Jack Kirby was born this day in 1917. I suppose — I hope — everyone reading this knows how brilliant a man he was and how important he was not just to the comic book industry but to several genres and media of popular culture. There are novels and feature motion pictures that are not about Marvel Super-Heroes that still show the influence of Kirby. I can scarcely turn around in a public place, let alone in my house full of comics, and not be reminded of Jack.
I am asked constantly what I learned working for him and knowing him. Simple question, very long answer. Here's about 2% of that answer…
I didn't learn how to draw like him, that's for sure. I'm not sure anyone could have except in the following sense. If you had developed a whole new, energized style that synthesized all you'd seen into one brand-new, innovative approach, then you would have been drawing like Jack Kirby. But if you produced work that looked like it had been drawn by Jack Kirby, then you weren't drawing like Jack Kirby. Jack was all about something new, something exciting and something that took whatever he was doing to the next level.
He was different from almost all the men who followed him on the comics he began. They were interested in producing a good, well-drawn issue of that book…and some, of course, succeeded very well. Jack was first and foremost interested in producing something that would take comics to some new plateau, creating new opportunities and new possibilities. He was also more interested than anyone else who ever worked in comics in creating work that would generate new revenue for his publisher. He had a steadfast, if foolhardy at times, belief that if he made his publishers and collaborators wealthier, some of that wealth would trickle down to him. That, sadly, almost never happened. In fact, it sometimes seemed to work in reverse: The more he made them, the less they seemed inclined to share.
He was a wonderful man on so many levels and one of the things I'd like to think I learned from him was to treat everyone with decency and respect. He was nicer than I would have been to some of the people I think screwed him over. Some are still doing that…but try though they may, they haven't been able to get all of his reputation. People everywhere love him and his work. People come up to me at conventions and ask if they can shake my hand because they never got to meet Jack and they know my hand shook his hand.
I'd also like to think I learned something about effort and caring about your work. It was not possible — for me, for anyone — to be as clever and innovative as Jack was but it was and is possible to work that hard. Jack worked very hard. Even doing work that he knew would be disrespected and diminished by those further down the assembly line…even doing work where he knew there was a high likelihood he'd be cheated on the money and/or credit…he still usually managed to give it his all. And his all was very, very good.
I have so many mixed emotions about Jack. I can't even decide whether to view him as a winner or a loser. He certainly never got his due financially but he is still to many, the kind of god-on-Earth he so often wrote about in his work. I should probably focus on "winner" since today is a day to remember Jack. Then again, every day is a day to remember Jack…at least around here.
Almost all his major work is either in-print or not far from its next reissue. I recommend darn near all of it, not just as good comics but as a way to know the man who made them. There's an awful lot of Jack in almost everything he did, at least when he had some measure of creative dominance. In fact, the more I read some of it, the more I see of that amazing guy I was privileged to know. We all were…even those who never met him except through that wonderful, wonderful body of work.
Fifty years ago, song parody specialist Allan Sherman released "Hello Muddah, Hello Fadduh," maybe the most popular comedy/novelty record ever produced. Sherman was a native of Chicago and in honor of that anniversary — and maybe because of the new book on Sherman by Mark Cohen — the mayor of Chicago is proclaiming August 31st as Allan Sherman Day in Chicago! Not bad for a guy who failed upwards, downwards and sideways throughout his life.
From the day my parents married in March of 1951 until the day my father died in March of 1991, they were darn near inseparable. Oh, he went to work every day and she had some part-time jobs — but every night with very few exceptions, they were together.
Twice after they were wed, my mother felt it was necessary to go east on family-type business. My father had bad memories of Hartford and no desire to accompany her back there so he didn't go either time. There were also occasional periods when one or the other was hospitalized for some reason — like when he had a bleeding ulcer or when she had me. But apart from those instances, they ate together and slept together every night.
My father came from a big family and lived with brothers and/or sisters until the day he moved to Los Angeles to find a job and an apartment to rent. Once he had both, he sent for my mother, she flew out and they drove to Las Vegas and got married. The weeks it took him to get set up in L.A. constituted the only period in his life when he truly lived alone.
He hated it. And once he and my mother had a home together, he hated the very occasional nights when she'd be away or in the hospital. He hated the empty house. He hated the empty bed. He didn't know how to cook or clean so that made things more difficult. Putting my father in the kitchen and expecting food preparation to result was like putting an otter in a hospital operating room and expecting successful open heart surgery. I would have bet money on the otter before I wagered hard cash on Dad assembling a grilled cheese sandwich.
The first time my mother went back to Hartford, I was nine or ten and I went with her. Cleaning out my mother's house last year, I came across letters they exchanged during that ten-day period. My father's were all about him going out of his mind, not being able to find anything, not being able to sleep, etc. My mother's were all about reassuring him we'd be home soon. She had made the bed in layers, bottom sheet over bottom sheet over bottom sheet. Every few days, he just had to peel off the top bottom sheet and there'd be a clean one under it to sleep on. He was somehow unable to do this.
The second time she went back, I didn't go. I was about twenty-six then and it was after I'd moved out of their house. My father was panicked at the thought of being without her for, I believe, five whole nights. He asked if maybe I could sleep at the house those nights so he wouldn't be all alone there.
I wasn't wild about that idea and when I talked about it with my mother, she wasn't, either. It was, after all, within the realm of possibility that she might predecease him in this world. As they got older, it was also likely that she would be hospitalized for longer periods or have to go back to Hartford a few more times. "He's got to learn that it's not the end of the world to be alone in a house for a few nights," she said and I agreed. My father then asked, well, could I at least have dinner with him every night? Even as he asked that, I was hatching a plan. It began with me telling him, as I did, "If I'm free, I'll give you a call."
The first evening my mother was away was a Monday and I didn't call him. Instead, I figured out where he'd be eating and when. That was not as difficult as it might seem. My father's two favorite restaurants‚ the places he ate when he went out to lunch or he and I went out to dinner‚ were Nate 'n Al's Delicatessen in Beverly Hills and Clifton's Cafeteria over in Century City. He loved the pea soup they served on Tuesdays at Nate 'n Al's so I figured he'd do Clifton's on Monday, Nate 'n Al's on Tuesday. As for the precise suppertime itself, that was simple. My father always wanted to eat dinner at 5:30.
So I went over to Century City and found a bench near Clifton's. I got there about 5:10 and watched the door until around 5:25 when, sure enough, I saw my father walk up and go in. He didn't see me — so I went in and got into the cafeteria line right behind him, unnoticed for about two minutes until I did the following. We were halfway through the serving area, loading delicacies onto our respective trays, when I finally leaned over and asked him to pass me a plate of the steamed carrots. He handed one to me, realized it was me and did a "take" that would have been considered overacting in a Tex Avery cartoon.
He was so glad to see me — gladder than if we'd made a date to meet there. We dined together and talked for a long time‚ until I told him I had to get home and finish a script. He started to ask if he could come over and sit in my living room and watch TV while I worked — but he stopped himself. Before I could even reply, he said, "No, I have to go home and face it. It's just an empty house. I can get through this week." He did ask if we could have dinner again the next night and I told him, "If I'm free, I'll give you a call."
The next day when I hadn't called, he figured, "Well, I guess the boy's too busy." He drove over to Nate 'n Al's, walked in — and there was "the boy" sitting at a table for two, waiting for him. He laughed, sat down and said, "I'll bet you won't be able to figure out where I'm going to eat tomorrow night." I said, "I already have. You're going to go back to Clifton's and you're going to eat the exact same meal you ate last night."
Again, he laughed. Then he said with a big grin, "Okay, Mr. Detective. I'm not going to eat at Clifton's and I'm not going to eat here. I dare you to figure out where I'll be and meet me there." I accepted the challenge and I thought it was a good sign. Instead of being afraid to be without me, he was now half-hoping I wouldn't be there when he walked into wherever he chose to dine. It was kind of a win/win. He'd win if he outsmarted me and he'd win if he got to eat with me again.
I spent much of that evening and the next day trying to figure out where he'd eat. He wasn't going to go somewhere he'd never eaten before because that would have ruined the game for both of us. It had to be a place that I could have guessed but didn't. The trouble was that after I eliminated Clifton's and Nate 'n Al's from consideration, no other eateries stood out. I could think of about six possibles but no probables. There was a great Chinese restaurant where he often lunched with his best friend from the office but I decided he wouldn't go Chinese on me. What he liked about Chinese food was ordering several dishes with someone else and sharing. You can't share when you're dining alone.
Finally, I did what you would have done. I cheated. I drove over to his house around 4:30 and parked halfway down the block. When he came out and got in his car, I followed him at a safe distance. I followed him long enough to realize his destination was Junior's Delicatessen over on Westwood Boulevard. Then I turned down another street, took a shortcut and got there before him. I had the advantage because I had the ability to valet-park. My father, having been reared in the Depression, would park three blocks away and walk rather than pay some kid to park his car.
So when he walked into Junior's, he found me sitting in the waiting area, reading a newspaper. I looked up from it and asked, "What kept you?" He was delighted. Absolutely delighted.
Over dinner, I told him, "I won't be able to join you tomorrow night. I have a network meeting I can't get out of. So it's okay. You can go back to Clifton's or Nate 'n Al's." He smiled and said, "I'll be fine. It's not as scary being without your mother as I thought it would be." God, was I happy to hear him say that.
The next day, my network meeting was canceled and for about two minutes, I thought about going over to Clifton's, where I knew he'd be and surprising him again. I didn't for two reasons, one being that I realized it would be good for him to eat by himself that night. He was a very good man, as he proved time and again throughout our lives together. He knew it was a fear he had to overcome and he was overcoming it as much as he could.
They may not ever speak it aloud but with a couple that has a good shot at enduring "'til death do us part," there's always this concern about who's going to part first and how the other one will manage. That is, assuming they can manage. My father had long worried about what would happen if my mother died before he did. That didn't happen — by a wide margin. He died in 1991 and she lived another 22 years after that. He could never have lived 22 years without her. I'm not sure he could have lived 22 months. But after those five days she was off in Hartford, I think he was bit less worried that, should it come to that, he couldn't have lived 22 minutes without her.
So that was one reason I didn't go to Clifton's Cafeteria the next night. The other was that my father could be very smart at times — smarter than anyone expected. I had this feeling he just might double-cross me and go to Nate 'n Al's.
Here's a moment from the 1969 Emmy Awards. The one for Best Writing on a Comedy-Variety series goes to The Smothers Comedy Brothers Hour or whatever they were calling it that week. The show had been cancelled but the writers won an Emmy and their ranks included Carl Gottlieb, Bob Einstein (now better known as Super Dave Osborne), Jerry Music (now better known as Lorenzo Music) and Steve Martin (now better known)…
Here's a brief interview with Jerry Seinfeld. It was conducted at John O'Groats restaurant over on Pico Boulevard — one of my favorite places to eat, especially when I absolutely have to have breakfast meetings. And while I don't usually have it for breakfast, that place serves the best fish and chips in Los Angeles.
Mr. Seinfeld speaks of his disappointment with late night talk shows these days. Tell me about it. A few years ago, my love of sweet things — cakes, cookies, candy, ice cream, etc. — mysteriously and suddenly disappeared. I can't stand them now…and I feel something similar happening with the late night shows which, as longtime readers of this blog know, I used to love. I gave up some time ago on Conan and the two Jimmies. Until recently, my TiVo was set to record Jay and Craig and I rarely watched either all the way through. I'd also occasionally record Dave if he had on someone special I wanted to see.
But as you may have heard, those of us with Time Warner Cable in L.A. cannot receive CBS while two mega-corporations duke it out over money…and I find myself not missing Dave or Craig one bit. When Mr. Ferguson comes back on my channel lineup, I doubt he'll return to my Season Pass list. I'll probably stick with Leno 'til the end though I usually just watch his monologue and the First Act comedy piece unless it's about embarrassing people in public.
Getting back to Mr. Seinfeld: Here's the latest installment (with Chris Rock) of his Comedians In Cars Getting Coffee. I like this show for a simple reason: Jerry is talking to people Jerry wants to talk to. I don't get that Jay, Dave, Jimmy or Conan — any of them — care about two-thirds of their guests. Craig Ferguson may have the highest percentage in that regard because they don't book big stars and he sometimes brings on people with nothing to plug.
I don't think the lack of prearranged anecdotes is what makes Seinfeld's little show good. Yeah, he isn't working from notes but they also edit the hell out of the thing so it's far from spontaneous. I just think it's nice to see a host who's talking to someone he really likes…and who doesn't care if he's funny as long as they are.
William Saletan on the "lynch mob" mentality that brought down San Diego mayor Bob Filner. Isn't it kinda amazing that a man like Filner got as far as he did in his political career?
Hey, P.C. owners! You know how when you shut your computer down, you hear this little Microsoft music sting? Well, I just replaced my shutdown music with this…
I am literally appalled. Of course, these days, that doesn't mean I'm appalled. In fact, I'm literally appalled that being literally appalled doesn't mean I'm appalled at all anymore.
So Kristen Chenoweth did two concerts this weekend at the Hollywood Bowl. I didn't go. I was literally moments from clicking to order seats on Ticketmaster when I got worried about my still-recovering knee. It takes a whole lotta walking to go to the Bowl.
If I'd gone Friday night, I would have seen this. Ms. Chenoweth likes to pick someone out of the audience to come up on stage and duet with her. We've all seen this and sometimes, the result is awkward but it can also be quite endearing and fun. She selected — and everyone insists it was not a prearranged plant — a woman named Sarah Horn who teaches voice professionally. The results were…well, as you'll see, kinda thrilling. The video below has the moment as caught by a friend of Ms. Horn's in the audience. And on this page, you can read the whole story from her point of view…
A few weeks ago here, we had a discussion of the not-sure-who-he-was actor who filled the costume of Superman in a live appearance at the 1940 World's Fair. Whoever he was, he was probably the first person to ever "play" The Man of Steel in public. He's usually identified as a Broadway performer named Ray Middleton…and he may well have been Ray Middleton. Or he may not have been.
The discussion here went on way past my level of interest in this topic but it's still being discussed. Here, Brad Ricca weighs in. Mr. Ricca is the author of a new book on Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster which I have yet to see but which has received some very favorable coverage. He sheds a bit more light on a question which may never be fully illuminated.
Fred Kaplan tells us what's probably going to happen with Syria. Looks like we're going to be bombing someone new, people!
Oh, well. Bombing someone — anyone! — seems to make John McCain happy. And if you watch the Sunday morning news shows, you understand that in life, that's all that counts.
I've heard so much about Walt Kelly from this very close friend of mine that I feel like I knew him. But in a sense, I felt like I knew him before I met his lovely and spectacular daughter. Walt Kelly was and still is my favorite cartoonist…a declaration that no doubt causes many reading this to shrug and say, "So what? Walt Kelly was my favorite cartoonist, too."
Don't worry. If you favor Schulz or Segar or Herriman or anyone else who has had the same job description, I won't think an iota less of you…won't even waste a second in debate. But if Kelly's your fave, it's a sure bet we'll get along fine. To me, he was the guy who succeeded best at creating his own little world in a corner of the funnies page — a world peopled (animaled?) with colorful, irresistible characters who spoke their own colorful, irresistible language. When I was younger, I sometimes had a bit of trouble sandblasting my way through Kelly jargon to figger out what they were saying. But I usually made it and it was always worth the effort. Always. Because he always had something to say.
Had he lived a healthier life, Mr. Kelly might have made it to the age of 100 and that's how old he would have been today. It always struck me as odd to celebrate the day when a beloved one might have hit the century mark had he not died on us. In a sense, there's just as much cause to honor Kelly today as there was yesterday and as there'll be a week from next Thursday. But today's as good a day as any to pay him a little extra attention. Every time I do, I'm reminded just why he's my favorite…
Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In went off the air in 1973. Production of the last season or two was marred a lot by backstage fighting between its producer, George Schlatter, and its stars, Dan Rowan and Dick Martin. In 1977, Schlatter managed to sell NBC on a new version of the series, this one sans Rowan and Martin…or any person or persons as host. Dan and Dick later went to court and reportedly collected a few million apiece.
The new show did not succeed though Schlatter put together a large crew of "stars of tomorrow," a few of whom actually had careers after this. He also prevailed on Frank Sinatra to come on as a guest — and what you'll see below are a few minutes of that episode. The breakout star was, of course, Robin Williams but there were some other talented folks in the cast including Ed Bluestone, Lenny Schultz and a famous Mexican cartoonist who did some wonderful pantomime skits for the series, none of which are seen in this excerpt. But you'll see him in the opening cast list…and trust me, the spots he did were funny — even funnier than the Exxon commercials in here…
Jonathan Bernstein discusses all this talk by Republicans about impeaching Barack Obama on the grounds that…well, apparently being hated by conservatives is now a high crime or misdemeanor. It's really amazing. You know that most G.O.P. leaders think most of the Tea Party's conspiracy theories about Obama are pure moonshine…but none of those leaders has the cajones to say as much.
I barely remember the first cat we had in the house; don't even remember if Nom-Poo was a boy cat or a girl cat and no one ever remembered where the heck that name came from. But Nom-Poo died around the time I was six and it wasn't until around age 8 that we got Baby.
She was a small grey (and some black)-and-white cat who'd been born in a warehouse, whereabouts unknown. She'd been one of several cats who lived there to keep the place mouse-free and when the warehouse closed down, she somehow found her way to a neighbor who thought — wrongly — that her dog and Baby would get along. Yeah, like dogs and cats. When it became obvious one animal had to go, we adopted Baby.
She was indeed a fabulous mouser. She caught one her first day with us and caught another her second day and thereafter, averaged about one a week. Sometimes, when there was no mouse around to be caught, she'd apply her skills to a lizard or sparrow. With either, it was not a matter of just catching the tiny beast. It was a game: You catch it, you release it, you catch it again, you play with it, you release it, you catch it again, etc. Eventually, when you tire of the game, you kill it. Then you try to bring the corpse into the house and present it to my mother as a gift.
My mother didn't especially like that part. She didn't like Baby catching lizards or birds, either. Often, I'd be in my room and hear my mother shriek, "Baby's got a lizard or a mouse or something!" I'd run out and see what it was. If it was a lizard or bird, I'd intervene and let it escape. Baby would then look at me as if to say, "Hey, I'm just trying to do my job here." If it was a mouse…well, I'd just stay out of it.
Baby, sitting on my father's chair without him in it.
Once Baby caught on that she wasn't supposed to present her fresh kills to the lady of the house, she found something else to do with them. In the front patio, there was a small flowering bush about two feet high. Baby would take her dead mice and lizards and she'd somehow fling them into the bush. One time, we came home for a vacation (a neighbor had been feeding Baby) and in the patio, the bush had three dead mice and two dead lizards hanging from it like Christmas tree ornaments. My mother insisted I clear it out…which I did under protest because at that age, I kinda liked it.
Baby never ate her conquests. She would only eat two things: (1) whatever we were eating and (2) Kitty Queen Chopped Kidney cat food.
She would not eat any other brand of canned cat food…and believe me, we tried them all. When we couldn't get Kitty Queen Chopped Kidney, she would sniff the something else we put in her bowl, then look at us with an accusatory stare that screamed, "What are you doing to me?" She wouldn't even eat Kitty Queen Chopped Heart, which to me was the same, foul-smelling mess of mystery meat. So when we didn't have table scraps, we gave her K.Q.C.K. and when we didn't have K.Q.C.K., we went out and found a store — and it sometimes required hitting several — that had K.Q.C.K.
Despite her dietary demands, everyone loved Baby. She was the most affectionate cat. She spent most of her days outside, most of her evenings inside. If there was anyone seated in the living room, she'd jump up on their chair and curl up on their lap. At night, she'd find her way into my room. There were two doors that led into it and if I didn't leave one open, she'd scamper back and forth between them — which meant running all the way around the house each time — and scratch and cry until I woke up and let her in. Then she'd burrow under the covers with me and sleep near my feet or if I was on my side, up against the small of my back. About once a week, I'd roll over and kick or almost squash her and she'd howl and wake me up. But she never fled the bed. She'd just reposition herself.
My father, on whose lap she often spent the evening, especially loved her. Being (as I've explained) a persistent worrier, he thought constantly about when she'd die and how painful that would be for all of us.
He couched his worry in concern that I would be devastated. One day, he sat me down and with the heaviest of hearts, broke it to me that Baby was going to die someday. She was a wonderful cat and we all loved her…but wonderful, loved cats have a way of dying and you have to be prepared for that day of loss. He made it sound a lot worse than it could possibly ever be. Life as we know it would cease to exist whenever we lost Baby.
I wasn't looking forward to that day but I wasn't spending as much time as my father was thinking of its inevitability, nor did I think time would stop. Still, every few weeks, he'd sit me down and in a very serious, borderline-emotional manner, launch into the "You know, cats don't live forever" speech. He always made it sound like it could be any day now and I'd say, "I know cats don't live forever. We don't need to discuss it every three weeks." To which he'd sigh and say, "I just want you to be prepared for it."
And he was, after all, right. Baby did die — about nine years after the first time I heard the speech and about two weeks after the 107th time I heard it. And when she did, he said, "See? I told you it was coming."
Actually, her death was not a surprise because we induced it. What was a surprise was how one day, when she must have been close to eighteen, she suddenly got old. It happened over about three weeks as her movements unexpectedly grew slow and her walk became strained and uncertain. If a mouse had happened by, it could have waltzed right past her without a chase…but of course, there were no mice around. My mother didn't see a single mouse (or evidence thereof) in that house for twenty years after we lost Baby.
One evening, Baby tried to hop up on my father's lap and couldn't make the leap. She tumbled back to the ground and my mother lovingly picked her up and placed her where she wanted to be. She was trembling and that's when we knew it was time to do something. We took her to a vet who said, "She's old." Well, we knew that. He basically then said, "She doesn't have much time left and there's nothing we can do for her." The following Sunday evening, she lost the ability to walk without stumbling. It was like her paws were folding under her and there was this abrupt sadness about her that seemed to say, "Please…I can't go on like this."
My father, my mother and I decided unanimously it was time to end it; that it would be cruel to try and keep her around in that condition just so we could have her with us for a few more weeks. It was not as upsetting for me as my father had predicted…but it was for him. "I don't think I can do this," he said. We spared him any further action. I phoned up the nearest Animal Shelter and though it was after hours, reached someone who said, "Bring her over…we can take care of it." I gently put Baby in a box and held it and her in the back seat as my mother drove us over to the Animal Shelter. I took Baby in, said a few words to the attendant who took her, signed a paper and that was it.
At first, it seemed way too casual but I soon decided that was a good thing. "They do this every day," I thought. There's a real tragedy in how many cats have to be destroyed each year, never having been adopted and loved and allowed to live even one, let alone nine long lives. It is not a tragedy that a cat could have as good a life as Baby did…and have it end before the real suffering set in. I told another woman who assisted me at the shelter, "She's been a wonderful cat but she's so old now…" to which the lady said, "We get a lot of those. It's the only humane thing to do."
I remember feeling utterly convinced that we'd done the right thing and I distinctly remember not crying. Which makes me wonder why my eyes are so moist as I write this.
My father got over it. Took a while but he got over it. At first, it seemed insensitive to the memory of Baby to consider getting another cat…but after a few weeks, it was apparent that there was a void in the house that needed filling. My father didn't like sitting there in the evening with no cat on his lap. Also, we still had about eighty cans of Kitty Queen Chopped Kidney cat food and I sure as hell wasn't going to eat them. So we went out in search of a successor and I think I'll save that story for the next one of these.
