Special Guest Star: Robert Blake

 

It's been my inclination to always-or almost always-root for the underdog my entire life, perhaps because I can relate or the empathy I happen to feel for the individual. For the late Robert Blake, it was the latter. Sure, he had a show business career that spanned well over the half-century mark, earning Prime Time Emmy and Golden Globe awards along the way as the star of hit TV series and working with such iconic directors as John Huston, Richard Brooks, Hal Ashby, George Stevens and David Lynch. 

None of that really mattered in that end, for when he died this past year, most headlines read:

ROBERT BLAKE 'BARETTA' STAR ACQUITTED OF WIFE'S MURDER, DIES AT 89

So there's that too. 

I have no idea if Blake was guilty of the crimes he had been accused of relating to this case. This was the highest profile Tinseltown murder case that came down the pike post O.J. which the world at large had still not gotten over, but still seemed to have the blood lust enough to hash it out ad infinitum and nauseam for that matter. Therefore, I begged off on the judgment call, though I have a few opinions of my own that I'll keep to myself. 

I do know that Blake was one messed up individual having gone through alleged abuse by his parents, even while he was bringing home the bacon as a child actor in the final leg of the Our Gang comedy shorts at MGM and as sidekick Little Beaver in a slew of Red Ryder westerns. He survived drug addiction in the Fifties, dealing with every more demons. Television roles kept him employed until he landed a role, usually noted his very best, in Brooks' adaptation of IN COLD BLOOD. Stardom still eluded him until he landed the lead as BARETTA, the cop show that lasted four seasons in the mid 70s. 

During this period, he became a frequent guest on THE TONIGHT SHOW. Johnny Carson had a way with the volatile Blake, getting him to open up about his life to a superficial degree, allowing to be a rather entertaining raconteur about old time show biz and life in general. Carson gave him an outlet he never had before and Blake seemed to have the time of his life and less of a tormented soul, making several appearances over time. 

Following the end of BARETTA, he tried to kick start his film career again. One vehicle brought Robert Blake to my hometown of Stockton, California. The movie was COAST TO COAST, a riff on IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT with Dyan Cannon in the Claudette Colbert role with Blake as Gable, I suppose, in the guise of a trucker, a nod to the SMOKEY AND THE BANDIT crowd. Since this was a road movie, it had been shot on several locations, many to mimic other parts of the country with downtown Stockton standing in for what I think was somewhere in the Midwest (Kansas City, according to IMDB).

KFMR radio station (which eventually became FM 100) had only recently debuted on San Joaquin County airwaves during this period. I had been longtime friends and former employee of the owners, Bob and Sue Carson  and had an idea to score a coup for the station. So I grabbed my cassette tape recorder and headed downtown to the set of COAST TO COAST in the hope that I could get the one and only Robert Blake to give a station ID for KFMR.

My friend Bill Humphreys and myself parked out by where the stars trailers and fabled Honey Wagons had been circled. Security was pretty much lax in those days, so I felt I would have no problem accomplishing the task at hand. It was long before shooting wrapped on the set and the actors returned to their portable sanctuaries. Dyan Cannon was first one out of the shoot, but I didn't even consider asking her as well. I would have made a complete fool of myself, probably more so than I usually did with women who weren't movie stars.

Robert Blake followed not long after and off I went. With the arrogance of youth on my side and no trace of a brain in my whole head, I had no qualms approaching this reportedly volatile Hollywood star and imposing on his valuable time just to get his voice on my cheap-ass cassette. He could have brushed me away like a mosquito or barked his disapproval, making me pee my pants and dash away with my tail between my legs all the way home.

I'll damned if he didn't comply. Maybe addressing him as "Mr. Blake" helped. I didn't give him any copy to read, just basically told him what to say. "This is Robert Blake and you're listening to KFMR."

He repeated, sort of. "This is Robert Blake and you're listening to...what?"

"KFMR."

"This is Robert Blake and you're listening to KRFM."

"No, KFMR."

"This is Robert Blake and you're...what?"

"This is Robert Blake. You know that part already."

"This is Robert Blake..."

"...and you're listening to KFMR.."

"...and you're listening to KMFR."

"KFMR."

"This is Robert Blake and you're listening to KFMR." 

He done did it. Graciously. Putting up with my wise ass self and not throwing my cassette recorder to the ground and stomping on it. Or me. I thanked him profusely and away we went in opposite directions. Maybe he had all along and was simply messing with me. Whatever the reason might have been, whether he was in a good place at the time or he was a consummate professional who dealt with the public the way he would like to be treated himself, even by the likes of a smart of a Stockton bumpkin like myself. 

That entire exchange ran on the station verbatim and it became my one and contribution to KFMR. An edited version without me also popped up between songs until both versions disappeared entirely when the station was re-branded as FM 100.

COAST TO COAST didn't fare very well at the box office or critics and after a couple of other misfires, Blake returned to television where he found his greatest success. At the turn of the 21st century, his

career was over and out, as was he, initially convicted and eventually acquitted for his wife's murder. The demons that chased him his entire life finally got the best and worst of him. When he died in the first part of 2023, an unfortunate punctuation to Robert Blake occurred due to his exclusion to the In Memoriam section of the Oscars only a few days later with no thanks to Jimmy Kimmel and a bad joke that has no business being repeated, at least by me. 

The point of the story? Merely another close encounter of the celebrity kind, a brush with someone famous who ended up, unfortunately and probably inevitably, infamous. I feel fortunate I was able to catch him in his prime time so that the memory I carry has a positive ring to it as opposed to what happened later when his life and career were over-powered by a horrific turn of events that would dictate his legacy from that point on. Such is the fragility of fame.

 

Goodbye, Dummy!

 This is a reprint of a post from 2017 that should have gotten some more eyes, in my not-so-humble opinion, which carries a lot of weight here because, well, it's my blog and I'll re-post if I want to.

Mr. Warmth has passed away at the age of 90 years old.

To many of you, especially in this golden age of ageism, the only acceptable form of prejudice left in the world, his death is insignificant. "So what? Another old fart croaked. What's on Netflix?" But since the majority of you have no sense of history beyond five minutes ago, you have no idea that there has been a major shift in the timeline as the end of an era has occurred.

But who cares. right? Time passes. So does wind.

The bottom line is that Don Rickles made me laugh longer and harder than anyone for my entire life. It's rare to find someone, especially in comedy, that you found funny when you were young that could still have the same effect years later. Look at Jerry Lewis. I was a rabid fan as a kid, but as I grew older myself, not so much. Maybe my perceptive would have changed if I was French. "Mon dieu! That voice when he yells 'Lady!' Magnifique!"

But Rickles fractured and slayed me every time. His appearances on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson or The Joey Bishop Show were major events that I anticipated with as much excitement as I would if The Beatles showed up on Ed Sullivan. (the show, not the man) Years later, he was just as hilarious on Letterman, Leno, Kimmel or anywhere for that matter. Sure, he was slower, but his mind hit more cylinders than you and I will ever have. His insulting shtick was spontaneous and in the moment, relying more on improv than set material.

With Rickles gone, so too is the age of Show Biz Classic, a performer that wears a tuxedo un-ironically and gives 100% to an audience each and every time. Some of it came with a layer of schmaltz, but that was to soften whatever ill will that be be conceived from his act. The man had a work ethic that wouldn't quit, right up until the very end, just like the late Joan Rivers. Rickles has a talk show series in the can, did voice work for the next Toy Story and had bookings in Vegas as well as across the country he won't be able to make, but would if he could. Now THAT's old school.

Don Rickles represented show business how I always wanted it to be, though I know full well the reality is a lot starker beyond the lights, tinsel and gloss. But so what? It kept the fantasy alive and the laughs right on a-comin'. And for me, that meant everything and always will.

So long, ya hockey puck.

For more about Don Rickles, check out the Emmy winning documentary directed by John Landis,
Mr. Warmth: The Don Rickles Project
and the fantastic book, The Comedians: Drunks, Scoundrels and the History of American Comedy by Kliph Nesteroff

Love Ya, Max

I'm procrastinating. I don't want to do this. I'd rather call my best friend Max and and catch up as we always do on the weekend. Even if there was nothing new to discuss, we'd always have something to talk about-the past, the present, the future and everything in between. Whether it be trivial nonsense, deep philosophical ruminations or, more often than not, silly ass jokes at each other's expense or better yet, someone's else's, we'd fill up that time, have a laugh or two or several, maybe share a lump in the throat and always conclude that call with the words "love ya".

But I can't do that. You see, Ed Thorpe died last week. My best friend of fifty three years. My brother. 

Gone. Just like that. 

We've known each other since the sixth grade at Grover Cleveland Elementary in Stockton, CA. I believe he arrived mid-year after his dad schlepped he and his older brother up from Los Angeles. We were both in the same grade but different classes. I became aware of Ed almost immediately since he got into a fight on his first day of school. It wasn't long before we hung out together during recess, not interacting with each other too very much until one day, I wanted to make points with my comedic skills. I would sneak out of bed and catch the first half-hour of The Tonight Show. If Johnny Carson was performing his Carnac the Magnificent bit, I would write down the best jokes and repeat them to my pals during recess. Carnac was the great seer, soothsayer and sage who would mentally give answers to questions sealed inside an envelope. Typical joke: Siss, boom, bah. (opens envelope) Describe the sound made when a sheep explodes. When I read the previous night's bit the next day, I'd give the answer Carson-style when suddenly it was repeated, just like Ed McMahon did for Johnny. Surprised, I turned to see, not McMahon, but Ed Thorpe joining in. The other guys in the group didn't do it because, basically, they couldn't. But Ed did. He got it. Therefore, he got me and vice versa. From that moment on, we were off and running. 

That was the beginning of decades of in-jokes, obscure references and esoterica that formed the groundwork of our relationship, shorthand, if you will, almost a secret language in our own private club, a problem for many an outsider who felt left out of the conversation, but, hey, them's the breaks.  Keep up or keep out cuz when we were on a roll, we weren't gonna put on the brakes until we damn well felt like it.

A long-lasting friendship such as ours weathers many ups, downs and storms a'plenty. Even this year, we had a knockdown drag-out fight about this goddamn pandemic. I was fretting, as usual, over the state of things, trying to vent my frustration and fear over all this crap when he told me, flat out, there was nothing I could do about it. Me, being Mr. Irrational, took this as a dismissal of my feelings and state of mind. He felt I was doing the same to him and the shouting commenced ending with a hang-up that still resonates. The problem is, you can't disconnect a smart phone by slamming down the receiver.  The end result was a stalemate between two grumpy old men on the same page, but different paragraphs. 

Eventually, we kissed and made up and got over it like always. But his words stuck with me, especially now. 

He's dead and there's nothing I can do about it. There's a piece missing from my heart, a big hole or vacant lot where a mighty building once stood. Sorry. That's prime real estate. I have to refill it and I will try to do so with the memories we shared after fifty odd years and channel them into that empty space for as long as my brain will allow. Believe me, there's enough there for sustainability. And it isn't just the reminiscences, but their implications and significance as well, be they good, bad or ugly. In the end, it all came down to complete brotherly love. Unfortunately, it's all recyclable material and a poor substitute for the real thing. 

I will feel forever in debt to Ed for all that he's brought to my life, leading me on paths I never knew existed. Had it not been for him, I never would have ended up at Pollardville. It was he who became my Sherpa into that Shangri-La between Stockton and Lodi, leading me through the open gates of the Ghost Town and onto the magical deck of the Palace Showboat. He had such a (literally) undying passion for that place that culminated in the last reunion show back in 2007 right before the House that Pollard Built closed up shop for good. The final production on that stage was such a labor love for him and it showed from beginning until the very bittersweet, touch grand finale. It was Ed's magnum opus, an accomplishment that he was unabashedly proud.

He was so much more in his life and times. While serving in the United States Navy, he traveled the world and became a skilled and accomplished respiratory therapist. His work with AA allowed him to overcome his addictions and help so many others over the years, saving several lives in the process. He was a true force of good in this often cynical world. A little over ten years ago, he reunited with his daughter, Justine. I was so glad he was able to experience something that I myself cherish-the joy of grandpahood when he was blessed with a grandson named James. As such, the legend continues.

Through all his trials and tribulations, certainly with his health problems in the last few years, Ed knew that life was worth living. He had so many obstacles that he had to endure and through it all, he recognized himself as a survivor. "Bring it on," he once told me.

And brought upon him it was, one last time on Monday, November 30, 2020. 

Should you, whoever's reading this, have someone in your life as I have had with Ed, whether it be a friend, a sibling, mother, father or any sort of relative, a lover, husband or wife, whoever occupies a space in your heart, mind and soul, it will enrich and reward you until the day you too will pass from this earth.  You will be a better person for it just as I have been for knowing Edward Alan Thorpe.

Now I have to wrap up and I don't want to do that either. I can't say goodbye because, frankly, I don't wanna. So I will merely sign off as we always did.

I will talk to youse later.

Love ya, Max