Miami? Fort Lauderdale? Daytona Beach? Someone (possibly Alan) suggested Orlando. “Orlando? What’s there to do in Orlando?,” I asked. The answer was “Disney World.” “An amusement park?,” I countered, “You’ve GOT  to be kidding!” We went back and forth for a while and, under protest (I voted for Fort Lauderdale), it was decided for me. I was going to Orlando.

We made an appointment with a travel agent (remember those? ). After a lesson in “vacation without parents” (read: no one to pay for stuff except you), we found we would need a fourth person to cut expenses. Alan suggested Wayne Cohen, a high-school classmate we all knew casually. It was agreed that Wayne would be monetary equalizer.

I scraped together and borrowed the money for airfare, hotel, meals, souvenirs and two-day admission to Walt Disney World’s Magic Kingdom. Soon enough, Alan, Scott, Wayne and I took off from Philadelphia International Airport on our “big-boy” vacation.

During our flight, Scott go up to use the bathroom, which was about ten rows in front of where we were seated. He emerged from the lavatory with a paper seat protector around his neck and he tossed a tampon over the heads of several passengers to me. This set the tone for the next six days.

We landed in Orlando. A set of rolling stairs was wheeled up to our plane and we exited. We walked across the tarmac toward the tiny Orlando terminal to retrieve our luggage and begin our week of planned debauchery. We picked up our pre-arranged rental car — a Chrysler Cordoba, minus the rich Corinthian leather (an additional ten bucks a day we couldn’t afford). Our next stop was The International Inn on International Drive, a mere fifteen minutes from Walt Disney’s tourist mecca. Spotting our hotel and measuring its proximity to the nearest liquor store, we ranked our priorities and hung a quick left in order to acquire beer. And a lot of it.

It was early on the day we landed and we were anxious to get our vacation started. After downing a few canned malt and barley cocktails, we headed out to Mystery Fun House. It was one of many hokey fringe attractions that were erected to cash in on Disney’s overflow. (Yes. We drove. In our car. After drinking alcohol. I do not condone this activity, but it was 1980 and we were dumb teenagers. Plus, it gives great support to the raising of the legal age of alcohol consumption to 21.)

We spent to next two days at Walt Disney’s Magic Kingdom. We gleefully enjoyed rides that were meant for six-year olds. We bought useless souvenirs emblazoned with Mickey Mouse. We drank sodas that, even by 1980’s standards, were overpriced. And we loved it. We were intrigued by countless advertisements for a Disney project called EPCOT Center that would be constructed on an adjacent tract of property ten times the size of the Magic Kingdom.

On the days that we didn’t spend at Walt’s place, we ate our meals at Davis Brothers endless buffet. Here, these four sheltered Jewish kids from northeast Philadelphia experienced the Southern delicacy known as “grits”. And we drank. And drank. And drank.

One evening, we made reservations for Disney’s Wild West dinner show, The Hoop-Dee-Doo Revue. In addition to the stage show, the evening included all-you-can-eat barbecued ribs, chicken, beans, corn-on-the-cob. It also included giant pitchers of all-you-can-drink sangria, of which we took full advantage. By the end of our week, three of us had the greatest time and we were keeping ourselves from killing Wayne. We were tempted to make a break for it when he set off the metal detector at the Orlando airport.

Our entire trip was supplemented with a musical soundtrack provided by WBJW — BJ 105 — Orlando’s top 40 radio station. We sang along to every song that blasted from that Cordoba’s dashboard console. One song played constantly. One song was in BJ 105’s heaviest of rotations. “Brass in Pocket” by The Pretenders. We had never heard anything like this song. Between the plodding rock beat of “Another Brick in The Wall” and the throbbing disco beat of “Funkytown,” Chrissie Hynde’s sultry and unintelligible lyrics shone like a punk bonfire.

Upon our return to Philadelphia, I purchased the 45-rpm single (that pre-dates CDs, kids) of “Brass in Pocket” at Peaches Records. Unprompted, the cashier gave me her phone number on the back of my receipt. (We dated once, but I ended it when she informed me that she was bisexual. Oh, shut up, I was nineteen, for chrissakes!)

Time changes things….
Orlando’s airport is a sprawling transportation center with a monorail that takes passengers to luggage pickup. Walt Disney World is home to four theme parks, two water parks and twenty-three themed hotels. I haven’t spoken to Alan or Scott in years and (ironically) I believe Wayne is dead. I love eating grits, however I am a vegetarian so the ribs and chicken are out. I don’t drink alcohol anymore. I read about the bisexual cashier’s engagement in the Jewish Exponent several years ago. Two years after this vacation, I met my wife. Next year we celebrate our twenty-fifth anniversary.

In 1982, Pretenders’ guitarist James Honeyman-Scott died of a cocaine overdose. In 1983, bassist Pete Farndon overdosed on heroin. The Pretenders essentially became “The Chrissie Hynde Show” and have been releasing albums that (arguably) never equalled the power or consistency of their first.

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IF: wise

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The challenge word this week on illustrationfriday.com is “wise”.
it was safe as could be/it was right down the middle
Book of Kings (chapter 3 verses 16-28)
16 Now two prostitutes came to King Solomon and stood before him.
17 One of them said, “My lord, this woman and I live in the same house. I had a baby while she was there with me.
18 The third day after my child was born, this woman also had a baby. We were alone; there was no one in the house but the two of us.
19 “During the night this woman’s son died because she lay on him.
20 So she got up in the middle of the night and took my son from my side while I your servant was asleep. She put him by her breast and put her dead son by my breast.
21 The next morning, I got up to nurse my son—and he was dead! But when I looked at him closely in the morning light, I saw that it wasn’t the son I had borne.”
22 The other woman said, “No! The living one is my son; the dead one is yours.”
  But the first one insisted, “No! The dead one is yours; the living one is mine.” And so they argued before King Solomon.
23 King Solomon said, “This one says, ‘My son is alive and your son is dead,’ while that one says, ‘No! Your son is dead and mine is alive.’ ”
24 Then King Solomon said, “Bring me a sword.” So they brought a sword for the king.
25 He then gave an order: “Cut the living child in two and give half to one and half to the other.”
26 The woman whose son was alive was filled with compassion for her son and said to King Solomon, “Please, my lord, give her the living baby! Don’t kill him!” But the other said, “Neither I nor you shall have him. Cut him in two!”
27 Then the king gave his ruling: “King Solomon gets to cut…”
28 “But, Cody gets to choose.”

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Monday Artday: speed

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The Monday Artday challenge word this week is “speed”.
If it's something I want then it's something I need/I wasn't built for comfort
Neil Simon’s 1965 play (and subsequent 1968 film) “The Odd Couple” told the story of Oscar Madison and Felix Unger. Oscar is a New York City sports writer and a horrible slob. His recently-divorced friend, Felix, has been kicked out of his home. Oscar invites Felix to move into his Upper West Side apartment. Felix is an obsessively neat hypochondriac and drives Oscar nuts within a week.
Oscar has a weekly poker game at his apartment. The game includes Oscar’s accountant Roy, Murray the cop, timid and hen-pecked Vinnie and gruff, sarcastic Speed. Since Felix moved in, he has provided a varied menu specifically accommodating each participant. Prior to Felix’s arrival, the poker game fare consisted of whatever Oscar had rotting in his broken refrigerator… which led to this exchange between Oscar and Speed:
Oscar : I’m through being the nice guy, you owe me six dollars each for the buffet!
Speed: What buffet? Hot beer and two sandwiches left over from when you went to high school.

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from my sketchbook: hope?

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If she gives me a sign that she wants to make time, (Stop.) I can't stop. (Stop.) I can't stop myself.
Everyone on this earth has felt some kind of unsubstantiated prejudice. At some point in their lives, everyone — the cashier at Target, Michael Douglas, the woman who takes your picture for your new driver’s license, The Pope — dislikes someone for a stupid reason. If you say “Oh no. Not me.”, then you’re prejudice and a liar.

In the weeks leading up to the recent presidential election, I have witnessed plenty of prejudice. Most people believe that everyone thinks like they do. It’s amazing the things that total strangers will say to you just because you “look like they do.” People loudly make the most racist comments and think nothing of it. While my wife was getting a manicure, a woman publicly expressed her concern about having a black president. Even Republican vice-presidential candidate Sarah Palin hinted at it.

That fact never concerned me at all. I had another concern.

Barack Obama is 47 years old — one week older than I am. In history books, in movies, on money, presidents are old guys. From the powdered wigs and mutton chops, the country’s leaders have always been stodgy, old windbags. I can imagine the fear my parents’ generation felt when they saw this inexperienced kid mounting a campaign for president! Prior to the election, I asked my father-in-law how he felt about the possibility of having a 47 year-old in the White House. I said “You don’t think a 47 year-old can back a car out of your driveway, let alone run the country.” Honestly, a president my own age didn’t sit too well with me either.

Until my 21 year-old son put it into perspective.

He said “What have old white guys ever done for you?” I pondered the question. I answered, “Well, they’ve criticized my work, talked down to me, pushed me around, exhibited incompetence in the workplace, screwed up the economy and gave convoluted and incoherent answers to questions.”

My son then asked, “What have black guys your own age done for you?” I thought about that question. I answered, “They have been pleasant, funny, helpful and shown mutual and professional respect.”

He looked at me with that look.

I hope Barack Obama takes that driveway at ninety miles an hour.

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DCS: james whale

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Forgive me, but I'm forced to take unusual precautions
James Whale didn’t care what people in Hollywood thought of him. Whale was openly gay in 1930s Hollywood, at time when gay actors and actresses had to hide their sexual orientation at a risk of jeopardizing their careers. He was an innovative director. Universal Pictures owed its stellar success in the 1930s much in part to the huge box-office receipts of Frankenstein, The Invisible Man and The Bride of Frankenstein — all blockbusters Whale directed for the studio. Whale personally selected Gloria Stuart, Colin Clive, Elsa Lanchester, Boris Karloff and Claude Rains, for their roles in those films. He had known them in his native England and he essentially gave them careers in movies in the United States.

While Whale was primarily known for directing horror movies, he also helmed the 1936 version of the musical Showboat and The Man in the Iron Mask in 1939. Whale was eventually relegated to B-grade films and retired from directing in the early 1940s.

In his later days, Whale suffered a debilitating stroke and experienced difficulty with his memory. He became lonely and battled depression. On May 29, 1957, he wrote in a note: “The future is just old age and illness and pain… I must have peace and this is the only way.” He left the note for his estranged lover, producer David Lewis. Whale committed suicide by drowning himself in his swimming pool.

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DCS: irene gibbons

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goodnight irene/goodnight irene/i'll see you in my dreams
Irene Gibbons was an Oscar-nominated costume designer in Hollywood for thirty years. She took over from Adrian at MGM, and went on to establish her own company, Irene, Inc. She was known only as “Irene” in her screen credits.

Doris Day wrote in her 1975 autobiography that she got to know Irene quite well. One night after a few drinks, Irene told Day that the “love of her life” was Gary Cooper. On several other occasions Irene spoke about the intensity of her love for Cooper, and Day got the feeling that Irene had never mentioned this to anyone before her. Day wrote that she honestly could not tell if they actually had or were having an affair, or if it was a one-sided love. Day did know that Irene was extremely distraught over Cooper’s death in 1961.

On November 15, 1962, Irene checked into room 1129 of the Knickerbocker Hotel in Hollywood. She finished nearly two pints of vodka. She wrote a suicide note that read “I’m sorry. This is the best way. Get someone very good to design and be happy. I love you all. Irene.” At 3:12 that afternoon she pushed out the screen of her hotel room window and jumped.

A guest in room 429 heard a crash on the roof, and contacted the hotel manager. Irene’ s body was discovered on the 3rd floor roof, 9 feet in front of room 329.

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IF: repair

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The illustrationfriday.com challenge this week is “repair”.
epiticka
This guy is one of the coolest guys I know. And I’ve known him for a very long time. Twenty-one years, as a matter of fact.
He began to read at three. He recognized Beatles songs and sang Grateful Dead songs at four. He began to master Hebrew by second grade. He gained a vast musical knowledge that stretched across many genres and reached far beyond his years. He is as smart as a whip, having made dean’s list in four consecutive college semesters. He hosts a weekly four-hour internet radio show (that is also broadcast on local HD radio here in Philadelphia), where he manages to sneak in some selections from his own eclectic musical tastes among the regular alternative rock programming. He assists in production on a popular long-time folk music radio show. He plays guitar, bass, ukelele and digeridoo. He’s a vegetarian. He doesn’t drive (by choice).  He has given me inspiration for many of my illustrations. And he can really make me laugh.
Early one August morning in 1987, several hours after Joan River’s husband commited suicide in a Philadelphia hotel room, this cool guy was born. He weighed nine pounds and six ounces. He measured twenty-four inches long. I told his mother, “At that size, when he’s sick, aren’t you glad he doen’t have to go back in for repairs?”
I watched this cool guy come into the world.
This story continues to be written.

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SFG: nice

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The challenge word on sugarfrostedgoodness.com is “nice”.
the madcap laughed at the man on the border
Syd Barrett was a founding member of Pink Floyd. He provided the musical direction and psychedelic influence in the band’s early work. He recorded two albums with Pink Floyd and two solo releases before mental illness and heavy drug use put him into a self-imposed seclusion lasting more than thirty years.

Due to his abundant use of LSD, Barrett’s behavior on stage was unpredictable. He would strum on one chord through the entire concert. Sometimes he would not play at all. At a show at The Fillmore West in San Francisco, during a performance of “Interstellar Overdrive”, Barrett slowly detuned his guitar. The audience seemed to enjoy such antics, unaware of the rest of the band’s consternation. Before a performance in late 1967, Barrett apparently crushed Mandrax and an entire tube of Brylcreem into his hair, which subsequently melted down his face under the heat of the stage lighting, making him look like “a guttered candle”.

Following a disastrous abridged tour of the United States, David Gilmour, a school friend of Barrett’s, was asked to join the band as a second guitarist to cover for Barrett as Barrett’s erratic behavior prevented him from performing. For a handful of shows David played and sang while Barrett wandered around on stage, occasionally playing. The other band members soon tired of Barrett’s antics and, in January 1968, on the way to a show at Southampton University, the band elected not to pick Barrett up: One person in the car said, “Shall we pick Syd up?” and another person said, “Let’s not bother”.

Years later, in 1975 during the recording sessions for the “Wish You Were Here” album, Barrett showed up at the session unannounced, and watched the band record “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” — a song, coincidentally, about Barrett. By that time, Barrett had become quite overweight, had shaved off all of his hair, including his eyebrows, and his ex-bandmates did not at first recognize him. Eventually, they realized who he was and Roger Waters was so distressed that he was reduced to tears.

Barrett died in July 2006 of pancreatic cancer. The occupation on his death certificate was given as “retired musician.”

In 2006, his home in Cambridge, England, was placed on the market and attracted considerable interest. After over 100 viewings, many by fans, his house was sold to a French couple who bought the house simply because they liked it – —reportedly they knew nothing about Barrett.

Syd Barrett once said, “Fairy tales are nice.” In his mind, he likely experienced a bunch of fairy tales.

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