Sidebars

Romney the Absurdist....by Bob Sanders

 

If the word "absurdist" is the perfect word to describe Samuel Beckett's monumental Waiting for Godot, then that same word is most applicable to Mitt Romney's quest for the U.S. Presidency.

Let's look at it this way.  The essence of the play is that nothing happens.  Vladimir and Estragon are on stage as the play opens.  They are very confused as evidenced by their conversational schtick that smacks of Buster Keaton with some Charlie Chaplin thrown in.  Then, too, a hat-trading routine can only be Laurel & Hardy.  Their confusion is accompanied by disappointment when they learn that Godot, an enigmatic figure for whom they wait will not come that nght but will come tomorrow.

Vladimir and Estragon are us and Romney would make an excellent Godot.  We are very curious about him but know nothing other than mostly what others have told us.  While it's true that Romney brought success to an Olympics in Salt Lake City where it could hardly fail, his only political gig was as governor of a state (Massachusetts) hardly known as a harbinger for political conservatism.  He ruled as he had to and his major plus was a very successful use of ObamaCare.  How mysterious that Romney's greatest triumph cannot be used as evidence of it?  On the other hand, it was that accomplishment that prompted attack by all preliminary competition starting with the Tea Party.

What Mitt Romney represents is frightening to at least 47% of us when he appealed in May to a well-heeled fund-raising roomful during which moochers at the public trough like me were branded as heavy users of entitlements, a term that has been fiercely building for many years in the vocabularies of conservatives.  By the way, let's start calling him by his real handle: Thurston Howell Romney.  That's what conservative New York Times  columnist David Brooks called him in a devastating September 17 column.  Anyone with a sliver of a doubt about Thurston Howell absolutely has to read this one.

Yes, I'm one of the 47 percent as a guy, by Romney's calculations, who receives Social Security and Medicare benefits.  This "victim" worked for both of those and I caddied and peddled newspapers as a kid.  My experiences carrying golfer's bags at $1.00 a round ($1.50 for doubles) gave me insight into how wealthy minds tend to work.  Rare were the cold Coca-Colas offered on hot days while tips amounted to either 10 or 25 cents.  I was known to trade off a 25 cent hacker bore for Lou Bushara, the Pontiac dealer, because of his two handicap.  

With Brooks leading the way, something approaching a pile-on has resulted with right wing media types including Charles Krauthamer (Washington Post/Fox News), William Kristol (National Review), Peggy Noonan (columnist and ex-Reagan writer), Jonah Goldberg ("O'Reilly Factor" regular), and Scott Brown (he's running for Massachusetts senator) throwing such barbs at the GOP nominee as "incompetent," "arrogant and stupid" and "donor remarks reflect Romney's political naivete," you get the feeling the game is over.  Then, there was the crowning blow.  Scott Walker, his vice-presidential running mate, came up with "inarticulate."  How devastating.

So, maybe, you had a little trouble with his "likes to fire people" comments, the fact that his plans for the economy are totally without specificity, that his self-reassurance can't possibly compensate for a remarkable self-destructiveness, or that his scary travels in Europe proved without question he's a diplomatic disaster.  Thurston Howell is like a superb satirical invention by Terry Southern, the guy who co-wrote Dr. Strangelove.

Romney, bizarre during the mess of  a convention (A National Review editorial was critical), was quite possibly at his worst when asked by Fox News's Brett Baier why he failed to mention the war in Afghanistan?  The only other convention reference to the war was by Clint Eastwood who managed to slide in a confused reference in his infamous empty-chair "speech."

Replied Romney to Baier: When you give a speech you don't go through a laundry list, you talk about the things that you think are important and I described in my speech my commitment to a strong military, unlke the President's decision to cut our military." 

This is straight out of the vaudevillian efforts of Vladimir nd Estragon.  There's nothing quite like a would-be commanders in chief who doen't think an active war qualifies as being "important"

Beckett left the party 23 years ago and it's tempting to suggest someone do another parody of Gogot.  People of noble writing skills including Turkish playwright Ferhan Sensoy and the American Meron Langsner have done so.  Even an independent film, Waiting for Woody Allen, was produced in 2004.  The tragic comedy involves two quarrelsome Hasidic men who wait on a Central Park bench for a no-show Allen.  On the surface of things, Thurston Hewell Romney is the perfect Godot.

Some of Beckett's best lines could be used again.  For example, Romney, who somehow escaped the military along with his five sons, is reluctant to discuss war although a reference could be made to George W. Bush, a much more accomplished dodger since his memorably accomplishments in that area of endeavor were while in service.  Bush's eight years in the White House beg Beckett's line: "We are all born mad. Some remain so."

There are thoughts that Godot (Romney) is a miracle worker of some sort but not everyone agrees.  According to a former Baine and Co. employee, quoted in this past August's Vanity Fair, the memories are mixed.  The person quoted in the article by Nicholas Shaxson recalls Romney a being "nice, he was fair, he was logical...he was really encouraging."  He also recalls Romney, the seeker of vital infomation, selling the philosophy of "falsifying" identies by pretendintg to be a graduatte student (Harvard) at Bain for the summer.  Romney's approach: "We won't ak you to lie.  I am not going to tell you to do this, but (it is) a really good way to get the information." 

We kept looking for the real Romney during the political prelims.  There were all those questions about income tax returns even after he finally came up with reports for 2010 pluz  a 2011 estimate.  He and his wife paid $1.94 million in federal taxes in 2010 on $13.7 million, a rate that falls considerably short of American middle-incomers.  That's because he takes his pay from Bain Capital as investment income.  According to Romney, he never broke the rules while keeping an eye on the White House.  Tx expert Lee Sheppard, quoted in the the Vanity Fair article, suggests that anyone running for President "might want to err on the side of overpaying your taxes, and not chase every tax gimmick that comes down the pike.  It kind of looks tacky."

Romney, tacky?  If it took one to recognize one, then Newt Gingrich's your man.  It was Gingrich who gave us a great take on Romney's offshore accounts and he did it with humor during one of those, otherwise, humor-less debates: "I don't know of any American President who has had a Swiss bank account."  Gingrich could have gone much further but chose brevity as the soul of wit.  Romney has other holdings in such tax havens as the Cayman Islands and Bermuda.

One of Romney's problems has been  the contrast his refusal to release more than one year's worth of tax returns offfers to his open-book father, George.  A cards-up guy all the way, the senior Romney released 12 years' worth immediately prior to his run for the Presidency.  His 1967 comment should bring embarrassment to son Thurston Howell: "One year could be a fluke, perhaps done for show."  We've been waiting a long time for George's son to ante up.

As we now know, Romney finally released 2011 tax information late Thusday plus a re-written 2010 in addition to an accountant's letter outlining the past 20 years.  By doing this on News Dump Friday, Romney and his brain trust ducked tapings of the Sunday political TV shows and bet that short media memories will have bigger fish to fry on Monday.  We shall see. 

The tax "claims" (more than seven years have been available to smooth out the numbers) have a Romney "promise" to be not less than 13%.  They appear to be that.

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Celebrity Meltdown....by Bob Sanders

 

Whether we observed a celebrity meltdown at the recent Republican Convention is anyone's guess but it could very well have been strong evidence of a late-in-life crisis for Clint Eastwood.

Eastwood, whose conversation with a chair occupied by an imaginary President Obama has attracted more than 2,180,000 viewers to a YouTube site, has now explained how the chair came to be.  In an exclusive interview with the Carmel (Calif.) Pine Cone (not to be confused with the Hoboken (N.J.) Pine Cone), East wood insists the chair routine was entirely ad-libbed without any prior thought.  Whatever it was, it drew 28.2 million TV viewers in its 10-11 p.m. live time on the night of dubious distinction.  Fox News on Cable grabbed 9.1 million of the total, more than double that of its combined competition.

These have to be very trying days for the Hollywood icon.  In addition to the pressures of directing, producing and acting in films, there is Eastwood's presumably current peripheral involvement in his wife's TV reality series.  The show, "Mrs. Eastwood and Company," is decidedly hers; on the other hand, it's not easy to avoid the inevitable wifely requests for help in all those creative matters about which he knows so much.  Just to confuse things further, there are the production people whose earlier triumph--"Keeping an Eye on the Kardashians"--may be a preview as they bring to life "Mrs. Eastwood."

Perhaps reference to the show's "life" is a bit excessive.  As things now stand, "Mrs. Eastwood" is more on the comatose side having had but one show out of 10 exposed on the E! Channel.  That exclamation mark in the channel's title is meant to call attention tosuch fare as: "True Hollywood Story" with the acid-tongued Joan Rivers; "Married to Jonas," about newly-weds living in (where else?) New Jersey; and "Keeping an Eye on the Kardashians" whose reality looks at Kim, Khloe, Kourtney and Kris simply must make us happier about ourselves.   Oh, yes.  Part of the original understanding of the deal was that "Mrs. Eastwood" was to be proceeded in its Sunday night time slot by the Kardashians whose average audience is 2.2 million not counting the 10 million who couldn't stay away from the wedding show whose nuptials lasted 72 days.

Poor Clint.  Any even slight confrontation with the Kardashian people must be something like confronting that monumental musician Andre Previn (a master of jazz and classical) with the worst of rap.

So, you ask, how did "Mrs. Eastwood" come to be?  The many ways to be counted began in Capetown, South Africa, where husband Clint and a cast including Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon had gone to film "Invicta."  Along for the ride, Dina Eastwood stumbled upon Overtone, a six-member acappella band whose voices wound up on the film's sound track.  Hey, whatayado on a rainy night in Capetown?  Why, you sign the kids to a contract and become their manager.  Before you could say "Kardashians," or "Osbournes" or "Hogan Knows Best" or "Rori and Dean," you've talked yourself (and others) into (da-da) a reality show.    

Dina Ruiz and Eastwood met when she was a news anchor at KSBW where she interviewed the actor in 1993.  They married in 1996; from the union came daughter Morgan who will be 16 in December.  The Eastwood at-home-for-a-reality-show-clan also includes Francesca, 19, a daughter whose mother is actress Frances Fisher.

Eastwood was pretty cool about the whole thing and even agreed to do three cameos never admitting his awareness of how such roles can be so good that they refuse to go away eventually becoming major members of the cast.  At his very essence, Eastwood remains first and foremost an actor/director aware of the importance of such characters as Scrooge McDuck in Disney films.  Donald's uncle, Scrooge McDuck , has been around in fim since 1967 while his first use in prnt (Four Colors Comics) goes back to 1950.  Film insiders believe Eastwood took his eye off the ball while not paying attention to enough of the minuses of "Mrs. Eastwood."

With the show on hold, some rather odd things have happened to members of the cast.  On July 18, professional photographer Tyler Shields did something stupid while probably attempting to bring attention to the moribund series.  Shields, Francesca's real-life boyfriend and 12 years her senior, decided to take a chain saw to a Hermes Birkin bag whose value was claimed to be $100,000.  The crocodile skin version of the bag was first burned in the names of art and attention-getting.  Hollywood publicity is heavy on photos these days; it's enough to give the paparazzi an even worse name.

Let's call it a sort of flak twofer for Shields who has a Mouthful exhibit in support of "Love is Louder" in Los Angeles.  Looking at pictures of youthful celebrities is similar to seeing still pictures of filmdom's Our Gang with Shields displaying all the maturity of Carl Switzer who played Alfalfa.  Shields has it all with the exception of Switzer's conspicuous cowlick.

Pictured with the thoroughly trashed bag--now bolted to a table in Shields' basement--is Francesca Eastwood whose contribution is playing tug-of-war with the purse in her mouth.  Perhaps that's the connection to the Mouthful exhibit.  Earlier hype for the exhibit involved sawing a pair of Christian Louboudin shoes whose value was not announced.  Live features of the exhibit are giant rabbits and pandas who wander around between games of chess.

August 28 found Overtone singer Valentine (Tino) Ponsonby flipping a white Escalade into four feet of water on Pebble Beach's 17-mile drive not far from where much of the "Mrs. Eastwood" show has been shot.  Ponsonby was booked on suspicion of DUI.

Reality-wise, the pilot show appears to include a high point of the series with the piercing of a belly button.  It is Morgan whose navel is decidedly at risk until Mrs. Eastwood comes to the rescue by offering her belly button to a body artist thereby proving how great a mother's love can be.  The once-played show was reviewed by Linda Stasi in the New York Post.  Her conclusion: "Mrs. Eastwood " is "one really horrible reality show."

"Mrs. Eastwood," obviously in trouble, is going to require some strong story lines to pull this clunker out of what we once called the muck and mire.   Sidebars, always willing to help fill the Hollywood maw, will spitball in William Goldman fashion and there might be a reality gem among the following:

Sondra Locke, who lived with Eastwood 14 years, is now a director and wants to do a documentary about "Mrs. Eastwood."  This plot outline sets up a number of confrontations between Dina and Locke--particularly when she learns Locke has rented the home next door to stay on top of the subject at hand.  The show's conclusion is climaxed by the appearance of the actor/director who enters one of the home's many green rooms and startles both women.  The screen goes to black.

Let's also consider working Sarah Palin into the series.  Maybe Palin and daughter Bristol run into Tino Ponsonby at a skate park.  Bristol goes nuts over the Overtone member although Palin is uneasy never having met anyone from South Africa.  Tino and the other Overtone members live at the Eastwood home where Mrs. Eastwood runs a household that employes five Yupik Eskimos, a remarkable coincidence in that Bristol is 1/16th Yupik.  Titled "Dialectical Variations," the show's verbal concentration is on the Chaplinski variety of Central Siberian Yupik in which heavy syllables remain heavy.  Key to speaking effective Chaplinski is the ability to walk funny while carrying a cane.

The concentration on Central Siberia gives Palin an opportunity to display her vast knowledge of Russia, the nation that continues to fly planes near Wasila, Alaska where the former governor of the state continues to reside while increasing her knowledge of all things Russian with time out for appearances on the "O'Reilly Factor."

Other plot lines come to mind.  Tyler Shields teaches Clint Eastwood how to take pictures; Eastwood, plugging his latest film, "The Trouble with the Curve," launches an attempt to get disgraced former major leaguer Pete Rose accepted into the Hall of Fame; and Dick Cheney gives hunting lessons to an ex-cop who looks very much like Dirty Harry.  The look on Cheney's face doubtless will make Clint Eastwood's day.

Of course, we may be building toward something that could be at the core of Eastwood's talking to unoccupied chairs.  Once upon a time in TVland, there was a Public Television series.  Titled "An American Family," it was about the Loud Family of Santa Barbara whose unscripted disintegration was the first reality show.

Five gets you seven Eastwood will be one happy guy as long as "Mrs. Eastwood" stays on the E! Channel's shelf.

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Less Than Chairitable....by Bob Sanders

 

Already conceded to be among the most bizarre moments in American political convention history, film director Clint Eastwood's use of an empty chair continues to evoke astonishment.  Perhaps reflective of the media's reluctance to fully inspect the recent past in its consummate rush to achieve the next big get, an entertainment industry story but five months old contains a captivating rationale for Eastwood's odd behavior.

Writing in "The Hollywood Reporter," Mathew Belloni reported details of the legendary 82-year-old actor-filmmaker's suit against the owners of a furniture company for selling products branded 'Clint' and 'Eastwood.' 

Published April 7 of this year, the story tells of Eastwood's complaint filed in Los Angeles Superior Court against Evofurniture, maker of entertainment centers, ottomans and chairs.  Also sued were owners Alan Finkelstein and Casey Choron and a website called Inmod.com(http://www.inmod.com). Eastwood claims the stores have used marketing statements such as: "When you're invited into a person's home, you get to see the good, the bad and the ugly.  When visitors come to your home the Clint 47  Entertainment Center makes your family room alone look like you live in a perfect world of a million dollar baby."

As readers of this space have come to appreciate, "Sidebars" presently has a close relationship with "Leaky-Wiks" which, through adept uses of unique electronic devices, is able to report truths which, otherwise, would not come to the public's attention.  What follows is the story behind the Eastwood sage.  It is made possible through highly creative uses of drone Fly-on-the-Wall technology--often called "bugs on bugs."

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Chairs were just one of many furniture products when film icon Clint Eastwood became aware of what Alan Finkelstein and Casey Choron were doing with his name.

In truth, the two were continuing the furniture industry's common marketing use of Hollywood names.  Eastwood, who won Academy Awards as director and producer of "Unforgiven" and "Million Dollar Baby," also was nominated for Best Actor in both films.  Some of the other actors, whose names have been used in furniture industry marketing programs, include: Marlon Brando, Clark Gable, Paul Newman, Elvis Presley and Humphrey Bogart.  It was Bogart's estate that was encouraged recently by a Georgia federal judge's decision that prompted a big bucks suit involving intellectual property.

The Bogart suit, initiated against Ashley Furniture of Arcadia, Wisconsin, claims various kinds of Ashley products are being sold through use of the late actor's name.  Ashley has countered by claiming the furniture in question actually is a reference to Bogart, Georgia, a small northeast community in the state; the firm further says its products, numbering more than 650, carry names that include colors such as Gable Mocha, Brando Cocoa, Newman Oyster, Presley Cafe and Bogart Ocean.

The furniture named for Brando is a sectional variety of considerable size.  Ashley denies the product's spaciousness has anything to do with the star's increasing girth achieved while making classic films.

Sometimes venturesome in creating product names, Chelsea Furniture has a Linda Loveseat, presumably a play on words involving Linda Lovelace, star of the 1972 runaway porno hit "Deep Throat."  Convinced of marketing viability inherent in associating products with all aspects of the film capitol, the firm boasts a chair with upholstery by Simmons called Malibu Wine.

At this juncture of the Eastwood story, a rumor has surfaced suggesting the chair used in the Bob Newhart-esque 12-minute talk to the chair has been purchased by President Obama and placed in the Lincoln Bedroom.  Former U.S. House Speaker Newt Gingrich was one of the first to respond to the rumor suggesting: "If it is true, the presence of the chair in the Lincoln Bedroom is demeaning to the 16th President.  As Stephen A. Douglas, I would be more than willing to debate the chair's presence in the sacred room"

Choosing the right chair was not easy for Eastwood who realized he would likely attract the wrath of both Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert.  It was Stewart who commented: "This is the most joy I've gotten from an old man since Dick Cheney non-fatally shot one in the face.  Give me more!"  Colbert's interview of the chair produced little of interest other than the chair's low esteem of Eastwood.

Sidebars can now report exclusively, because of bugs-on-bugs technology by Leaky-Wiks, that Eastwood, despite reports to the contrary, spent a great deal of time determining the type of seating to be used in his monologue.  First choice was a Barcelona chair designed in 1929 by the German architect Mies van der Rohe but the Hollywood great quickly determined that Mitt Romney might interpret such a choice as indicative of Eastwood's desire to be ambassador to Spain.  Also never really in the running for a similar reason was a chair from IKEA. Although it's possible the film deity may be considering government service as he eases into retirement, Sweden's appalling weather was an admitted challenge although the country's women are appealing to the megastar often called "a serial womanizer."  The father of seven acknowledged children produced in concert with five women, Eastwood has married twice.

A distinct chair selection possibility was a revolving model ruled out because it might remind viewers of Romney's flip-flopping.  Eastwood refused to share his decision-making process with the GOP hierarchy although members of the Swift Boating committee that sank John Kerry's Presidential campaign in 2004 were standing by.  Even the poofbag chair, designed by Francois Poof and brought to Eastwood's attention by both Koch Brothers, was finally determined to hint of homosexuality thus running the risk of losing the votes of white males in southern states--Texas and South Carolina among them.  The idea suddenly went poof.

Another early favorite was the curule chair of hieratic significance in Republican Rome.  Cooler heads prevailed when it was pointed out that Roman Republicans normally charged taxation at the rate of 1% although wars upped the ante to 3% in those good old days treasured by contemporary Republicans if only for low taxation.  Politicians, whose guiding principle back then (hang on to this one) was to get rich, bought votes and created tax farmers who dug up the money for them.  Although Eastwood continues to believe the curule chair to be emblematic of Roman Republicans, Karl Rove's astute understanding of public relations quickly prevailed when he pointed out that only the highest civil officers were allowed to sit on the chair, an upholstered campstool.  Such a chair would have provided unintended dignity to the imagined presence of President Obama.

Even a director's chair was considered but that, of course, was too much of a stretch and eventually turned down since it was extravagantly show businessy while running the risk of reminding the GOP audience of such remarkable directorial talents as Roger Corman, John Waters and Cecile B. DeMille and how Eastwood's skills might be compared with such notables.  Republicans have always had problems with Hollywood (it was truly remarkable that Eastwood was invited to speak considering that one of the industry's hallmarks is the surprise ending) and an imagined shout of "Ready, when you are, Mr. DeMille" could have reverberated quite easily through the stadium thus reducing the effectiveness of the hoped-for reality produced by the old Hollywood hand.  As Billy Wilder once wrote: "Nobody's perfect."

Republican politicos and policy wonks were particularly pleased to learn Eastwood had backed off from the tete-a-tete chair, a type of settee consisting of two connected chairs that allow two people to sit facing one another.  The chair, at first considered "perfect" for the occasion because of the intimacy afforded, was rejected for that very reason.  Aware that Republican politicians are uncomfortable with intimacy except when hitting the sauce at parties away from Washington, D.C. or their home towns, Eastwood wisely determined not to run the risk of promoting blatant though imagined gayness.

Despite all the presumed thought given the selection of the Obama chair, Leaky-Wiks' technology never uncovered Eastwood's final choice before he bolted onstage from a convention green room.  By asking an aide to grab the nearest (and, as it turned out, bland) chair, the actor's actions recalled former President Ronald Reagan who once commented about a tree: "When you've seen one, you've seen them all."

As the mystery of the empty chair deepens, it becomes likely Eastwood's actions may result in a worthwhile addition to our vocabulary.  The word is "Eastwooding" meaning ranting and raving to an inanimate object, something many Chicago Cubs' fans believe announcer Harry Caray did to microphones.  Actually, Eastwood's use of the empty chair is not a political original.  It goes back to 1924 and the Democratic Party's convention held in Des Moines.  It was Montana Senator Burton K. Wheeler who used what now must be called the old empty chair routine in attacking Republican President Calvin Cooledge.

One of those distinctly possible rationales for Eastwood's actions may be a bit subtle for politicians.  There are Hollywood insiders who believe the actor/director/producer was merely issuing a warning to the furniture business to back off.  Dirty Harry with chair in hand is unquestionably a threat to kneecaps.

Meanwhile, Eastwood is unavailable for comment.  He's on the road flaking his latest film, "The Trouble With the Curve."  Perhaps, that's what he threw at the GOP.

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Big Mouths....by Bob Sanders

 

Her professional clothes were designed by "Omar of Omaha," she wrote 75 percent of her material, her nude photos were judged too good by Playboy (the magazine was going for laughs), and she performed as guest pianist with more than 100 of the Nation's symphony orchestras.

Her name was Phyllis Diller.  She died last week in Brentwood at 95 and those at her bedside said she went out with a smile, thoroughly i keeping with her having been a very, very funny lady.  If she hadn't created such a long and successful career starting at age 37, she probably would have died in St. Louis rather than the Los Angeles suburb.

I had lunch with Diller in the Gateway to the West not long after being named TV Guide regional manager of a large chunk of real estate that included St. Louis.  Transportation in those days was of particular importance to entertainers and St. Louis' central location was a major career consideration.  Diller had achieved her initial success doing stand-up at the Purple Onion while working days writing copy at a San Francisco radio station.  That was in 1955 and it wasn't long before she was being seen on the shows of Jack Paar, Red Skelton and Jack Benny.

If memory serves, the luncheon was somewhere in the Gaslight Square area where Diller had held forth at the Crystal Palace, creative home of other talented people--among them song writers Fran Landesman and Tommy Wolf whose credits include "Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most" from their "The Nervous Set."

The Diller luncheon included four other members of what was then called the press and I believe my invitation was decidedly more of an acknowledgement of my magazine's national stature rather than any impressive local strength.  A difficult market for TV Guide in those days, St. Louis had but three stations, one a UHF.  Diller's arrival from suburban Webster Groves was in a Rolls-Royce and she stayed in character complete with the cigarette holder, a crazy hat and clothes tastefully reduced in impact from her TV appearances.  Her cackling voice and references to "Fang," her brilliant and oft-used comedic invention, were on target and her best line, one of many alluding to her attire, was: "You know you're old when someone compliments you on your alligator shoes, and you're barefoot."

My luncheon with Diller was oddly precient involving recognition on my part that her body, then 42, would have been appreciated by Playboy photographers.  Nude photographs of her were submittd to the magazine two years later and I went to work for Hugh Hefner in 1968.  Oddly enough, during my tenure with Playboy, I never became aware of the Diller photographs nor the "rejection" story until the facts were mentioned in her obituaries.

As many of us now know, Hefner began using photographs of celebrities older than the girls next door.  That was more than 30 years ago; Terry Moore has been the oldest at 55 followed by Nancy Sinatra (54), Vicki LaMotta (51) and Farrah Fawcett (50).  One has to wonder if Diller provided the original nudge some six years after the magazine's first issue with Marilyn Monroe on the cover.  It seems a bit surreal to include Phyllis Diller and Marilyn Monroe in the same sentence but life can, indeed, be curious.  Of more than passing interest are those Diller nude shots.  At least one survives and is included in her 2005 autobiography, Like a Lampshade in a Whorehouse.

Diller's greatest contribution to comedy probably was paving the way for a future generation of feminine big mouths including Roseanne Barr, Sarah Silverman and Joan Rivers who, come to think of it, is still being outragous while nearing 80.  The latter's introduction to comedy was as a writer for Diller with the most valuable lesson learned being the mileage achieved from self-directed barbs.

While Diller could be described as a somewhat beguiling big mouth (her work was remarkably clean), such was not the case with Howard Cosell, the sports journalist who transformed an obnoxious one-of-a-kind persona into a much-copied norm for sports broadcasting.

Indeed, there was and continues to be but one Cosell who once said of himself: "Arrogant, pompous, obnoxious, vain, cruel, verbose, a showoff.  I have been called all of these.  Of course, I am."

Until Cosell became a household name in the mid-50s, sports broadcasters were largely a breed inventing their craft as they blathered along with home team announcers most often referred to as "homers."  The term remains in use today largely because of the role played by ownerships, particularly baseball, in choosing broadcast teams.  Vin Scully, now pushing 90, is a notable exception and before him such worthies as Graham McNamee and Ted Husing.  It was McNamee, a budding opera singer, who invented play-by-play prior to Husing coming on board as a crossover from news and political conventions coverage.  Arrogant, opinionated, even coarse, Husing could have been the role model for Cosell.

Cosell also was impressive with none of Scully's class and you either thought he was wonderful or an outrage.  Assuming a "tell it like it is" approach, the one-time lawyer (he was admitted to the New York State Bar in 1941), began on ABC with pre- and post-game shows of the then brand new New York Mets.

While baseball was a springboard to fame for Cosell, it was boxing and "Monday Night Football" that cemented his relationship with fans.  It was Cosell's defense of Muhammad Ali who, while still fighting under his birth name, Cassius Clay, refused to be inducted into the military.   Cosell's four years U.S. Army service during World War II made his defense of Ali a lot easier.

Cosell transformed sports reporting and nothing could have been of greater reportorial contrast than the work of Jerome Herman ("Dizzy") Dean whose approach was more than bizarre.  Baseball was his game (he remains the last National League pitcher to win 30 games) and his base runners "slud" into third base while sometimes "returning to their respectable bases."  Inclined to mount evidence that good pitchers must be of stout heart, Dizzy suggested that one possessed "testicle fortitude." 

Until Cosell came along with an intellectual approach, sports broadcast reporting was heavy on cliches and light on stories behind the stories.  His feuds, particularly with New York sports columnists Dick Young and Jimmy Cannon, were classics.  Cannon once suggested: "This is a guy who changed his name, put on a toupee and tried to convince the world that he tells it like it is;  If Howard Cosell were a sport, he'd be the roller derby."

In a very real sense, Cosell legitimatized the sports loud mouth and probably helped open the door, if briefly, for Rush Limbaugh.  ESPN hired the master of hate radio to contribute his limited football knowledge to "Sunday Night Countdown."  That was in the fall of 2003 with Limbaugh lasting less than a month by making racist remarks about Philadelphia Eagles' quarterback Donovan McNabb.

Sports broadcasting's big mouths are many these days with demands made by cable's 24/7 the biggest factor.  A lot of time has to be chewed up and the need for panels of experts results in an obvious contrast to sports anchors on 30-minute newscasts.  About as colorful as network sports broadcasters are allowed to be can be found on golf coverage now the province of CBS, NBC and the Golf Channel.  Johnny Miller of NBC is often peevish while CBS' Gary McCord is consistently amusing as he makes light of a sport that takes itself too seriously.  McCord, still barred from The Masters for nearly 20 years following his description of the 17th green as appearing to be "bikini waxed," is the same guy who split his pants while bending over a putt at the 1984 Fed Ex St. Jude Classic.  Unfortunately, he was without underwear and, after brief embarrassment, bought fellow pro Peter Jacobson's rain pants for $20.  McCord and David Feherty of Golf Channel are the sport's best.

Such ESPN cable carpers as Tony Kornheiser, Colin Cowherd ("The Herd") and "Mike & Mike in the Morning" have shown promise as certified blowhards.  The best of the bunch may be Samuel A. Smith whose boorishness is decidedly of the Cosell School.  A writer for the Philadelphia Inquirer since 1994, Smith had his column yanked in 2007.  Arbitration ensued and he was reinstated while forced to remove political views from his website and cable news shows.  Called "a self-promoting, race-based gasbag" by the New York Post, Smith does radio shows for stations in New York and Los Angeles.  National exposure comes in the form of ESPN's "First Take" with Skip Bayless who can be counted upon to run counter to most of Smith's opinions.  Smith has referred to himself as "a cross between Bill O'Reilly and Larry King" and has been known to change his mind as often as Mitt Romney.  The NBA is his special province and he was a special commentator on the Michael Jackson memorial funeral service.  

Smith may very well be Cosell's heir apparent yet there have been times when I was convinced any mantle assumption would be by Jay Mariotti whose loud mouth career has been stalled by a series of misadventures climaxed by being charged with stalking and assaulting his ex-girlfriend.  His 2010 court appearance (he pleaded no contest, got five years probation) was highlighted by the charge that he allegedly demanded "as a high profile sports writer and general celebrity" that the ex-girl friend get plastic surgery.  A writer of 17 years for the Chicago Sun-Times, Mariotti was employed by ESPN at the time of his arrest in Los Angeles.  His work there included "Around the Horn" while occasionally hosting "Pardon the Interruption."  He has been without work for three years.

Boistrous and obnoxious, Mariotti was so offensive to Sun-Times film critic Roger Ebert that the Pulitzer winner challenged Mariotti's inclination to write sensationalist columns while working at his paper.

This just in.  Jim Rome, who left ESPN for a CBS radio gig in January, will go CBS  Sports Network  all the way when he finalizes a deal to do "Rome," a 30-minute daily cable TV show on the network that debuted in April.  Rome may be recalled as a guy who works his name into his show titles as in "Rome is Burning."

Rome may be recalled for an in-studio interview conducted early in his career with NFL quarterback Jim Everett.  Convinced that Everett was a bit shy when confronted by NFL tacklers, Rome began calling him "Chris," a reference to female tennis star Chris Evert.  Everett eventually took Rome to the floor while on the air.  A desk that had separated them, was overturned.

Word is that Rome, once again, will make certain his interviews will be conducted over a very sturdy desk.

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Putting the Oooh in Tattoo....by Bob Sanders

 

Bennie ("Poppa") Andrews celebrated his 100th birthday recently.  A party celebrating his  life was held at the Blaine Boat Center and it was a delightful experience as friends and relatives paid homage to a man of impressive good fellowship.  Once a Heronwood resident in Bellingham's Cordata Neighborhood, Poppa used to live down the street from us with son Ben and Ben's wife, Dee.  Poppa now resides at Blaine's Stafholt Good Samaritan Center.

Blaine, located immediately south of the Canadian border, is about as Fourth Corner as one can get and a trip of considerable length for many of the Andrews clan who came from as far away as North Carolina and Texas.  Musical entertainment for 50 attendees was provided by Poppa's grandchildren and great grandchildren and this tough audience found himself applauding enthusiastically.

The celebration was, in many ways, a throwback to those days when I was growing up, when this country had its priorities in reasonable order, and when politics were discussed rationally.  As an irresistible observation, Poppa's party goers were totally free of tattoos although it's true I don't have Superman's X-ray eyesight.  

Those of us of relatively advanced years (I'll be 87 next May, a suggestion that my longevity bottle is half-full) become increasingly aware of "the age thing" as we observe a changing America panting for the latest electronic fad.  A recent and frightening study tells us that 16 percent of those who text in public merely fake such action, apparently fearful of social intercourse of a non-technical nature.  Those who text and wear headphones at the same time are presumed to be particularly guarded while the added wearing of both Obama and Romney campaign buttons obviously add an exclamation point to such behavior.  Hey, folks, get a life.  I got one a long time ago.

Sometimes I wonder what I might choose as tattoo art were I to take the unlikely plunge and add a decorative note to my flesh?  Would I recognize the past or express hope and glad tidings about the future?  Would I pay homage to, say, the Works Progress Administration (WPA) that did so many good things--schools and artistic achievement among them back in FDR's era--or, perhaps, suggest that this country's last war of any merit was World War II?  Maybe, an effective tattoo would be the number of total U.S. military deaths achieved by the politicians who send our people off to such foolishness as our continuing misadventures in Iraq and Afghanistan?  That number since 1946 would be 152,965 and we're still counting.  But wait.  What about civilian casualties now believed to represent 90 percent of ALL casualties?  At that point, we're talking well over a million total casualties.  I think the left forearm where Hitler forced Jews to wear an identification number in some of his concentration camps would be an appropriate place.

Then there's that remarkable gaggle of Republicans who have run afoul of a party no longer willing to embrace what they once stood for.  As we gird ourselves for the Republican National Convention now pushed back at least a day in what will soon be a very damp Tampa, let us remember that such stalwarts as George W. Bush, Dick Cheney (war criminals if ever there were two), Condoleezza Rice, and Sarah Palin are among the vast array of non-speakeres for the party.  How quickly they forget.  Perhaps an appropriate tattoo, representing how far to the right the party has moved, might be a stoutly written shout: "I Remember Barry Goldwater" or "Dick Cheney...the Voice of Reason."  I'd feel compelled to somehow work the Halliburton logo into a Cheney remembrance.

The fertile field of politics certainly deserves additional inspection as a tattoo possibility.  I'm particularly drawn to those U.S. House members of the GOP (Tea Party Division) who, sufficiently boozed up, frolicked naked a year ago in the Sea of Galilee where Jesus reportedly walked on water.  Highly inclined to boast of a flawless America, the TPers performed in outstanding hypocritical fashion while conducting spirited blasphemy.  Of course, we shouldn't expect too much from people with a 10 percent approval rating.  In terms of honoring the event, a proper disfigurement might show a naked TPer walking on the waters of Galilee.

How could I possibly not bring into consideration Wall Street whose greed and criminal minds have produced such outrageous financial mendacity with prison no more threatening than the last firefly of summer.  Maybe a line such as "I've Got Mine" accompanied by the logos of such greedmeisters as Goldman Sachs, JP Morgan Chase, Bank of America, Wells Fargo and all the rest would do the trick.  John Corzine, who lost track of a couple of billion dollars, also is hard to ignore.  Perhaps a tattoo of Corzine's head, complete with a green beard composed of Woodrow Wilson $100,000 bills, would be appropriate.

Then there's the sporting world with so much potential one hardly knows where to begin.  A good start would be Penn State, the biggest collegiate loser in a long time thanks to pedophile coach Jerry Sandusky, university leaders who looked the other way for 15 year and the dumbed down townfolk of State College who managed to acquire a major case of selective deafness.  No question that a tat of coach Joe Paterno (his now-removed statue comes to mind) would be in better taste than a Sandusky remembrance.

Fealty also could be paid to gang membership although I've never been a gang member being much too anti-social.  I neither tweet nor do I have hundreds of "friends" on a Facebook wall largely because I don't need any more than I have.  Other than viewing "Westside Story," I don't know anything about gangs but the pussycat Jets and Sharks would appear to be choices of contrst to today's violence.  I guess that's further proof of our worsening America.  How about the orginal black and red "West Side Story" logo to suggest how tranquil were gangs in the good old days?

States like Florida and Texas offer great potential for tattoo spoofs.  Not attempting in any way to invade Palin's new words turf, but we could call such body art tatspoofery."  Both states have a lot of crazies both real and in training.  Florida's unique approach to automobile driving education is, as actor Spencer Tracy used to say: "cherce."  He meant "choice" and we accept Tracy's version of New Yorkese as he plays a shady sports promoter in "Pat and Mike."  

As discussed in a recent column, Florida has a lot of drawbacks as a place to live although the old folks there have a chance in the upcoming election to right what went wrong in 2000 when the state was stolen.  Driving among oldsters is always challenging but an out-of-touch legislature is currently displaying a reluctance to pass a single distracted driving law.  While more than 70 percent of Florida voters support a ban on text messaging while driving, the legislature has been turning down safety bills since 2006 when the problem was timidly referred to as "hands free."  Maybe some body art involving an alligator texting behind the wheel would do the trick.  Another possibility would be calling attention to Florida's glory as the fraud capital of the U.S.  The reputation was established long before Bernie Madoff ripped off friends and relatives in Palm Beach, his favorite hunting ground.  Fraud complaints, the largest of any state, numbered 130,449 last year.  Dead beat Florida also led the Nation in home foreclosures and identity theft and had impressive credit card debt records with four cities in the top 25.  We'll save Texas for a later date; it's just too big to squeeze into this week's space.

I'm not sure how I'd handle the challenge of a tattoo since there's always a tomorrow when people, contronted by my adornment, might mutter something along the lines of" "What about Bob?"  Highly satisfactory would be Mort Sahl's most repeated line:"The future lies ahead."  It makes sense to honor one of our truly great humorists.

Then, again, maybe I'd skip the ink job and opt for a piercing.  Being retired and essentially un-hireable, I wouldn't be fearful of not being employed as a waiter, a considerable problem for many tat-bedecked young people who must obey strict codes of attire that often include dirty jeans of four-inch overload and cover-up Band Aids.  There's nothing quite as startling as an exasperated diner exclaiming: "Look, there's an earring in my soup."

One thing's for certain should I throw some business at the body art community.  I'm not letting any of the body piercing types near my navel.  Having recently noted the onrush of interest in golf's belly putter, I wouldn't want to impair what is becoming the anchor position of putting deliverance.  After all, I might return to the game and join the Senior Tour.

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Straight Down the Muddle....by Bob Sanders

 

Professional golf, the only major sport whose players are not unionized, has management both brisk and mysterious.  Little is known about the boards that govern the sport other than the existence of a 16-member Player Advisory Council that reports to a PGA Tour Policy Board whose nine largely veiled members include four tour players plus five of impressive Corporate America lineage.  It is they who internalize the professional sport's unique underpinnings: the rules of the game.

In its never-ending pledge to shine light on those dark and musty corners of troubled American contemporary life, Sidebars, in concerted and highly unconventional efforts with LeakyWiks, has invaded the hallowed halls of professional golf through intrusive efforts originally revealed more than a year ago in "Flygate."  Acclaimed as the first fly-on-the-wall reportage, the journalistic breakthrough now has made possible access to golf's innermost secrets.

The scene is the board room of the Tenth of One Percent Country Club in Florida's Fruit of the Loon County.  All members of the PGA Policy Board are present for the special meeting called in spite of the 2012-15 rules changes already having been voted into place. 

                  Hugh Bristic:            

"In opening this meeting, I'd like to offer a warm welcome   to the tour board members.  It seems like only yesterday that you fellows were required to enter clubs like One Tenth of One by the back door.  Emancipation comes in many forms and you chaps, once considered the hired help, were early winners."

            Bubba Niblick:

"My things have changed and I guess change is why we've gathered here.  As I understand it, the public's increasing appetite for the belly putter exceeds that of our professional level where we have less stomach for it.  Let me offer the observation that steady equipment improvement has been a hallmark of golf and 350 yard drives would not be possible today were we playing with Bobby Jones wooden sticks.  Just as the mulligan will not be given up by once-a-week golfers, it is also true that the public welcomes the decline of scores just as baseball fans want more home runs from Alex Rodriguiz.  It's all about scoring and soccer continues to struggle because of a lack of it."

        Ben Bumptious:

"Thanks, Bubba.  Well put and I'd like to follow up with a comment about another of our problems--namely, logos.  As a member of the Progressive Insurance board, I seem to recall this bodacious body turning down my proposal that Flobot, one of Progresssive's intensely branded advertising weapons, be allowed to caddy for Charley Duckhook in this year's Masters."

Bod E. Orifice:

"Glad you brought that one up, Ben.  That didn't sit well with my board at Gold Libertarians.  Just between us, I heard a rather startling rumor that a gold consortium is coming up with a scheme to have one of the top pros painted gold before every round of the next PGA.  Sort of like what Goldfinger did to that girl in the Bond film."

Woody Cleek:

"Hey, now.  Talk like that is as welcome as a fried egg lie in the Road Hole bunker at St. Andrews.  Funny you should mention metal, though.  News Corporation approached me regarding silver; something about linking me to the FOX Financial channel and becoming the Silver FOX.  My agent tells me it was Stuart Varney's idea."

Bud Bunker:

"Pretty strange getting anything financial out of Varney these days.  He spends most of his time trying to elect Romney.  Hey, is Romney a golfer?"

Bod E. Orifice:

"If he is, he's sure hiding it while criticizing Obama for playing too much of our sport which is pretty funny when you consider Ike teed it up something like 800 times while in office.  I'll bet Romney's a closet golfer with a swing like Doug Sanders."

Bubba Niblick:

"Got it wrong, kiddo.  Doug swung like he was in a phone booth."

Bod E. Orifice:

"Same thing."

Bubba Niblick:

"Not so.  There are closets and then there are closets.  Didya hear about the hedge fund manager suing his poker pro ex-wife for a large percentage of her shoe collection valued at more than a million bucks.  He didn't know she has 1,200 pair, a number big enough to require a walk-in closet that would have handled Doug's goofy swing, his caddy and the entire CBS broadcast crew."

Banks Offshore:

"Let's get back to having a pro golfer painted gold like Shirley Eaton in 'Goldfinger.'  How come the FOX stations have so many gold ads?"

Bill Bottomline:

"Well, old sport, gold is very appealing to libertarians and others of a conservative bent who buy into FOX's basic appeal to those of gloom and doom.  The guns, gold and greed devotees were pretty disturbed when Glenn Beck left FOX but Rupert's people seem to have held onto the gold advertisers quite nicely."

Ben Bumptious:

"Yes, but it's the lustrous logos that appeal to the touring pros.  Take the always exciting Jim Furyk who has a $2 million three-year deal with Johnnie Walker menswear to sport a logo on the back of his shirt collar.  That's in adition to two chest logos plus one on his right sleeve.  He's starting to look like a NASCAR entry."

Hugh Bristic: 

Gentlemen.  "If we've squeezed, forgive the mixed metaphor, all we can out of gold and logos, let's hit one straight down the middle and turn our attention to the belly putter.  As we know, such golfers as Webb Simpson and Keegan Bradley are enjoying pronounced success on the tour and some of their short stick brothers are unhappy.  The subject is open for discussion."

"Soft" Fade:

To put it mildly, old bean, we professionals are hoist on petty petards of our own industry's creation--long putters whose functioning is centered under the chin or anchored to the belly.  It seems to me we're looking at unfair advantage and a total disregard for the spirit of the game when a golfer's stomach becomes part of the putting stroke.  I wonder how many majors Craig Stadler might have won had he used the belly putter?  The Walrus utilizing the dunlop is a horror story beyond anything written by Stephen King."  

Ben Bumptious:

"What in the world is a dunlop?"

"Soft" Fade:

"That's old timey Tom Morris talk taken from the expression: 'done lopped over your belt.'"

I.B. Bottomline:

"Why in hell do we call it a belly putter? That's such a dumb name in obese America.  Talk about bad public relations."

Woody Cleek:

"It could be worse.  How about the paunch putter, the bay window stick or the corporation club?  Other words and phrases come to mind including gut, bread bucket and spare tire.  Of course, the British would spell that last one with a y.  No, let's let bad enough alone.  Let's play this one as it lays."

Hugh Bristic:

"Who started this belly putter business?"

Bubba Niblick: 

"Some guy named Richard T. Parmley.  That was in 1965 and Phil Rodgers was the only touring pro to use it in the '60s.  Not much happened until Paul Azinger took it on late in 1999.  That was following a bout with cancer.  His putting had been all over the place: 143rd in 1997, 111th in 1999, then 4th in 2000.  Suddenly the Zinger could putt and he won the Sony Open by seven strokes.  Azinger has been an inspiration."

I.B. Bottomline:

"Bubba, you seem to have an historical perspective on the belly putter.  While this board is independent of the Royal & Anncient and the USGA in regard to professional rules and conduct of our cherished athletes, I wonder if you have any wisdom to import?"

Bubba Niblick:

"Indeed, I do.  During recent days, my agent has been checking out various plastic surgeons like the guy who has done the most work on Joan Rivers.  If winning golf tournaments involves successful anchoring of the putter in my navel, then you can bet your ass my belly button will be precedent-setting in terms of being the most accommodating"

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Whatshisname?....by Bob Sanders

 

I guess anyone with a computer and a curiosity plays a game I call Whatever Happened to Whatshisname?  I did it the other day and learned that Ray Tarrington left this great party in 1997.  A rather lengthy obituary included his age, 71; the place of death: Washington, Kansas; and the cause of death: heart failure.

There was quite a bit in the obit I didn't know about him.  Raised in Seattle, he played jazz trumpet, had his own band, saw U.S. Navy service in both Pacific and European Theaters including the D-Day Landings in Normandy, and was a graduate of Northwestern University.  We were born within a few months of each other.

Ray Tarrington wasn't his real name but I'll use it out of respect for him.  He was a helluva guy--easily the most enthusiastic person I've yet to meet.  It was that enthusiasm that made him an outstanding sports broadcaster eventually enabling him to pursue radio management and other enterprises.

I met Ray in 1959 shortly after arriving in Kansas City having been transferred by TV Guide from a rather lonely outpost in the Quad Cities where the most exciting aspect of working for the magazine involved the printer and a reluctant press that broke down every month or so.  Not to get too far off this story's main thrust but Ernie Somebody, who directed press operations during my 17-months tenure, once ran his boat aground very close to the bridge that connects Davenport and Rock Island.  It was a bridge too close and enabled Ernie's out-for-a-drive wife to see her thoroughly besotted husband and a very attractive shipmate stumbling around the boat's deck.  With authorities involved, a headline over a picture in one of the local papers proclaimed Ernie's efforts as one of being Scotched on the Rocks.  I promise to write further about highly unlikely Quad City adventures.

I was deligthted to be in K.C.--particularly so because of Tarrington who showed me the town while introducing me to such people as former Mayor Roe Bartle, baseball's Charley Finley and singer Marilyn Maye.  Bartle was a lot of fun, Finley was strange and Maye, then in the midst of an 11-year run at mid-town's The Colony, was eventually discovered by Steve Allen.  With a record 76 appearances on Johnny Carson, she remains a singer of great taste and good enough, at 84, to play such disparate venues as Birdland, Feinstein's and The Metropolitan Room in New York.

Tarrington managed WDAF radio having earned his broadcast spurs while describing University of Missouri and University of Kansas football and basketball games.  He had a solid relationship with Bill Bates, general manager of both WDAF radio and TV, and I quickly realized the childless Bates regarded Ray as the son he never had.  The stations, originally owned by the Kansas City Star, were more of those embarrassment of riches with the newspaper another awkward handler of its electronic wonderkinds.

Sportscasters all have behind-the-scenes stories to tell about the business and Ray was no different.  One of Bates' dictums was that all sports spielers should never allow three minutes to pass without revealing the score.  One of Ray's prized possessions was a Bates' gift, an egg timer whose pouring sands reminded Ray to give listeners the score.   

Early on Ray and I discovered a mutual fondness for golf and it wasn't long before we were spending goodly chunks of Saturdays at Blue Hills where Bates was a member.  Our foursome was filled out by Bob Hanger, an advertising executive who had co-founded Jones & Hanger.  Among the agency's accounts was WDAF.  As related in a prior column titled Golf Linkage, we also played the south side's Hillcrest where our adventures once included the consumption of 64 beers after a round.  The impressive tippling produced impairment of our marriages; one, Tarrington's, was irreparable.  I learned years later than Hanger married Ray's ex-wife.

Ray's second marital venture involved a statuesque daughter of a very wealthy Phillips Petroleum executive.  Although I never met her having been transferred by TV Guide to Los Angeles early in 1966, I did receive details from both mutual friends and Tarrington when we hooked up in L.A. that year.  By that time, Ray had taken leave of broadcasting having decided to provide consul to athletes' general inability to deal with the media.  That aspect of sports remains a problem today although contemporary jocks, spoiled by the remarkable amounts of money thrown at them, are inclined to simply become "unavailable" unless being the producer of, say, a walk-off hit--a certain curtain call for a broadcast interview.  "Was it a fast-ball or a slider you hit into the right field stands?"

Ray's striking enthusiasm was a major factor in his ability to communicate with and teach people like Los Angeles Dodger shortstop Maury Wills how to work with the media.  Among L.A.'s major buzzes back then were rumors that Wills and actress Doris Day had been having a fling since 1962.  The story was told by Wills in his biography On the Run and denied by Day in A.E. Hotchner's look at the actress in Her Own Story.  If true, I believe Ray would have confirmed the rumors.  He didn't.

A decidedly open guy, Ray told me some great stories about his marriage to the stunning blonde who, by the time we re-connected, was an ex-wife once described by him as "looking like something wondrous from a Wagnerian chorus while being imposing enough to carry a sword."  Ray had a way with both words and women.

It was not long after their marriage that Ray, having determined to sleep in one morning heard some strange and powerful mechanical sounds coming from his Kansas City backyard.  More than a bit groggy from excessive libation the night before, a groggy "Tarrington staggered to a window where he observed a very large machine digging a humongous hole in the ground.  The sometimes forgetful wife had neglected to tell him she had ordered construction of a wimming pool.  Details, details.

Relations with her did not improve when the couple made the move to California.  A trip to San Francisco produced another and final adventure when the twosome quarreled in what is now called the Westin St. Francis Hotel.  When Ray awakened the next morning, he quickly realized the blonde bombshell had tossed every stitch of his clothing out a 10th floor window.  

The day of the 1966 Academy Awards offered further insight into Tarrington's relationships with women.  A noon-ish phone call I received was disturbing; it was from a friend of Ray's who said my name had been mentioned by him a number of times and she thought I would be a person to provide some analysis for what she believed was a frightening admission on his part.  The woman was fearful Ray was considering suicide.  I attempted to reassure her that Ray seemed in good spirits the last time I had seen him.

That year's Oscar awards was the one featuring wins for Julie Christie and Lee Marvin.  In the company of the Guide's Joe Finnigan (he wrote the magazine's Hollywood yellow pages), I was positioned in the basement of the Santa Monica Auditorium near a small platform that enabled Oscar recipients to move from the photo op area to one created for print interviews.

Given her award on stage by prior year's winner Julie Andrews,  Christie (she won Best Leading Actress for "Darling") and Andrews ("Mary Poppins") headed for the steps where I stood.  At that time, Andrews was arguably the biggest star in the business and she appeared to be enjoying her fellow Brit's good fortune.  Then I noticed Andrews' bemused smile.

"How quickly they forget," was my observation to her as she hung back on the tiny platform while Christie was enveloped by those anxious to get reaction from filmdom's new flavor of the year.  Andrews laughed and we chatted a few moments while Christie was engaged by the media horde.  The scene offered further suggestion that success in show business can be such a fragile matter.

Soon I was at a party at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel chatting with Angie Dickinson, seated at the end of a bar with then husband Burt Bacharach whose mind seemed elsewhere.  Perhaps he was composing music in his head or, maybe, I was the 28th guy that night to strike up a conversation with his gorgeous wife.

My mind kept shifting back to the conversation about Ray Tarrington.  I had handled the situation rather badly and was giving the woman's concern much more credence.  In an attempt to assume some responsibility in the matter, I called Bates in Kansas City.  It was about 1 a.m. back there and Bill was a bit disgruntled upon picking up the phone, then listened as I told him about the call from the woman and Ray's apparent threat to take his life.

There was a long pause at the other end.  "Bill, Bill.  Are you there?" I pleaded.

Long pause.  "Yes, I am," he answered.

"What do you think?" I asked.  "I mean about Jay killing himself."

"Well, Bob," replied Bates.  "That's what Jay tells all the girls."

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Ric's....by Bob Sanders

 

The first time I had a drink at Ric's was during the summer of 1958.  I was in Chicago for TV Guide meetings of midwestern sales people and, not being a salesman, wasn't certain why I was invited.  I recall nothing involving the meetings other than escaping for a drink at Ric's with John Higgins.  We sat outdoors on a balcony overlooking on-the-make Rush St.  In those days, Ric's was known as the "Montmartre of the Midwest" whose superb location between the Daily News/Sun Times building and theTribune was perfect for journalists.

Higgins was a salesman and very good as I had learned in Rochester, NY where earlier we had advanced the TV Guide sometimes arriving at work to be met by Toronto advertising people shoving camera-ready ads in our faces.  Strict Canadian liquor advertising laws plus the Guide's weekly Lake Ontario Edition circulation of 700,000 had the Canucks begging for ad space.  As a side note, there was nothing vaguely similar to Ric's in Rochester and I'd be inclined to bet the ranch this many years later that what was true then continues today.  

Ric's (its formal name was Riccardo's Restaurant) was one of those places of considerable appeal to artists and writers, a condition worked to advantage by Ric who was a painter, dancer, musician and chef.  Ric, born in Italy three years after the turn of the century, first had a restaurant on South Oakley.  Prohibiton was in full swing as was Al Capone and the WPA (Works Progress Administration) whose Illinois Art Project provided work for artist friends--among them twin brothers Ivan and Malvin Albright, Aaron Bohrod and William Schwartz.  Riccardo (born Riccardo Novaretti), inspired by the work of his friends, did a lot of painting, then bought a former speakeasy at the corner of Rush Street and Hubbard and established Riccardo Restaurant and Gallery.  Hanging his paintings on the walls, he invited friends to participate in monthly exhibitions.

It was in 1947 that Ric purchased adjoining space in which he created a palette-shaped bar asking his pals to paint some panels.  Telling the artists not to check out each other's work, he gave six of them assignments dealing with The Arts.  Ivan Albright (his most famous work would be "The Picture of Dorian Gray") did Drama (Mephistopheles) while brother Malvin painted Sculpture.  Others included: Bohrod's Architecture; Vincent D'Agostino's Painting; Rudolph Weisenborn's Literature; Schwartz's Music; and Riccardo's Dance.  Seated at the Palette Bar, I found myself fascinated by the brilliance of those WPA Chicago School efforts, particularly Albright's fiendish Mephistopheles.  I later learned that Ric was the model for the recently-married Albright and that Mephistopheles' thoroughly ugly legs were inspired by those of Albright's bride, Josephine Medill Patterson, a member of the Medill/McCormick'Patterson family of journalists.  Not nice, but artists always strive for truth.  During my time in Chicago (1968-1989), the Palette Bar was rarely less than two deep shortly after 5 p.m. on weekdays.

An artist's life is rarely easy and so it was with Ric's pals.  There are no records, for example, suggesting that the Albrights were ever paid for their Palette Bar efforts.  It appears that spaghetti dinners went a long way then.  Ivan and Malvin received $75,000 for "Dorian Gray" but that was Hollywood money.  On the other hand, Ivan, cheekiest of the Chicago artists, was known to ask $100,000 for a painting while suggesting that he was "every bit as good as any old master."  Ivan Albright was the best of the Chicago School.   

Not all of Ric's friends were artists.  Ike Sewell, like Riccardo a U.S. soldier in Italy during World War II, became smitten by pizza and wound up getting credit for bringing the dish to Chicago via Uno's Pizzeria.  Because he knew nothing about restaurant business management let alone cooking, Sewell made a friend of Riccardo who did.  Oddly enough, Sewell wanted the restaurant to be Mexican, a bad test enchilada was prepared, and Riccardo promptly became ill.  The dauntless duo then turned to plan B pizza and that's how deep dish pizza and not chimichangas came to Chicago and, perhaps, why we have Tex-Mex rather than Chi-Mex.  Taking a step further, we, otherwise, might be salivating today for pizza tostadas.

Ric, a true Renaissance man, was 51 when he died in 1954.  His son, Rick, Jr., then serving with the army in Korea, took over the restaurant although his heart wasn't in it.  Possessing nowhere near his dad's work ethic, Rick had visions of becoming an actor and appeared in a number of local plays.  Married and divorced three times by 1975, he was close to broke from alimony and child support.  One night he sold the Ivan Albright and Bohrod panels for $1,000 each; those knowledgeable about details of the sale suggest Riccardo was drunk at the time.

Unable to catch a break, Rick Riccardo found himself taking a strange driving route from Chicago to Los Angeles.  It was in 1977 by way of Phoenix and he drove 30 miles west of there pulling over in Buckeye for a bite to eat.  Rather than head for pasta or pizza, he chose a steak house and choked to death among Heimlich maneuver-less diners.

Much has been written about Ric's whose food, while hardly haute cuisine, was basic, Italian, dependable and reasonably priced.  It was 10 years before Rick's death that columnist Jory Graham commented about the dashing restaurateur whose eye roved far too often over his female customers rather than concentrating on culinary efforts: "Mr. Richard (Rick) Riccardo hasn't changed the decor an iota since his father's day, so the restaurant still has its pleasant timeless atmosphere--strolling guitarist, accordionist and singing waiters--and the bar still swings under its famous Seven Lively Arts murals."

I moved to Chicago for Playboy Enterprises the next year.  While whatever carousing I did was pretty much concentrated at the north end of Boul Mich and Hugh Hefner's home, I became aware of Riccardo's and outstanding bartenders Jose and Peter plus a magnificent waiter, Bobby Estrada, whose approach to his profession was reminiscent of Victor Borge's to music.  Inclined to sit at the bar of generous pour, I became aware that one of Bobby's tables was that of the great editorial cartoonist John Fischetti, then with the still alive Daily News..  Seven years later, I counted myself fortunate to sit often at Fischetti's table when I began doing public relations for both the Daily News and Sun-Times.   

A  couple of Greek brothers, Nick and Bill Angelos, bought Riccardo's when Rick died.  They did a good job continuing to serve those dishes closely associated with the restaurant, among them magnificent minestrone.

Reduced in number by Rick's outrageous low-ball sale of the Albright and Bohrod panels, The Seven Lively Arts continued as a group with the replacement of the Bohrod by a John Foote work while a photographic reproduction of the dark baroquely drawn Mephistopheles looked down upon Palette Bar patrons.

One of the significant problems of the restaurant business today is that people don't drink like they used to.  Luncheon diners who accompany their meals with liquor are frowned upon by Corporate America offering further proof that corporations aren't people.  Fischetti and I firmly believed that a couple of martinis at lunch made us more creative in the afternoon.  John must have been doing something right.  He won a Pulitzer in 1969.  A humble man, Fischetti prominently displayed in his office Bill Mauldin's remarkable drawing of a tearful Abraham Lincoln monument reacting to the assassination of John F. Kennedy.  Fischetti thought the Pulitzer winner the best editorial cartoon ever.  His own similarly accorded work was nearby yet not showcased like Mauldin's effort.

Drinking then by those in communications and associated fields was inclined to be serious.  A major league of booze consumption was The Bermude Triangle whose watering holes were Ric's, O'Rourke's and the Old Town Ale House.  Ric's for dinner and drinks was the springboard into the evening's adventures with the other two, located a few blocks apart on North Avenue, were joints of revelry and occasional brawls.  To be perfectly accurate, there are those who insist Billy Goat's and not the Old Town Ale House was the third corner of the triangle.

For a magnificent look at O'Rourke's, check out Roger Ebert's Journal and a piece titled: "A Bar on North Avenue."  Still concerned principally with film, Pulitzer winner Ebert was assigned by the Sun-Times in 1968 to write about The Big Bunny, Hefner's DC-9.  After an initial luncheon session at The Mansion, Ebert faded from the project when he moved to full-time movie reviewing.

A changing attitude toward drinking, competition from new restaurants and taxes made things difficult for the Angelos brothers who gave up the restaurant in 1989, then attempted a resurrection in 1993.  During the period, an upscale dining spot with a private club upstairs was attempted.  By then, all the Seven Lively Arts had been carried off to places like New York and Connecticut; in their place was a huge bizarre psycho-historical painting offering an imaginary scene in Ric the elder's upstairs apartment/studio.  Seated around the table are Ric, Ivan Albright and then contemporary Windy City writers and talkers including Studs Terkel, Nelson Algren and Mike Royko.  Also seated are Salvador Dali and Marc Chagall whose presence makes little sense.  Others include an unidentified very dark person and Ivan Albright whose Mephistopheles once was thought to be worth but $1,000.  The final version of Ric's had a short life.

Last time I checked, the old Ric's is occupied by something called Phil Stefani's 437 Rush Street.  Always be wary of restaurants identified by full names of its owners.  The food will be lesser and the drinks shorter.

Oh, yes.  The Seven Lively Arts murals are back together again thanks to the dogged pursuit of Seymour Persky, a very wealthy Chicago preservationist who had become convinced the paintings represent something uniquely Chicago.  Costing a total of $665,000, they have moved up in in class and seen first at The Rendezvous, the Chicago Union Club's posh bar and most recently (2008) at the Chicago Historical Museum for a six month's run. 

If you're in Chicago, check in regarding their viewing availability with the Charnley-Persky House on the city's Gold Coast.  Located at 1365 N. Astor, it's about a soft 8-iron from Hefner's old digs.   

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Long Time No See....by Bob Sanders

 

These lives we live can be loaded with tranquility or resemble the roller coaster ride at Puritas Springs Park, not far from where I grew up in Lakewood, Ohio.  If you tend to believe, as I do, that life is a series of easily recalled sets of time frames accompanied by dialogue exchanges plus the often ego-driven narratives of those we have come to know, then good fortune is ours. 

At 86, I'm lucky to be able to remember many of the dialogues experienced plus the faces of nearly all who have influenced my life.  Most of those recollections are vivid although the knife-sharpening  man, who pushed his cart through the neighborhood during my childhood while calling attention to his talents by shouting something resembling "pape-ah-lags," continues to be face-less. 

People with the ability to recall faces are now being singled out as "super-recognizers" and it's nice to know at an advanced age that I excel at something.

Speaking of faces, anyone ever around Nancy Joyce of Chicago's Station WTTW could hardly forget her.  I couldn't and proved it a couple of month's ago.  The words "bright" and "lively" couldn't do her justice 40 years ago.  The unfortunate aspect of our relationship was that I replaced her as promotion manager of the Windy City's public television channel.

I had been offered her job by station manager Bill McCarter, an astute professional whose short-comings were a tendency to nit-pick and believe that every new key hire would somehow provide the kind of magic that results in large market shares.  Joyce had not done a bad job but was the victim of unfortunate timing and thinking.  Slated to leave the station, she stayed on after I asked her to do so.  McCarter went along with that one, I eventually moved on to Field Enterprises (Chicago Daily News/Sun-Times) and I never saw a face-to-face Nancy Joyce again.

Enter Dick Hieronymus, a musician of considerable skills whom I met while living 14 years on the Fourth Corner's San Juan Island.  Having moved to Bellingham eight years ago, I continue to communicate with him and was startled a few months ago when I received an email accompanied by entre to a most unusual You Tube clip.

Titled "I Have No Secrets," the 18 second bite consists of a man-on-the-street interview of an obviouslky harassed woman pedestrian who turned out to be an unidentified Nancy Joyce.  The quite obvious Chicago locale was a few steps south of the Michigan Avenue bridge looking southeast.  Dressed warmly for the Chicago winter and asked if her hat might be a secret to staying warm, Joyce replies: "I have no secrets.  I'm mad, I have to go to work, I have to earn a living, I'd rather have a private income and get laid well and often."

You might look it up.  My old public TV pal delivers the droll lines with the kind of brilliant flippancy endearingly reminiscent of actresses Betty Davis and Eve Arden.  Judging from the clothing and Nancy's appearance, I'd bet the ranch she was on her way 40 years ago to a job at WTTW.

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I first met Dick Fales early in 1950 at the Cleveland Press where we worked as copy boys while anticipating a break that would provide more significant employment at the outstanding newspaper.  Not long after my arrival, Fales made it to United Press whose offices were on the same second floor where Louis Seltzer and his bedazzling bunch brought news to Clevelanders.  It was Fales who beat the Press to the Sam Sheppard murder case by filing the first wire service story on July 5, 1954.

By the time Fales' story (a re-write of a hastily-written piece by another staffer) had set off a five-bell URGENT in the Press newsroom, I had moved on to the nearby Lorain Journal and checked out the crime scene.  Although the murder had occurred outside the Journal's circulation area, I attempted unsuccessfully to interview Sheppard's brother, Richard, in nearby Rocky River.  Neither Fales nor I had anything more to do with what was arguably the country's second most significant murder case of the second half of the 20th century with top honors going to that of O.J. Simpson.

The next time I saw Fales was in 1957 in Atlanta where I had been transferred by TV Guide.  Fales had moved to sales with UP and would remain almost exclusively with the organization until his retirement in 1988 and a move to the Pacific Northwest.  Neither of us mentioned our one-day involvement in the famous murder case during our brief encounter in Atlanta.

My retirement a year later took Jan and I to San Juan Island (population 6,000 give or take) in 1990.  The day a story about me appeared in the Journal of the San Juans was the day the phone rang with a voice asking for "Sandy," my nickname at the Press.  Soon, Fales and I resumed a friendship that lasted until 2004 when my buddy passed away.  I sometimes wonder what kind of odds were beaten when two one-time copy boys, once employed by a newspaper in Cleveland, would meet again 2,000 miles and 33 years away on a remote island and hoist cold ones at an American Legion bar to learn of each other's one day work history on the Sam Sheppard story?

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One of my St. Louis time frames involves Mary Chase who in 1956 was the latest in a long succession of public relations people who tilled the publicity soil for the Chase Hotel (now the Chase-Park Plaza) under the same name. 

In the lobby where cocktails preceded a party honoring singer Nat "King" Cole, I ran into the very attractive Mary and it was during a time out in the men's room that pal/newsman/disc jockey Bruce Hayward indicated it was his firm belief that Mary Chase had amorous designs on me.  Happily married seven years and something of a coward, I fled the hotel in spite of telling Mary I would return.  One week later, I was transferred to Atlanta.

During the next three years, I was moved four times by the home office eventually landing in Kansas City where my regional responsibilities included St. Louis.

One evening, I entered the Chase Hotel and there, standing precisely where I had left her, was the woman I had stood up three years earlier.

"What took you so long?" she asked.

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It was Bob Cromie, host of such TV shows as "Book Beat" and "The Cromie Circle," who brought up Ernie Gann's name.  I had asked Cromie with which of the many authors he had interviewed would he like to spend a lot of time? "He is truly one hell of a guy," was how Cromie put it.

"I'll tell you something interesting about Ernie Gann," observed Cromie.  "His was the only interview I ever conducted in which the subject would not tell me where he lived.  I asked him why and Gann replied: "If I tell you, you'll ask me what it's like and I'll tell you how wonderful it is.  Members of your audience will then get interested in the place and they'll buy property and build homes and the place won't be the same.  That's why."

Our conversation took place in 1985 shortly before Cromie retired.  When five years later Jan and I moved to San Juan Island in the Fourth Corner, we discovered that two of its better-known residendt were Gann and wife Dodie.  Ernie, author of 25 novels about aviation and the sea, numbered among his best-selllers "Fate Is the Hunter," "The High and the Mighty" and "Blaze of Noon."

It was in August of the year of our arrival that the the Ganns protected their 760-acre Red Mill Farm by donating a conservation easement to the San Juan Preservation Trust thus denying development.  As Gann commented, "We have to do something to save this land.  People need to stop thinking of money all the time, or the land won't be here."  Jan and I became directect beneficiaries of the Ganns' thoughtfulness.  Our home on Little Mountain overlooked the property, now a working farm of unusual beauty to all islanders.  We could see nearly all of it.

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Another of my time frames involves major league baseball's only death on the diamond and the glove worn by the player who replaced Cleveland Indian Ray Chapman, the victim of a much-disputed pitch by the New York Yankees' Carl Mays, a highly successful submarine pitcher inclined to pitch inside.  Mays' defenders believe shortstop Chapman, an outstanding bunter who tended to crowd the plate, leaned into the pitch.

The year was 1920, the season had but six weeks to go and the Indians brought up the Sewellbrothers, Joe and Luke, from the University of Alabama.  It was a remarkable package of talent that also includedleft fielder Riggs Stevenson, eventually traded to the Chicago Cubs where his lifetime batting average of .336 is the 22nd best ever.   Only mis-adventures in the outfield due to a football injury (he was A Crimson Tide quarterback) has kept him out of the Hall of Fame.  All three became storied players who totaled 50 years in the majors with Joe Sewell making it to the Hall of Fame.  His filling in for Chapman helped enable the Indians to win their first World Series.  To paraphrase an old and popular song of the era, stars truly had fallen from Alabama.

Traded to the Yankees in 1930, Sewell gained his greatest fame in New York where the press made the country aware of his remarkable achievements.  Sewell's career strikeout ratio: one in every 63 at-bats, and 115 consecutive games without a strikeout, still stand.  Lovers of trivia are enchanted by the fact that Sewell used but one bat during his 14 seasons.  He treated the bat during the campaigns by rubbing chewing tobacco into it with a Coca-Cola bottle, then buried it in his backyard for a little winterizing.

The arrangement with the University of Alabama also included Crimson Tide baseball coach Zen Scott who was given a sports department job with the  Cleveland Leader now the Plain Dealer).  His other "job" was keeping an eye on the kids.  Scott, who lived in my neighborhood, gave me Sewell's black Rawling's glove when I was about six and I learned to play the game--sometimes under Mr. Scott's tutelage.

It was late in the season of 1933 when some of the Babe Ruth Yankees, including Sewell, made personal appearances at the Masonic Temple next door to my Cleveland suburb home.  My parents encouraged me, seven at the time, to seek out Sewell to show him my glove.

"Where did you get that?" asked the astonished Sewell when I approached him at the end of the evening's festivities.

"Mr. Scott," I replied.

"Where is he?" pursued the future Hall of Famer.

"Down the street," I said.

"Let's go see him," suggested Sewell.

Scott had some years before left the employ of the newspaper and lost touch with Sewell after the trade to the Yankees.  I soon had re-united two long-lost friends who had played roles in a rare piece of baseball history.  I didn't realize then what I had done at age seven, but I carry with me such good feelings when I recall that moment.

The Sewell glove and my baseball cards eventually went the way of many cherished possessions, gathering dust before disappearing but leaving behind vivid memories.  I still wonder when it was that the great ballplayer had used the glove in his pursuit of the glories of the game.  For all I know, the glove may still be somewhere in the basement of a home at 1310 Summit Ave. in Lakewood.

Judging from the look on his face when I showed him what had become "my" glove, I like to think it was Sewell's first in the major leagues, perhaps one he bought or was given in his 'bama hometown of Titus, used at the University of Alabama and taken with him on the train to Cleveland where he helped the Indians win their first World Series.

I suspect that anyone who played 14 years of major league baseball with only one bat probably played with very few gloves.

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Greed & Outsourcing....by Bob Sanders

 

Now that it has been firmly established that this is A Sort of New Age of Greed, it's fascinating to recall avarice observations of two highly disparate personalities whose comments bracket the period we're in.

Greed has been around a long time but the current roaring American version that threatens the financial foundations of this country had a warning shot fired in 1987 with the release of "Wall Street," Oliver Stone's take on matters as told through the craven adventures of Gordon Gekko, played by Michael Douglas.  At least half the Gekko character was based upon Michael Milken, the "Junk Bond King" who eventually went to prison.  Gekko's signature line, "Greed, for lack of a better word, is good" paid homage to the robber barons of 100 years past while providing inspiration for current financial world players to turn Wall Street into a very ugly gambling casino with one notable exception for losers: Las Vegas' blackjack "house" edge of .5 - 1.5% must now look like one of those forks in the road not taken.  Wall Street continues to play recklessly with other people's money as the exceedingly ruthless run little risk of going to prison.

Twenty-five years after Gekko's pronouncement, we are, perhaps, equally affected and decidedly frightened by the words of Warren Buffett explaining that "there's class warfare, all right, but it's my class, the rich class, that's making war, and we're winning."

Greed is everywhere and often explained as a natural outgrowth of globalization.  Laws, and clever interpretations of them, are in the books for those inclined to squeeze every ounce possible of financial nourishment.  It's all done in the name of stockholders who hold CEO's feet to the flames of "productivity."  When the CEOs do a good job or even a bad one, they are rewarded by hand-picked board members with rewards now averaging $13 million, up 14% over the prior year.  Actually, 2011 was a disappointing one for CEOs who received 22.8% more in 2010 than over the preceding year.  You win some, you lose some.  Worth pointing out is that CEO compensation last year was 380 times the average worker's pay, the kind of increase that makes possible the purchase of yet another home.

There are many rationales for overpaying CEOs.  One of them is successful outsourcing by the Walmarts, GEs and, yes, Mitt Romney, now threatening to become the Bain of our existence as his past unfolds.  Although corporate America is inclined to sit on such figures, GE admits its percentage of U.S. employees has been reduced from 54% in 2000 to 46% in 2010.  The multinationals cut 2.9 million U.S. jobs the past decade while adding 2.4 million overseas.  Interesting enough, even journalism is being impaired in the name of outsourcing.  More about this in a few paragraphs.

As readers of this space may recall, I retired from the Chicago Tribune in 1989 having worked in public relations for eight years.  I enjoyed toiling for a newspaper that had been retreating from a well-earned reputation for conservatism in a highly liberal community.  It was Col. Robert R. McCormick, editor/publisher from 1910-1955, whose penchant for a variety of hatreds had made the newspaper a worldwide symbol of reaction, isolation and prejudice.  It took an editorial, written by executive editor Clayton Kirkpatrick who dramatically reduced the imagery by calling for the resignation of Richard Nixon.  

Admittedly fond of my association with what McCormick insisted was The World's Greatest Newspaper, I must confess embarrassment and anger upon reading very recent on-line stories dealing with Journatic, a firm devoted to outsourcing news stories for major U.S. papers including the Tribune.

First, a little background.  Major American newspapers have, until recently, observed the high walls that separate editorial and advertising departments.  Advertising is sold on the basis of a publication's circulation plus a lot of intangibles including marketing conditions, reader profiles and the skills of  salesmen.  Gone are the days when a reader, hearing the friendly "plop" of a newspaper landing on the front porch, would regard what the newsboy had tossed as "his" paper.  We were very possessive then regarding our best connection to a distant world.

Advertising departments, being understandably aggressive, would occasionally veer from established tradition (front page placement was always coveted), editorial would scream, and the publisher would side with editorial.  It was not long after Tribune Company purchased the Los Angeles Times in 2000 that the paper's advertising department sold a special section highly commercial in nature.  Advertisers were told the paper's editorial department was on board to supply feature stories.  Advertising never told editorial until a couple days before publication.  Top Tribune editors, sent to manage the wily beast, failed to do so.  They included: Dean Baquet, now with the New York Times as Managing Editor for News after refusing to make one more staff cut; and James O'Shea who eventually wrote The Deal From Hell about the Tribune screw-up leading to Tribune Company bankruptcy.

While news gathering in journalism's Golden Age was gained face-to-face or by phone, the brave new world of communications has made such basics sometimes obsolete.  Journatic, co-founded by CEO Brian Timpone, was created to provide content in TribLocal's 90 town websites and 22 weekly print editions.  Two points: Chicagoland is no longer a viable description of Tribune's huge coverage area and Journatic is so new a title that its use on a computer will produce a red underline.

Ryan Smith, who worked 10 years for smallish newspapers in Missouri before moving to Chicago in 2007, eventually joined Journatic to work for a publication called Blockshopper.  Smith was ecstatic about the copy editing offer having supplemented his writing with such gigs as office temp work.  Journalism jobs were, as he puts it, "drying up and blowing away like tumbleweed."

What he quickly learned was that many stories, positioned under phony bylines, "originated" in developing countries including the Philippines and African nations.  Writing stories under aliases is a breach of journalistic ethics.  The copy, paid for in paltry wages reflecting the country's economy, provided proof that basic rules of spelling and grammar were not understood.  Smith was offended, among other things, by his pay: $24 for an 800 to 1,000 word news story and $12 for 500 words.  Sad as it is, a Filipino can make as little as 35 cents for a story.  Smith worked from mangled press releases culled from retyped police blotters, reformatted public records and other data gathered thanks to the reach of the internet. 

Worst of all, Journatic Chicago hires since this spring number about 75 freelancers plus 20 full-time editors and writers to cover TribLocal.  Losing their jobs were half of the Tribune's 40 TribLocals including copy editors, designers and web producers.  Based in Chicago, Journatic employes 140 overseas contract workers whose squat work is fed to more than 200 U.S. based writers and editors who include 60 full-timers.

Smith, having decided to become a whistle blower, first approached Michael Miner who writes about the media for Chicago Reader, one of the best alternative publications in the country.  Miner made a few calls, nothing developed, and Smith approached "This American Life," produced by Chicago by public radio station WBEZ-FM.  Out of Smith's anger came "Forgive Us Our Press Passes."  Produced by Sarah Koenig, the 23-minute feature immediately prompted investigations by newspapers using Journatic.  Among them: the Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, Houston Chronicle, Newsday and the San Frnacisco Chronicle.  The Sun-Times fired Journatic while Gate House Media, a publisher of 28 Chicago area publications, is reconsidering its contract with Journatic and contemplating hiring their own reporters.  This past Friday the Tribune suspended Journetic indefinitely while admitting being an investor in the service.  Mike Foucher, head of editorial at Journetic, quit Saturday.

Contacted by the Columbia Journalism Review, Timpone admitted making a mistake "in allowing some of these stories to go to our clients.  But these stories really don't deserve bylines at all because they are compiled from six or seven sources."  Tribune now believes plagiarism also is involved. 

Another challenge to journalism's ethics occurred recently when Atlantic editor Megan McArdle admitted outsourcing her opinion of global warming.  "Providers" include Jonathan Adler, Ron Bailey and Pat Michaels--all Cato Institute connected.  As pointed out by Joe Romm of "ThinkProgress," the Cato Institute, originally the Charles Koch Foundation, is being taken back by the founders, Adler is a law professor funded by the Charles Koch Foundation, Bailey is a Cato Institute Media Fellow, while Michaels (also on the Cato payroll) has admitted that 40% of his work is funded by the petroleum industry.  The game is called Follow the Money and it's a media stunner when the senior editor for a major magazine would outsource her thinking on one of today's major issues, then admit it.  McArdle continues to post pieces on climate science in spite of outsourcing her expertise.

Journalism junkies are fascinated by Journatic's sudden aggressiveness in Chicago.  It came on the heels of an announcement by the New York Times that it was folding the Chicago News Cooperative.  That was in mid-February of this year and the decision was a disappointment to those who care about such things;  created in October of 2009 by old Tribune hand O'Shea, CNC was kept alive by funding from such deep pockets as the MacArthur and Knight Foundations, George Soros' Development Loan Fund and the financially-challenged New York Times.  The latter was paid back via four pages a week of Chicago stories produced by former Tribune editors and writers working out of WTTW offices where I once  worked (1972-75) for the public television station.

When O'Shea started CNC three years ago, he described it as a "fresh, innovative approach" to reversing "the news industry's precipitous decline."  Now, it is no more.

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Future Press: Madonna's DNA....by Bob Sanders

 

These are trying times for journalism: print continues to take thunderous hits both in terms of criticism and advertising sales; HBO's "Newsroom,"  created by Aaron Sorkin ("West Wing") to explain the TV version of news, is both strange and oddly immature; and the Presidential candidates largely ignore our many problems while the long-established Madonna captures the attention of the Nation's press by hiring a "sterilization team" to make certain no one steals her DNA.  The ever-vigilant entertainer apparently has cloning concerns.

While Future Press is blessed with neither the insight of Nostradamus nor Johnny Carson's Karnak, this bastion of communications study does offer an opportunity to see into an admittedly murky future by way of gut instinct and a little imagination.

                                                                            Bob Sanders

 

The Associated Press

By Doug Doofus

Hollywood--November 14, 2012 - In a rare moment of candor, comedian Sacha Baron Cohen has admitted it is he who has designs on Madonna's DNA.  The stunning announcement was made at a hastily called press conference following a confession made by Cohen during the shooting of "Osama bin Laden The Musical." the comedian's current film.

Although the act has yet to be consummated, the admission of intent followed months of conjecture regarding Madonna's hiring of a sterilization team concerned with making sure no one pilfers her DNA.

Cohen's admission was inspired by dialogue ad-libbed by fellow actors.  Asked by one supporting player: "What is the difference between Madonna and E.T.?," the other replied: "One is an articulate monster and the other's a fictional character in a Steven Spielberg film."  It was at that point that Cohen, the entertainer many believe is a litmus test for those who can't take a joke, suddenly shouted: "Hey, wait a minute.  You got Madonna all wrong.  I love her, well, sort of, and, what's more, I'm going to get her DNA."

Asked of his intentions regarding Madonna's DNA, Cohen replied: "The world is so screwed up I figure one more whacko can't hurt and might be just what we need."

Pressed regarding a seeming reluctance to procreate the old fashioned way, Cohen drew attention to Madonna's fierce and forceful personality while assuming the persona of the gay bon vivant he played in Bruno.  "My only interest is bringing another nut into this world.  Besides, if I did have sex with her, she'd be saying things like: "No, Sacha Baron Cohen, you do it this way."  Underscoring his point of view, Cohen suggested: "You know, sex can lead to nasty things like herpes, gonorrhea, and something called relationships."

Film fans gave Cohen mixed reviews for his break-through film, Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Profit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan in which he played a sex-obsessed correspondent.  Reports persist that Cohen will next star in "One Flew Over the Kazakhstani Cuckoo's Nest."

The startling DNA developments made pale by comparison recent suggestions that actor Tom Cruise has eyes for Madonna following his divorce from actress Katie Holmes.  It was three years ago that Madonna stated her position on such topics as marriage, politics, pain, religion and the importance of ping pong while comparing herself to Cruise, another outspoken star who has been criticized for his involvement in Scientology.  Paramount in the Rolling Stone magazine article, published in 2009, was her comment: "We're both in the take-a-lot-of-shit club together."

The feces reference was mostly aimed at Cruise's involvement in and promotion of Scientology, the cult founded by L. Ron Hubbard whose claims of Navy heroism during World War II were highly creative.  Cruise's defense of Scientology has led to highly controversial television appearance involving such personalities as Brooke Shields, Matt Lauer and Oprah Winfrey.  It was on the Winfrey TV show in 2006 that Cruise professed his love for Holmes while Jumping the Couch, a performance whose title was borrowed from the term "Jumping the Shark," (going off the deep end).

Cruise's cavorting on Oprah's  furniture was deemed the Most Surprising TV Moment of The Year by E!, a channel devoted to highly obscure happenings including news that Cruise and Madonna originally were considered to play Henry and Karen Hill in "Goodfellas."  

Questioned about his stunning announcement, Cohen was reminded of the singer's appearance in a 2000 video, "Music," in which he played a chauffeur.  In an extended version of the material, Madonna turned her back on Cohen in an ultimate rejection of the comedian.  Reminded that his admission of interest in Madonna's DNA might put a damper on her publicity plans, Cohen addressed the possibility of conspiracy theories: "Right," he said.  "Let's go back to the grassy knoll.  Who actually shot J.R.?

Those knowledgeable about the entertainment industry believe Cohen retaliated for the "Music" insult at the 2009 Golden Globes when he took a shot at Madonna and her divorce from Guy Ritchie.  At the podium to present the award for Best Comedy to Woody Allen's "Vicky Christina Barcelona, Cohen veered into the area of how the recession is affecting celebrities by suggesting that "even Madonna has had to get rid of one of her personal assistants.  Our thoughts go out to you, Guy Ritchie."

Publicist Fred Flack, a Hollywood insider, earlier this week prompted additional attention to Madonna's relationship with anyone of the masculine persuasion by recalling one of her better-known quotes: "straight men need to be emasculated."

"At first I thought the DNA story was a publicity stunt," said Cohen.  "I figured Madonna would announce that someone, indeed, had stolen her DNA and that a posse of Southern California mystery writers like Joseph Wambaugh, Michael Connelly and T. Jeffrson Parker would tackle the case and, ahem, bring even more attention to Madonna.  It would be kind of like "Where's Waldo" only with DNA.  "Where's Madonna's DNA?" has a real ring of authenticity to it and let's throw in exhaustive searches conducted at such likely places as Dodger Stadium, Grauman's Chinese Theater, the La Brea Tar Pits, rest rooms at LAX, and the gay bath houses of L.A."

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