Back in the car, it was a hundred degrees. I was sitting in the back seat with Prakash’s driver up front, with no air conditioner, windows wide open. It’s a long ride, with traffic and stop lights all along the way. Wherever you look all you see is poverty, overcrowded masses, somehow in a hurry going in all directions to do I don’t know what. At one stoplight, a woman approached my open window, lifted her sari, flies circling her head, and exposed her breast, sticking her hand out for some rupees. The driver started screaming at her, telling me to stop encouraging and tipping them. There were guys with missing limbs and I felt terrible for them until the driver said some of them actually have their body parts removed so they can gain pity while begging.
And then there are the little boys and girls all begging and pleading or trying to sell you something while chasing the car. And yet again I was enlightened to the reality of Indian life. It seems the local mafia handlers supply these kids with the trinkets they sell. You are led to believe they are handmade and painted by the kids and that they keep the money they get, but not so—the items are given to them on consignment for whatever price the mafia fixes, the kids sell them for what they can mark up, they keep the markup and must pay for whatever they sold, or return the unsold items to their handlers. It’s a form of low-level street distribution, and this system is used in many ways you would never dream of. I got the shock of my life, for example, when all of a sudden a young girl came to my open window and dumped a newborn baby on my lap. “Shit, what the hell is this now?” Then the girl starts moaning and begging, the baby is crying, the driver goes ape shit, the girl is now almost in the car, the car starts to move forward. What should I do? I’m panicking. I have no choice, I don’t want this baby so I give her a handful of rupees, and she grabs the baby and runs off.
Knowing I was about to be reprimanded, I said, “I’m sorry. What could I do? That poor little girl … the baby?”
The driver snapped back, “That poor little girl rented that baby for the day and must pay the mafia that owns it.”
“What? She rented it? Shit.”
My visits to India were, to say the least, special and exciting. They made me see things I couldn’t imagine. I felt energized visiting places five thousand years old and motivated by India’s history and the demeanor of its people. Even though they had nothing, they all seemed content and happy. They taught me to be thankful and humble.
Prakash was the best host, a true old-world gentleman. He put me up at the Sun and Sand Hotel, in a two-floor penthouse suite, with thick winding mahogany stairs and banisters leading to balconies and bedrooms. It was the most lavish room I had ever seen, full of rare furniture and art. Every night was the same: Prakash and his gang of merry men—actors, producers, politicians, musicians, rich businessmen—would come for the night, like a ritual. Sometimes as many as ten or twelve guys would all send for their concubines to bring over the freshly made food they individually required. These women would come prepare the cooked food, serve and sometimes sexually service their man in one of my bedrooms, then leave. After gorging ourselves on food and drink, they got drunk, I mean real drunk, and some would crash unconscious all over the floor and rooms.
The following mornings, I would gather the containers of leftover food and begin my own ritual of placing equal amounts of every variety in little plastic bags and then throwing them out the window to the growing masses of people who, after several days of feeding, grew to as many as fifty or more who gathered out on the beach, under my window, waiting every day until I appeared like the Pope at the Vatican window. It eventually got to the point where entertainers were showing up, snake charmers, dancers, singers, monkeys, and camels, all there to entertain the crowd. The hotel begged me to stop and I eventually did but only after I got them to agree to distribute the food they were throwing away, even though they did so reluctantly, suggesting it would cause a trend that would grow and grow all over India and that the people would now expect the free handouts and never work for their food. It made me think: Isn’t that what we do in America? I still occasionally threw some more bags out anyway.
Much like the Middle East, India was truly a man’s society, where everything revolved around the men. It was the same when Charli and I stayed in a log cabin in the Adirondack Mountains near Saranac, New York. The men there went without women off to hunting camps to stay for days in little wooden cabins, drinking beer and moonshine all day. To kill bears, deer, pigs, even frogs and turkeys, and drink till they passed out. Unlike in India, though, the mountain men—as they refer to themselves—lived off the land and ate whatever was in season. During deer season they ate deer and when the frogs were out they ate frogs, actually only frog legs. They would hunt them at night on the lakes and ponds, bringing their young kids along on their first hunting trips, and the next day you would see hundreds of dead cut up frog bodies with no legs all over the banks and roads. During bear season they ate bear, turkey season they ate turkey, and when it was dandelion season they even ate dandelions, in every way you could imagine. The same with mushrooms. The new generation mountain men were mostly Vietnam vets who also had large pot-growing fields hidden in the woods. I always found it ironic that these men were sent to Vietnam, supposedly to improve the world, and then they came back with no new skills and resorted to the marijuana business. Even today, the Adirondacks are a big hub for the marijuana trade.
India is a country full of festivals, with a festival for everything, what seems like every month.
Prakash took me everywhere and introduced me to all the famous Bollywood stars. One evening he invited the most famous Indian actor of all time, Amitabh Bachchan, to meet me at his home on Juhu Beach. Amitabh was a god, a king among men, the most famous man in India. Prakash was about to make what would turn out to be his last film with Amitabh. I was now one of the producers, helping Prakash make his film. It was something to witness how movies are made in India. Back then the crew walked around without shoes and built sets by hand moments before shooting the scene. It was pure chaos. Prakash was in complete control, directing everyone while wearing his signature gold-trimmed sunglasses, holding his silver cigarette case and handkerchief in one hand and a glass of Johnny Black in the other.
During the music production, Bopi Luri, the main producer, was as masterful as Prakash. The studio was filled with fifty musicians, lead vocalists, and singers all sitting around in makeshift booths and partitions, some sitting on the floor and of course most without shoes. All of them were plugged in to the mixing board, probably at least a hundred microphones and playback amps as Bopi recorded the entire song live. Truly amazing.
As we were attending the opening of one of his movies, Prakash revealed an interesting side note as I commented on the size of the crowd of people waiting to get in. He said the reason why he demands his money guaranteed up front is, you see the line? Well in many cases the last guy in line is carrying a gun, and when he gets to the ticket booth he steals the cash. In this way the theater owners cheat the movie companies and producers and the government tax, claiming they were robbed even though we all know they are in on it. Mahendra Shah suggested that he could put together an international traveling musical road show featuring Amitabh, other famous actors and actresses, dancers, singers, and musicians to tour. Months later the events were selling out. The next year we did the same type of show with Rekha, the most acclaimed actress/singer/dancer in India. We organized the show, playing a sixteen-city live tour in the United States, Canada, and Great Britain. Performances included sixty additional Indian musicians, dancers, and singers, culminating with two sold-out shows at Madison Square Garden in New York City with thousands of Indians and two others—me and Charli.
Before that happened, however, we had a major problem. After Rekha’s shows in Canada, US customs and immigration denied all seventy-five visas for the traveling troupe and their equipment. One of the reasons they presented was that the Indian musicians and dancers performing in the United States were taking away
union jobs from the union musicians and dancers at the venues they were performing in, and also avoiding fees and taxes. We were in big trouble. The first show at the Garden was just days away and due to time-limited visas we had to get out of Canada as well. Where to go? What to do? Charli to the rescue.
In Charli’s Words
Frank came home so down, saying the entire Rekha show might have to be called off, and that we were going to lose the thousands of dollars we had invested in T-shirts, posters, and program books that were already printed. He explained the problem with the visas and the union, believing there was totally no hope. Well, I said, “Of course there is hope. I can call our congressman or senator. They can help us. Don’t worry.” Frank answered, “You are so naïve. You don’t know how this world works. There is nothing we can do.” Well that irritated me; he had taught me better. I’m not naïve. I am always positive, full of hope and faith, so this time I grabbed the ball and ran. I simply picked up the phone book and I looked up the telephone number.
In those days we had telephone books, not the Internet, so I telephoned Senator Alphonse D’Amato, and guess what? He personally answered the telephone, and in one very long sentence I explained the visa and union problem, going on and on, totally excited and out of breath, how the band and the dancers and the singers are stopped in Canada, and how we had invested all our money in this show at Madison Square Garden, and how we are expecting fifty thousand people and I really need your help, you must help me, please. Well Senator D’Amato said, “Of course I will help you. I will call Vermont, where all the visas are taken care of and everything will be all right. Please calm down. I will fix this.” I calmed down and he fixed it and when he did I said to Frank, “It’s fixed. The show will go on; now apologize for calling me naïve.” He did and he never said that again. And I was the only blonde at the show.
On my next trip to India I agreed to write the script for The God Connection. I changed the title to “The God Man.” The storyline I wrote was about two American businessmen who come up with a scam to go to India, find a young God Man, bring him back to the United States, and exploit him by using him to raise money and donations like Reverend Ike and Billy Graham. They find a God Man alright, bring him back to the US like Mighty Joe Young, but they don’t realize he is truly a real God Man with mystical powers. The sting comes at the end after millions of dollars are raised and our God Man tricks the scam artists, takes the money, and distributes it to the poor. In order to do some research, Prakash arranged a trip to various ashrams throughout India. It was amazing. At one ashram I visited with Guramaya, the sister and spiritual leader of Si Babba, one of the most famous young Guru God Men. I witnessed incredible sights on that trip, God Men who walked barefoot across hot burning embers and held them in their palms without getting burned, pierced skewers through their bodies without drawing blood, stood on one leg or sat in meditation without moving or eating for days.
Every day I learned something new. India is truly an adventure.
In Charli’s Words
On a side note, I love Indian food, although in reality there are not too many foods that I don’t love. I will try most anything. When Frank would go to India and call me I would ask him what he was eating and he would say, “I have no idea.” That would be a little too much for me; I have to know what I’m eating and where it came from. I would attend every Indian dinner with our Indian friends in New York at five-star restaurants. These dinners would very often be a “boys’ night out,” except Frank would always invite me. Our Indian friends would mostly like to go out only with the boys, though, so sometimes Frank would be out till two or three in the morning with Prakash, Mahendra, Rag Joshi, and VJ Gupta.
Prakash was a king. He would go to the restaurant owners’ apartments, requesting they get out of bed to go to their restaurant and personally cook everything on the menu. They were all honored to do it, since it gave them bragging rights to tell other owners that Prakash came to see them and what a great time they had doing it. Every time this happened Prakash would order a takeout dinner for me because he knew I loved Indian food and he liked me a lot. He would tell Frank to make sure he takes something to Charli. Frank would come home from those all-nighters with bags full of food like naan, broiled jumbo shrimp, tandoori chicken, black and yellow daal, raita, mango and green chutney, vegetable and potato samosa, lamb tandoori and saag, and assorted vegetables curry. He would pass the bags full of food under my nose as I was sleeping but the aroma would make me sit up from a deep sleep. Without even opening my eyes I would eat all the food and go right back to sleep. It was a ritual and one of my favorite things. I loved Prakash and his friends and the amazing food and great conversation. They were wonderful friends and I will always feel happy that I knew them and they liked me.
The King of Nostalgia
Joe Franklin is an icon. He invented the talk show and is known as the first talk show host. He started in 1951 and is credited for having the longest-running radio/TV talk show in history. Joe Franklin’s Memory Lane was the first show to talk about gossip and the behind-the-scenes stories and events of the stars of the entertainment world, complemented with trivia and a healthy dose of nostalgia, including photos and movies. His TV show would have major stars of yesterday and today, like John Lennon and Yoko Ono, sitting next to relatively unknown guests like local singers, comedians, and would-be actresses.
Joe claimed he gave everybody a chance to make it big and as a matter of fact he did launch many major stars’ and celebrities’ careers—the likes of Barbara Streisand, Woody Allen, and Julia Roberts, to name a few. Joe has said Marilyn Monroe, Jane Mansfield, and Veronica Lake all threw themselves at him.
How and when I first met Joe in the mid-sixties is a funny story that not many people know. Joe himself still doesn’t know the whole true story. Somewhere around 1986 I was sitting in my office, when in walked Joe Franklin. I hadn’t seen him for over twenty years; as a matter of fact, the last time I had seen him he crashed my engagement party, a posh affair at the Huntington Townhouse on Long Island. I was sitting at my table, looking at all my friends and family getting gigantic amounts of food from the buffet tables, when one of my friends came over to me and said, “Isn’t that Joe Franklin, the television guy?”
I replied, “What’s he doing here? Who invited him?”
I decided to ask him myself. He was still standing and eating right off the buffet table.
“Hi, I’m Frank. This is my party.” At this point I was surrounded with friends and family.
“Hey, great party, kid. What do you do?”
I was caught off guard by his quick response. I came to ask him questions, not for him to interview me. “I’m a graphic designer.” He was quick, a real pro. He knew what I was about to ask and never gave me a chance to ask him what he was doing at my party.
“Great, kid. You have a portfolio? Call me, I’ll put you on my TV show, you can show your stuff, launch your career. Here is my number, kid. Call me next week. Don’t forget.”
I was so excited. We all took pictures with Joe, and the next day I told everyone I was going to be on TV. So that week I called him and left a message, then a few days later called again. I called and left messages several times, until finally he picked up the phone.
“Hello, is this Joe Franklin?’’ I asked.
“Hey boss.”
“Hi, Mr. Franklin. Remember me? You were at my engagement party two weeks ago. You asked me to call to set up an interview to appear on your show.”
“Oh yeah boss, I’m on the other line. Call back tomorrow same time, okay boss? Don’t forget.”
Well, two more weeks went by, and needless to say Joe came up with two hundred excuses. I never did get on his show nor did I even see him again until twenty years later, when standing in my office was the King of Nostalgia himself.
“Are you Frank?” he asked me.
“Yes, I’m Frank.” I like to say that. I could tell the Joe Franklin ball was now mine. “What
can I do for you?” I never let him know about our past encounter. A short time later I contracted a book deal for Joe with Bernard Geist. For those wondering, yes, I did slide down Bernard’s fireman’s pole and got a nude mechanical stripper pen after landing in his office. I was now Joe’s manager. Over the years he had amassed a huge collection of various memorabilia, hundreds of thousands of things like photos of stars and celebrities, postcards, newspapers, magazines, hundreds of 16 mm films and movie trailers, TV shows, posters, marquee cards, classic old records, and sound recordings, radio shows, and on and on. He kept it all around him in his office on 42nd Street and in various warehouses. We decided to inventory it all with the idea to sell and license the collection by forming Joe Franklin Productions.
Joe had some connections with a group that was interested in merging our company with a private shell—a company that is already public and waiting to merge with another company they believe can generate stock sales and income revenue. We began to negotiate with the various parties. It was recommended we hire a Wall Street attorney to draw up the necessary papers and do the filings. That lawyer was Harold Horowitz, a seasoned attorney who had orchestrated and successfully taken several companies public. We went to see Harold to request he consider representing us. Harold was at least three hundred pounds. You could not help but notice he was a very religious man with a black longish beard, wearing a yarmulke that, when it wasn’t falling off his head, sat above his long curly peyos. He wore dark, horned-rimmed, thick-lensed glasses that accented his crossed eyes as he sat behind a big oak desk with piles of papers scattered everywhere. He looked up as if to say what do you want, so we introduced ourselves. When he spoke to me, I wasn’t really sure he was talking to me because of his eyes, until he said, sort of half jokingly, “What are you doing here with all these Jews?” I immediately responded with, “Excuse me, you don’t know who I am.” Now he was on the defensive. “No, I don’t. Who are you?”
Frank & Charli Page 25
