by Ian Frazier
As a young man raised in Scotland, and later (after a reversal in my family’s fortunes) in a Thrifty Scot motel, I longed for the intellectual pleasures of the metropolis. Like many others throughout Europe and the Americas whose interest in the arts and sciences no provincial seat could satisfy, I filled my leisure hours with fancies of Miami, Florida. And, naturally, with every thought of Miami came thoughts of Don Johnson, whose name with Miami’s shall be forever linked, and whose reputation shines as the brightest ornament of the location where he tapes. Accordingly, when I attained my majority I removed to that city, and settled myself in rented beachfront lodgings within walking distance of the Seaquarium.
My friend having but little interest in reviewing for me the smaller details of his birth and upbringing, I must rely for this account upon remarks that I think I heard him make at one meeting or another. Don Johnson was born near the midpoint of his century to a couple who also lived in that time. Like many young boys, Don Johnson was inclined to mischief. His parents either wished him to read law at university in preparation for a career at the bar or else they did not wish it or else they had no thoughts on the matter. For his own part, when his schooling was finished, or earlier, Don Johnson strengthened his resolve to brave the uncertainties of a player’s life. Toward this end, he changed his probable Christian name, “Donald,” to the better and more dramatic “Don.”
My own introduction to Don Johnson was an occasion of such moment that I refrain from entrusting it to memory’s leaky barque. Instead, I refer to an entry made shortly afterward in my daily breviary:
March 11
Dined this evening in company at Enrique’s Little Havana, an eating place (with dancing). Of a sudden, came a measure of stirring music, and through the door strode a man of good figure and erect carriage, wearing a light-colored nankeen suit and spectacles of a tint so opaque as to hide the eyes within. Instantly, I recognized the celebrated Don Johnson—this despite his stature, which was in appearance somewhat shorter than in the portrait at the National Gallery. At the first opportunity, I took leave of my party, made my way to his table, and, emboldened by the warmth of my sentiment, clasped him by the hand. Conveying to him my admiration in the strongest terms, I added that I had many questions that I hoped one day to discuss with him, and inquired whether I might call upon him some afternoon at his trailer. In the silence that ensued, my heart raced in anticipation of another of Don Johnson’s famed epigrams, when, with a look at his companions at table, Don Johnson replied, “Hey. Who is this wing nut?”
Later, I was to learn that my friend’s abruptness bespoke no hidden depths of ill-humor but only the natural impatience of a spirited intellect checked by society’s custom. Indeed, when next we met, and I, blushing crimson and stammering out my words, yet managed to ask of him whether he did all his own stunts, he responded most willingly. I then followed by inquiring how he contrived to juggle his fame with his personal life, and so began a conversation that continued late into the evening.
To those several critics who, with but the most superficial knowledge, accuse Don Johnson of haughty and peremptory behavior, I reply that my friend has long suffered from a recurring melancholia, brought on by the exigencies of a career that no critic could ever sustain. In addition, I submit that Don Johnson became (through no fault of his own) a man of painfully divided loyalties: on the one hand, he belonged to the city, while, on the other hand, he belonged to the night. We can only imagine the agonies of doubt this must have occasioned within him, as his mind turned first toward the one indebtedness, and then toward the other. Moreover, Don Johnson has been troubled at irregular intervals by a very rare disorder whereby the reflections of street lamps cross the lenses of his spectacles in dizzying succession and deafening airs from popular operettas fill his ears. That he has managed even the smallest degree of civility in the face of such impediments I consider a remarkable feat.
Recently, I found among my papers the text of a hymn that, though unsigned, shows the unmistakable evidence of Don Johnson’s authorship. As I recall, it was composed as a tribute to his friend Lord Cran-wyck, of Ayles, Lincolnshire, in celebration of the latter’s marriage to a mutual friend. It reads, in part:
You did it, pal—hey, it’s a lock.
You got legs, Mister; you can walk.
The gig’s a tough one, understand?
Count on it, buddy—ask the man.
Pal, get the wax out of your ears.
We’re lookin’ at at least ten years.
The only thing I’m gonna say—
Hey, read my lips: “Flight’s cancelled, Ray.”
Were Don Johnson’s detractors only aware of this and many other proofs of devotion which he showed repeatedly to those cherished in his affection, I am certain they would revise their opinions.
On the subject of women, Don Johnson is perhaps best known for his remark that whereas one cannot, assuredly, live with them, one cannot, by equal measure, live without them. Of his own version of marriage, to a daughter of the French-sounding D’Ar-banville family, I shall speak more at a later time. Suffice it to say that Don Johnson had the wisdom to choose for a companion an actress whose beauty, charm, talent, and sense of fun all vie with each other for preference in the eye of the observer, and one who can do an excellent imitation of a person coughing. I seem to recall hearing recently that Don Johnson and Patti had moved to separate dwellings; however, I believe someone else possibly informed me (more recently yet) that they were once again together, which later report I hope may be fact, inasmuch as I think she is nice.
Where the Bodies Are Buried
At long last, the glamorous and poignant saga of Elsa Maxwell is coming to a bookshop near you … . “Party Girl: The Elsa Maxwell Story” by Rosemary Kent … . “Elsa knew where the bodies were buried,” said Kent.
—William Norwich, in the New York Daily News
You’re at an intimate dinner party. The guest on your left is under the blacktop driveway of a two-bedroom brick house in Highland Park, Michigan. How do you begin a conversation? I’m a firm believer in the old rule that one must always avoid politics and religion at the dinner table. Try instead to draw your companion out on subjects of general interest—boarded—up closets, for example. Even the dullest guest is likely to have some thoughts about them. If that fails to strike a spark, try air shafts. Chances are, you’ll be talking away in no time. If it’s a summer party, how about air-conditioning vents? Or, if you happen to be dining outside, the topic of wooded areas might be promising. If none of these seem to appeal, put on your brightest smile and turn to the guest on your right. After all, you’ve done your best.
What’s the perfect time for a party? Any time! The perfect place? The trunk of a 1975 brown Buick LeSabre in a deserted area of the Mill Basin section of Brooklyn! From a fifty-gallon drum at the bottom of the Gulf of sunny Mexico, to the foundations of the art-deco-inspired Chrysler Building, in Manhattan, to a shallow mound of fresh earth in Rambouillet Forest, southwest of romantic Paris, every successful party requires but one ingredient: people. A dear friend of mine in a field behind her house in Leeds, just 150 feet from her front door, once said to me, “Elsa—” Of course I sympathized completely. All of us may feel a bit apprehensive when we contemplate giving a big social affair. The first thing I do is make a list—something like:
planter’s punch
crepe-paper streamers
Nancy and Henry Kissinger
a crawl space
four twenty-gallon plastic bags
pretty girls
gladiolas by the armful
a remote fishing-access site
Bobby Short
Now that I’ve got the basic outline, I can relax and let my imagination color it in.
As I once remarked to Consuelo Vanderbilt in an unclaimed crate at the International Arrivals Building at Kennedy Airport, money and titles mean nothing to me. Character, sense of humor, charm, and dental records are what I look for in a guest. To m
e, a county landfill project full of dukes and millionaires is a county landfill project full of bores. At any gathering it’s the mix of personalities that makes things go. If I invite a person from the A list, I make sure to include one from the B list, one from the world of show business, one from a creek in the Bronx, one from the arts, one from a storm drain in Great Neck, and so forth. A varied crowd guarantees your party against the horrors of shop talk.
People often ask me, “Is it permissible to wear evening clothes to a gathering in the late afternoon?” “On which side of the salad fork should one place the posthole digger and scrap-metal compactor?” “Is a commercial strength of quicklime sufficient for my entertaining needs?” “Should I require my caterer to provide an estimate in advance?” “What’s in the chimney of the pharmacy on North Lincoln Avenue?” “How many cinder blocks should I allow for each unescorted woman?” “What about the narrow passageway separating the building at 684 Ralph Avenue from the adjoining building?” “What is that odd smell?” “Should I examine a double-locked steamer trunk mailed slow freight to a nonexistent address in New Orleans?” “Should I check the refuse bins of a popular theme park? The hold of a burned fishing boat off Craig, Alaska? A vacant lot on Dean Street, between Classon and Grand avenues? A rented room on West Seventy-sixth Street? The bottom of an elevator shaft in an Ozone Park housing project? The tall grass at the entry to the Hutchinson River Parkway near Bruckner Boulevard? Beneath the paving stones in the courtyard of the Via Veneto restaurant in Queens? In the wall of the men’s room of a Brooklyn veterans’ meeting hall? Under the service bay of a derelict garage in Keansburg, New Jersey?”
I always answer, “Warmer, warmer. Yes, my dears, you are getting warmer all the time.”
Brandy by Firelight
… she had a laugh that was like brandy by firelight.
—Something I read somewhere
Courvoisier VSOP. Burning garden shed. “Hee-hee yuk yuk-yuk-yuk-yuk-yuk-yuk!”
Rémy Martin Napoleon. Kitchen grease fire. “Har har har, ha ha harr harr harr harr harr harrrrr!”
Cordon Bleu Martell. Torched kerosene-soaked rags. “Whee-ha-ha-ha h’h’h’ h’h’hee oh-ho-hoh he he he he he he he he he he he!”
Mercier Prestige. Overheated car engine. “Ya-hah-ha-ha-ha. Ya-ha-ha-ha-ha. Yah-ha-ha-ha-ha.”
Hennessy XO. Old telephone books on electric space heater. “Hih-hih-hih, hih-hih-hih, oh ho ho ho ho ho, yee-hoo hoo hoo ha ho ho ho, uh-heh, uh-heh, ha ha ha HA HA HA heh heh heh heh heh heh heh!”
Ragnaud Reserve Special. Southern California brush-fire. “Ya-hoo ha ha ha ha ha ha whoop! ha ha ha ha ha ha whee-ha hoo-ee! ha ha ha uh-oh! ho ho ho hee hee hee oh ho ho ho hee hee hee ch‘k ch’k.”
Felipe II. Chinese-food cartons at bottom of ventilator shaft. “A-hah, a-hah, a-HAH HAH HAHHH, a-HAH-HAH-HAH HAH-HAH HAHHHH HAHHHHH HAHHHHH HAHH-HHHHHHH HAHHHHHHHHHH-HHHHHHHHHHHHH, a-hah, HAHHHHH HAHHHHH HAH HA, a-hah, a-hah a-hah!”
Château des Plasson VSOP. Abandoned wood-frame summer cottage. “P-p-p-p-pah! ha ha HA HA HAAA HAAA-A-A-A-A-A HA HA HA HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HEE HEE HEE HEE huh huh A-HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE uh huh uh huh HEE HEE HEE HEE WHEE-HEE HEE HEE a-hee a-hee a-hee a-hah HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HOO HEE HEE HEE HEE!”
Slivovitz Old Plum. Lit match in the stuff between subway rails. “A-hilk a-hilk a bar har har hilk hilk hilk hilk hilk hilk hilk hilk.”
Fundador. Butane lighter at thirty thousand feet. “Hee hee hee ya-hah-hah-hah ho ho whee-ha ho ho hee-ya hah hah WHOO-HOO-HOO-HOO-HOO oh-hohk, hack, hack, a, HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE HEEEE, oh-hohk, HACK! HACK! a-HOO HOO HOO HOO HEEE HACK! HACK!”
Christian Brothers. Tasselled restaurant-menu cord in candle flame. “A-ssshaw haw haw haw sheee haw haw haw.”
Rémy Martin Louis XIII. Offshore-oil platform. “Ah-hah hah hah hee hee hee whhooooooeeeeeee hee hee hee hee hee oh plea-hee-hee-hee-hee-se hoo hoo hoo hee hee hee gimme a break hoo hoo hoo you’re killin’ me hee hee hee hee no stop please wha-he-ha-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah HOOOOO HEEEEE HA HA HA HA HA HA HO HO HO HO HO HO HOO HO HO HO oh man too much! HEE HEE HEE HEE HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HO HA HA, a,hah, a,hah, a,hah, a,hah I’m dyin’ hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee! … hee hee hee … a-ha ha ha … . . hee … . … hoo … . … . ha ha … . … . … ha.”
Child of War
I served in the Korean conflict at the age of three, and attended elementary school on the GI Bill. My earliest memory is of the retreat of the First Marines from the Choisin Reservoir through a hellscape of frozen, blasted rock. I ate dog in Korea—a child’s portion, of course. Back in the States, first grade seemed like a dream-world to me. There I was, the youngest second lieutenant in the history of American arms, reading about a pair of civilians named Dick and Jane, who knew nothing of lines of fire, or antitank warfare, or the terrible things high-speed metal can do to human flesh and bone. I might have been sitting at my desk, but in my mind I was far away, grappling with the tactical problems of the modern battlefield. My teachers had no idea what to make of the drawings of military ordnance which filled the margins in all my workbooks, but the summer after third grade I ran into General Mark Clark, then Army Chief of Staff, at a shopping-center opening near my house. I showed him one of my blueprints—a prototype for a midget tank equipped with howitzers, electric missiles, and BB machine guns, which could travel at speeds of seven miles a second. He immediately phoned my parents, and after some discussion, it was agreed that I should transfer to the United States College of Army Guys, located in Olathe, Kansas.
I graduated two years later, with honors in knife-fighting and building forts. I was still a month shy of my ninth birthday. Commissioned a Major, I was sent on my first field assignment—advisor to the Free French forces in North Africa. Through mud and rock and sand we fought our way to the Mediterranean, then landed at Normandy, and at last marched into Paris. It had already been liberated, though, more than a decade previously. I took full responsibility for the error; never again would I disregard the reports of my intelligence staff. From there I was sent to Indochina, where I lived as a foreign exchange student with the Giap family, in a suburb of Hanoi. For a year, General Giap was An-An (Daddy) to me. One day, we would meet again, only this time as deadly enemies.
Thanks for the Memory
Two years ago I was driving to Pebble Beach from Palm Springs to play in Bing’s pro-amateur tournament at Pebble Beach. I got into my car with Freddie Williams, and we started for Los Angeles. Between Beaumont and Riverside I was pushing it along at about seventy-two. The highway was wide open, nobody in sight, but it was raining a little and I went into a skid.
We turned around, bounced into a ditch, rolled into an orchard and ended up against a tree. Both of us were thrown out. I felt that there was something wrong with my left shoulder, so I stood ankle-deep in mud and practiced my golf swing. The swing wasn’t so hot. We left the car and hitch-hiked back to Riverside, and I went to see a doctor. He stretched me out on an X-ray table and took some pictures.
When he’d looked at them, he said, “You’re not going to play any golf for eight weeks. You’ve got a fractured clavicle.”
Following that layoff, I went back East, stopping off at the Bob-O’-Link Golf Club in Chicago, where I’m a nonresident member, to have a crack at the course. I got together three friends, Dick Snideman, Dick Gibson and Hugh Davis, and we teed off.
I had a seventy-four for the eighteen holes. It’s one of my best scores. The payoff was that on the eighth hole —158 yards—I had a hole in one. You may think that a busted clavicle is a hard way to improve a score, but if you’re willing to try it, it could work. It did for me. —Have Tux, Will Travel: Bob Hope’s Own Story, by Bob Hope as told to Pete Martin (1954), pp. 225–26 It was 1950, and I was making the movie Fancy Pants with Lucille Ball. Dick Gibson and I had planned to play after the day’s shooting had been completed at Paramount. I had one scene left, in which I was riding a horse.
These were close-up shots, so instead of a
real horse they used a prop horse, a mechanical gadget. The director wanted more action, so they loosened the straps on the horse and speeded up the action. I was flipped backwards off the horse, head over teakettle. They carried me off the lot in a stretcher, and as they put me into a car, I said, “Right to Lakeside, please.” I wound up in Presbyterian Hospital for eight weeks. It was a long time to be away from golf.
The next time I played was at Bob 0’ Link, a men’s club in Chicago. The others in the group were Dick Gibson, Hugh Davis and Dick Sniderman. We had started on the back 9, so by the time we reached the 8th hole, which was our 17th, the bets were rolling. I hit a little faded 5-iron on the hole, which measured 150 yards, and knocked it into the cup for an ace. There is still a plaque on that tee commemorating that feat. I also shot 74 that day, which wasn’t bad for a refugee from the hospital.
