That’s a helluva price to pay for a good rating.
* * * *
14: 10 JANUARY 69
As I sit down to write this column it is the day after New Year’s, and not being a drinker I have no hangover, so my lucidity is firmly intact. It is also seven years since I arrived here in Clown Town from New York, as I write this. Seven years ago, when I informed my friends back East that I was heading for Cloud Coo-coo Land, they predicted the direst consequences. I would sell my soul to the devil out here, I would cease writing, or if I continued writing it would be the sheerest hackwork. Well, it’s seven years later and though I’ve had my soul up at remainder prices for the longest while, none of the accepted devils have ever tried to take an option on it; I’m still writing . . . more, and I think even better than when I was in New York.
But still my friends back East cry despair at my being out here where the phony tinsel only covers a true surface of genuine tinsel. (In a letter I received, from a promising young writer living in Wyoming, who is planning to come out here to set up shop, he says, “Jody has evaluated my basic crass materialism and maintains that I’ll likely lose whatever artistic integrity I’ve painfully built up here in the unsullied Wyoming wilds if I spend any extended time amid the tinsel of L.A. . . . but I maintain that I’ve got the capability to survive in the jungle.”) Crazy June, my secretary, constantly reports on the bleatings of her mother, back East, who nudzhes her with warnings of the messy finishes awaiting folk who commit to Los Angeles. And I must confess that I had the same myths rattling in my gourd before I began to dig Los Angeles and decided to stay on. But are they correct? Is L.A. truly Disaster City?
The enormous gap between the reality of what life is like here—artistically—and what they think it is, back there, has often confused and dismayed me. I could not pin a conclusion to thoughts about this inaccuracy.
But TV on New Year’s Day answered the question for me, and I take this solemn opportunity to share my findings with you. To wit: it is the studied merchandising of lies and outmoded glamour and what Crazy June calls “glorious hokum.”
I watched the Bowl games and the Tournament of Roses Parade.
I’ll dwell only momentarily on the gagging saccharine mealymouthness of the half-time shenanigans, in which Mom, Democracy, Apple Pie and The American Way were extolled with enormous Uncle Sam figures that stared mongoloidally at a national TV audience, and eight million Munchkins who scampered around the 50-yard line forming replicas of the Mayflower while a sententious voice assured us this was A Great Moment for All Of Us. (The greatest moment, we were told a few minutes later, was the moment we all became A*M*E*R*I*C*A*N*S. I suppose they meant the moment of birth but if that was the case, the midfield replica would have much more appropriately been an enormous womb, rather than a star-and-barred shield with eagle a-crouch thereon.)
They loosed doves of peace, and they turned their placards in the grandstands to form a waving American flag, and all I could think of was the incredible hypocrisy: to maintain a pose of 1901 Middle-Class Midwestern flag-waving during a period in which college students are finally examining the nature of patriotism, and finding it wanting, is so blatantly a divorcement from reality, that to belabor the point only makes it more depressing. I’ll go on to the Rose Parade, with clenched teeth.
The 80th Annual Tournament of Roses Parade in beautiful ticky-tacky downtown Pasadena is America’s annual orgy of bad taste. A two-hour spasm of insensate spending, flaunting the bloated ego of a country that can waste between twelve and twenty thousand dollars in the shape of a showboat or a giant glass slipper while children are dying of starvation in Georgia and Biafra. It is a strident note in a song of stupidity intended to lull the already-dulled senses of yahoos and boobs who are not incensed at the outrage of flushing uncounted hundreds of thousands of dollars better spent on charities down an exploitation toilet whose sole raison d’être is the selling of more color TV sets in time to snag the very yupyups who suffer most by the gaudy senselessness, the grossness of this testament to conspicuous waste.
(Before you get the impression that I am trying to slay a gnat with an elephant gun, let me hip you that I feel this same wrath at Miss America pageants, ostentatious weddings and lavish funerals.)
And I understood what it was about California that made all the intelligent ones back East feel this was the ass-end of reality. Why shouldn’t they, when TV markets this public relations man’s hash-dream of glory and grandeur? Why shouldn’t they think we are all insipid dolts out here, when we proffer as our magnum opus a tasteless hegira of vapidly-grinning non-entities on floats built from the corpses of flowers? The damned silly parade has all the style and class of an ex-hooker decked out in a Lily Ann prom gown, two dabs of rouge on her pale cheeks, strutting her weary wares before jaded mud-dwellers.
What are they to think in the shanties of Selma and the rat-traps of Chicago’s ghetto, when they see the way we shovel money into the sewer? What are they to make of a George Putnam, prancing about on his palomino wearing a silver lamé fag cowboy suit priced at forty grand, and what must they think of a man who would pay that much to be so outlandishly overdressed?
What are they to make of a 55-foot long float in honor of Bob Hope, gorged with pink roses, and entered in the parade by the Chrysler Corporation? Does it make them wonder why Chrysler didn’t save the money, shake Bob’s hand to show him they loved him, and deduct the savings from the cost of new Chryslers?
And what segment of America goes for this jejune dullery? Do the Iowans and Kansans really sit before their sets drooling over the endless horse-groups and out-of-tune school bands? Are they uplifted by the USC Trojan band clanging out a medley of classics by Max Steiner, Miklos Rosza and Alfred Newman? Do they wonder at the seemingly bottomless cornucopia that spews forth those grinning scrubbed-clean chicks, sweating in furs as they are trundled down the avenue?
And what of the black community? Do they notice that there are barely any Afro-Americans on the floats; do they take note that once again the Rose Queen was white, as were all her Princesses? (It is as if no black face ever shone in the All-American light of all-American Pasadena.) (And when we saw a black chick, it was on the float of some Deep South city . . . and lord how the TV camera lingered on that ebony countenance ... as if trying to stave off a riot.)
It was a day at once both dreary and infuriating. And it will go on next year, and the year after, and the year after that. And we will once again hear Steve Allen trying to get a word in edgewise with his flap-jawed missus, Jayne Meadows. (Steve Allen is my nominee for the husband most to be pitied in 1969. And he used to be such a good man.) And we will once again hear the virtues of Americana extolled.
And on the theory of bread and circuses, I suppose only rabble-rousers such as myself will carp.
But I tell you this: the extravanganza was so sad-making to me, that the only bright spot in the day occurred when Mr. Nixon crossed the field at the Rose Bowl, and was met by Wretched Ronald Reagan, and they were standing cheek-by-jowl with one another, and I began screaming for some Divinity to provide me with a helicopter mounted with machine guns.
But then, the thought of Spiro Agnew as the Rose Queen next year sobered me, and I flipped channels to 5, where I regained my sanity watching Dennis O’Keefe and Ruth Hussey in The Lady Wants Mink.
Next New Year’s Eve, I think I’ll take up drinking.
* * * *
15: 17 JANUARY 69
Even as the sixty-seven foot carnivorous plant aphid advances on Mona Freeman, somewhere to the north of her in the intricate subway system of Hokkaido, Rod Cameron and his specially hand-picked assault force of shock troops, equipped with chemical spray-throwers filled with the last of the pyrohexachlorinate-dyaluminaoxysulphazynamine formula created by John Beal at the cost of his life, hurry to her rescue. As they emerge from the stinking dank ooze of the feeder tunnels, they hear the high keening whine of the radioactive monster as its mandibles click a deadly song of men
ace. They know they only have moments to save her from a ghastly disembowelment. Will the formula work? Will the beast be stopped? Will the Japanese shock troops understand Rod Cameron’s English? Suddenly, there is a terrifying scream...
“Hi, friends, this is Raf Wiyummz, Raf Wiyummz Ford, 98022 Ventura Buh’vard, inna siddyuv Encino; hanny to any point inna grayder Losanneles air-ya, simply take your nearest freeway tuh’thu Sanee-aye-go Freeway, take the Sanee-aye-go Freeway tuh’thu San Bernuhdeeno Freeway, take the San Bernuhdeeno Freeway tuh’thu Howood Freeway, Howood Freeway tuh’thu Goln State Freeway, Goln State Freeway tuh’thu Sannamoniga Freeway, Sannamoniga Freeway tuh’thu Harb’r Freeway, Harb’r Freeway tuh’thu Ventura Freeway, take the Ventura Freeway tuh’thu Glendale innerchange, take the Vannize eggzit, go a hunnerd an’ seven miles portage overrland and there we are, seventeen full blocks of the fiyness newenuzecars inna Southern Californyuh air-ya, adda largess Ford deal’rshib WEST of Chicago, you don’ haveta buhleev me, yuh c’n check out ‘a records of the Ford Moder Comp’ny, that’s Raf Wiyummz, Raf Wiyummz Ford, 98022 Ventura Buh’vard inna siddyuv . . .”
John Payne knows that the storm building up over the Andes makes the chances for success nil, but there are six cases of the new miracle drug, pyrohexachlorinatedyaluminaoxysulphazynamine, in the old beat-up Spad, and a colony of Cholos beyond these mountains dying of the dread Dutch Elm Blight. As Payne’s comical grease monkey, Patsy Kelly, rolls the Spad out on the runway, Frances Gifford dashes out of the hangar, wearing her voguish new windsock. “John, John,” she pleads, flinging herself into his arms, “Lloyd Corrigan says the updrafts over the Valley of Montezuma’s Revenge will spiral you into the gorge. Please, please, pleeeeeez, I beg you, let them crummy Indios die! Don’t throw away our love!” But John shrugs her off, noting with pique that her tears and the slanting rain have run the colors of his new Madras flight-suit. In the shadows he sees the one he truly loves, Susan Cabot, fearful for his life, but knowing he must do this good thing. “Knock out the chocks, Patsy!” John yells, over the roar of the wind and dashes for the Spad . . .
“Hi, frenz, thissis Raf Wiyummz agen, an’ ritenow at my hunnerd an’ seventy locations allover Ventura Bul-vard we’re ennering the final month of our big eighteen month cleeranz sale, movin’ these li’l cupcakes outta here at an ‘mazing pace. Everything gotta go . . . the Edsels, the Morris Minors, the Cords, the Spads, the new nineen sissty-nine Muzdang with the audomadic faggdorry air conditioning, par winnows, par braygz, par steering, par antenna, par ashtray, onny three thawzan’ nine hunnerd an siggzdee three dollars ... shop an’ compare ...”
George Zucco has ordered that Richard Jaeckel must die, for squealing, little realizing that Richard is the brother of his most trusted aide in the mob, Willard Parker, who is, in reality, a T-Man. Willard has followed Marc Lawrence, Ted De Corsia and Neville Brand to the cheap rooming-house where Richard lives while working in the grease pit of the garage, trying to make a new life for himself after the hellish three years he served in Dannemora. Willard sees them enter the rooming-house, and dashes around to the alley. Leaping up, he grabs the dropladder of the fire escape and with panic clutching his heart races up the five flights of fire escape steps to Richard’s bedroom window. He knows that Richard has the information on him that will prove Zucco is behind the traffic in pyro-hexachlorinatedyaluminaoxysulphazynamine. As he reaches Richard’s floor, he hears a fussilade of shots...
“Hi frenz, thizzis Raf Wiyummz, Rafwiyummz Ford, anthissusthelastdayyoucancomedownanzupzupzupzupzupblahblahblahblahgurgleslurpfloop. Urp!”
Mostly, this week, I watched the all-night movies. In times past, the worst you could get from insomnia was dark circles under your eyes; these days the penalty is brain rot.
* * * *
16: 24 JANUARY 69
Bad manners should not, strictly speaking, be grist for this particular mill. Especially because the flagrant flouting of decorum and propriety on television is so ingrained after almost twenty years that it seems to be the accepted manner. But an incident that saw airtime on the Merv Griffin variety show, Channel 11, Wednesday the 15th (5:30 p.m.), is so appalling, so degrading, so demanding of comment—in that it brings to focus some things long needing to be said—that this week my column will bend the rule.
Generically, Griffin’s show is a “talk show.” There is some singing, and some comedy, but the mainstay of the program is conversation with various entertainment types, and that new breed of human being called “the TV personality,” which means they are either unsuccessful novelists or advocates of some offbeat cause. It is one with the Joe Pyne Show, The Les Crane Show, the Tonight Show, Joey Bishop, Donald O’Connor, Steve Allen, Joan Rivers, Alan Burke, and all the local imitations in every major American city.
The show to which we address ourselves here was hosted by comedian John Barbour, standing in for Griffin. And in specific I refer to an interview with Jean-Claude Killy, the world-famous ski champion and all-around groovy man of our times.
To call Barbour’s treatment of Killy cavalier, rude, degrading, shocking, uninformed, horrifying, humiliating, gauche, debased, obnoxious, reprehensible, vicious and in the ultimate of bad taste, would be to ennoble it. Barbour’s approach was typical of that no-class, no-taste breed of Yankee who makes the Grand Tour of Europe and endears himself with Stetson-wearing, backslapping, dirty-joke-telling rudeness and endless complaints about “them foreigners who ain’t civilized enough to speak English; they have lousy plumbing; they don’t appreciate us great wonderful Americans pouring all that foreign aid into their crummy little kingdom.” He is the compleat boor.
For openers, Killy is a soft-spoken man, a gentleman of controlled Continental manner. It is vastly appealing on a medium surfeited with stylistic descendents of Pinky Lee, all florid and bombastic, reveling in their own stupidities and crassness. When Killy came out and was greeted by Barbour, the host’s first shot—exquisitely gross, and a portent of horrors to come—was something like, “When I announced you were coming on the show, all the women screamed, Killy. What’s the story on that? What’s this big sex image you have?” The inference, of course, was that Barbour (impelled by the twinges of his own undernourished ego) saw nothing outstanding in an athlete who is known as “the fastest man on skis in the world,” has fought bulls without a cape, has worked at skydiving, sports car racing, skindiving, and is the holder of more Olympic medals for sports like slalom (which Barbour probably can’t even spell) than any other man in Olympic history. Of course we should see nothing attractive to women in this: we should only find the king of the smartmouths erotically compelling.
Killy tried to answer this unanswerable gaucherie with class. He spoke softly. Barbour leaped in, saying, “What’re you speaking so softly for? Are you trying to make love to me?! Are you gonna romance me, or answer my question?”
Then he asked the audience, “Can you people hear him out there? Huh? Huh? Huh?” It would have been a simple matter of courtesy for Barbour to have moved the microphone closer to Killy, or advise him that his voice might not be carrying. But he didn’t. “Huh? Huh? Huh?” The audience indicated they could hear Killy without difficulty, and Barbour, with a classic proof that he not only doesn’t know how to talk to people, but certainly doesn’t listen to them, jubilantly shouted, “See, they can’t hear you. Speak up, don’t try to romance me!” Killy moved over toward the mike.
One expected Barbour’s paranoia to interpret this as another homosexual advance.
But Barbour was too preoccupied with readying his next salients. The first was politely put as follows: “What’s all this I read about you being involved in a scandal during the Olympics? Huh? Huh? Huh?”
The “scandal” to which the semi-literate Barbour referred was the question of Killy’s having been paid by the Head Ski Company for wearing their product. The charges had been limp-wristed at the outset, and shortly after they were voiced, were blown away. There was no scandal.
Killy’s response w
as reasoned, and brief. “There was a question about my showing the Head mark on my skis. They did not pay me. The matter was disposed of quickly.”
Barbour was totally at sea. “Mark? Mark? Whaddaya mean, mark? I don’t understand you? Can’t you speak English? Whaddaya mean mark?”
Only a consummate dullard could be unaware—if not from a priori knowledge, then certainly from the context of Killy’s response—that a “mark” is the company trademark, its colophon, the little decal found on almost every commercial product, from Chryslers to creosote. Killy tried, unsuccessfully, three times to explain to Barbour what a mark was. But the Swine King was already off on his next searching, penetrating question.
“What’s this about you dating two French actresses at the same time? Huh? Huh? Huh?”
(Apparently the concept of going out with more than one girl is alien to Barbour. With a personality such as his, midway between maggot and masher, one does not doubt such a probability.)
Killy was a gentleman. He refused to answer. “That is my personal life, and I do not wish to discuss the ladies I know.”
The Glass Teat - essays of opinion on the subject of television Page 8
