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 aybe you remember him as Al Sleet, the "Hippy, Dippy Weatherman with the hippy, dippy weather ... man" or as Rufus in "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure" or the author of an incredible number of jokes that are eternally circulating on the Internet. Or perhaps you have heard of his bit on the "Seven Dirty Words." Here's a transcript of the skit that got him in trouble.
Below, an interview with Carlin last year.
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Oct. 4, 2007
By Mike Flaherty
Special to The Times
 he acerbic stand-up comedian and social commentator is celebrating 50 years in show biz -- and last week's release of "George Carlin: All My Stuff," a 14-DVD collection of his HBO specials spanning 1977 to 2005. Although he shows no sign of slowing down, he did take some time to chat about his career, his healthy pessimism and our commander in chief.
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So, 50 years in show biz, huh? Does that number date from a specific gig?
It dates from the day I took the air at a radio station in Shreveport, La., in 1956. You know what? It's really 51 years; we're fudging it a year just for convenience's sake.
I was 18, and they had me do newscasts first, then I became a DJ two or three months later.
Do you have a favorite among the 12 HBO specials on "All My Stuff"?
Yeah, "Jammin' in New York," 1992. Prior to that period, I'd refer to myself in interviews as a comedian who wrote his own material. But that was the point where I probably became more of a writer who performed his own material. The material became more like essays, they became more socially conscious, and it was just a major jump from being what I think of as only an entertainer to being an artist-entertainer.
I'm looking at the titles of your last few -- "You Are All Diseased," "Complaints and Grievances," "Life Is Worth Losing." If I didn't know better, I'd think you were a pessimist.
 ell, I am a pessimist as far as the world is concerned. I have absolutely low prospects for the human race; I have very low prospects for this country. For myself, though, very high prospects. I'm a personal optimist.
How does one keep pessimism from making them miserable, souring their outlook, preventing them from embracing life?
You can't care. You see, I don't care about the outcome in this country [or] on this planet because I know this is all temporal b.s. It's not a religious point of view, it's just realism. I like living somewhere detached from all of this emotionally. I don't really have a stake in the outcome anymore.
 bout 30 years ago, I became a person who said, "You know something? People aren't worth worrying about and caring about." One by one, yes; any time I'm with one person, I'm fine. There's all sorts of compassion and empathy in my heart. But when you consider them as a group, from a distance, I don't give a . . . about them.
How about George Bush?
Just a product of the American system. People always blame the politicians, and I say, "Well, where do you think they come from?" They are products of American culture, American society, schools, churches, communities, businesses, families, homes. So what are you complaining about? This is you, the government of the people, by the people and for the people. So, I don't let them off the hook by attacking the people they put out front. But clearly George Bush is an electrifyingly incurious man.
I'm guessing the notion of retirement doesn't appeal to you.
No, no. I get a great deal of joy out of this. An artist is never really satisfied; you just keep scratching underneath the surface trying for more.
When is the next HBO special, and what's it called?
The next one is March 1, called "It's Bad for Ya."
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Read on »
 Photograph by William Dietsch / Los Angeles Times Juan Romero in a photo dated June 18, 1968.
"It is hard to understand. I did nothing. It just happened. Mr. Kennedy was there and he needed someone with him, that's all."
--Juan Romero in a 1968 interview with Ted Thackrey Jr.
By Steve Lopez
Times staff writer
Photograph by Steve Fontanini
Los Angeles Times
Juan Romero is led into the courtroom to testify against Sirhan Bishara Sirhan, in a photo dated Feb. 15, 1969.
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When you write stories for three decades, occasionally someone asks if you had a favorite. I never did until five years ago, when I met Juan Romero.
An editor at Life magazine had asked if I remembered the busboy who knelt at Bobby Kennedy's side on June 5, 1968, when he was shot at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. Of course I remembered. The photos of that skinny kid in the angelic white service coat, cradling Kennedy, were searing.
Go find him, said the editor.
Romero wasn't hard to track down. I found him doing hard labor in San Jose, his strong hands callused by years of toil for a paving company.
But 30 years after the assassination, he was still haunted by that night, and talking about it was not one of his favorite things to do. We went out for a couple of beers, and Romero began squirming and twisting himself up. When he finally found a way to let it out, it was for his own sake as much as mine.
Thursday marks the 35th anniversary of the Kennedy assassination, so last week, I went to visit Romero again in San Jose. The father of four, now 53, was pouring concrete under a merciless sun. When he got off duty, we went out for a cold one, just like last time, and Juan Romero revisited the day that has shaped his life.
It was Juan's stepfather, an Ambassador waiter, who got him the job. Juan, whose family moved to L.A. from Mexico when he was 10, had been flirting with trouble in his East L.A. neighborhood, and his stepdad's solution was to get him off the streets.
"I wore black pants and a white shirt to Hollenbeck Junior High every day," says Juan, who caught the bus for the Ambassador after school. The routine continued when he moved on to Roosevelt High.
Juan worked room service and met scads of celebrities in the Ambassador's glory days, but for him, the arrival of presidential candidate Bobby Kennedy during the 1968 California primary topped the charts.
Juan remembered photos of a Catholic John F. Kennedy on the walls of homes in Mexico -- "next to Pope John Paul and the crucifix" -- and he knew Bobby Kennedy had championed the cause of California farm workers.
"Bobby rolled up his sleeves and walked with them," Juan says.
When Kennedy checked into the Ambassador and called for room service, Juan, then 17, cut a deal with the busboy who drew the job. Juan would retrieve all the other guy's trays that night in return for the Kennedy job.
"He wouldn't do it," Juan remembers of his stubborn colleague. "So I said, 'All right. I'll pay you too.' "
A Kennedy assistant answered the door of the Presidential Suite, and Juan, his eyes wide, pushed the food cart into the room and found himself standing next to Kennedy.
"He shook my hand as hard as anyone had ever shaken it," Juan says. "I walked out of there 20 feet tall, thinking, 'I'm not just a busboy, I'm a human being.' He made me feel that way."
The next night, Kennedy won the California primary. He made his victory speech at the Ambassador and headed through the kitchen to escape the crush of people, but there was a crowd in there too.
Juan, who wanted to congratulate him, used his skinny frame to knife through the pressed bodies. This man was going to be the next president, Juan thought, and he wanted to see if he could shake his hand once more.
 Photograph by Bruce Cox / Los Angeles Times Juan Romero, who gave his rosary to Kennedy. When Kennedy couldn't hold the rosary, Romero wrapped the beads around his thumb. "People were six and seven deep," Juan says, but he got close enough to stick out his hand. As Kennedy grabbed it, Juan heard a bang and felt a flash of heat against his face. Sirhan Sirhan, the assassin, had fired from just off Juan's shoulder.
"I thought it was firecrackers at first, or a joke in bad taste," says Juan, but then he saw Kennedy sprawled on the floor and knelt to help him up.
 Photograph by Boris Yaro / Los Angeles Times Juan Romero and Sen. Robert F. Kennedy, June 5, 1968. "He was looking up at the ceiling, and I thought he'd banged his head. I asked, 'Are you OK? Can you get up?' One eye, his left eye, was twitching, and one leg was shaking."
Juan slipped a hand under the back of Kennedy's head to lift him and felt warm blood spilling through his fingers.
"People were screaming, 'Oh my God, not another Dallas!' "
Ethel Kennedy knelt down at her husband's side and pushed Juan away. Juan looked on, angry and stunned, fingering the rosary beads in his pocket.
"When I was in trouble, I would always go and pray to God to make my stepfather forget what I'd done, or to keep me out of trouble the next time. I asked Ethel if I could give Bobby the rosary beads, and she didn't stop me. She didn't say anything.
"I pressed them into his hand but they wouldn't stay because he couldn't grip them, so I tried wrapping them around his thumb. When they were wheeling him away, I saw the rosary beads still hanging off his hand."
Juan was taken to the Rampart police station and questioned about what he saw and what he knew. He was released, still trembling, headed for home, and went to school the next day. It was at Roosevelt High that he saw Kennedy's blood under his fingernails, and decided not to wash his hands.
"Then the mail started coming to the hotel," Juan says. "Sacks and sacks of mail. You couldn't believe the amount of it."
Most of it was supportive, addressed to the anonymous busboy. It was a kind of celebrity Juan never asked for or wanted, and he grew apprehensive about hotel guests asking to see him. He also heard from a handful of lunatics asking why he didn't take the bullet himself, or telling him Kennedy would still be alive if he hadn't stopped to shake Juan's hand.
Juan left Los Angeles for Santa Barbara. He returned briefly to the Ambassador, but was finally driven away by ghosts. He worked at a hotel in Wyoming, then relocated to San Jose and married.
He settled comfortably into family life but lived with the cruel, nagging conviction that he'd been thrown into the path of history for a reason, and he hadn't been up to the challenge.
Juan was convinced he was supposed to find a way to express the hope Kennedy represented for him, but he couldn't find the words.
During the debate over California's Proposition 187, he felt that people were taking one look at his brown skin and figuring him for a freeloader. He wanted to scream that the ballot initiative was proof we needed another Kennedy, but he couldn't find a stage.
And that was just fine, because to remember that day in 1968, Juan ended up doing something more elegant and true. He took the faith expressed in that first handshake from Kennedy and honored the memory by working hard, providing for his family and living a life of tolerance and good deeds.
He doesn't always get it right. Juan's wife tells him he does so many odd jobs for others, it often comes at the expense of time with the family.
Maybe so, but Juan has to help those he can. And he has to keep moving, hurrying from one job to another like a man being chased. Especially around this time of year.
"For words to come out of my mouth that express how I really feel is so hard," Juan says, his eyes filling. "After years and years and years to think about what to say about that night, I can't figure out anything that does justice."
I tell him, once again, that he has said all the right things.
steve.lopez@latimes.com
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By Boris Yaro
Times staff writer
June 6, 1998
I went to the Ambassador Hotel 30 years ago to make a victory-party picture of Sen. Robert Kennedy as he won the California presidential primary. I was a Times reporter, but on that evening I went on my own time, despite an upset stomach from too many tacos and onion rings, toting my personal camera.
To me, Bobby represented what was left of the Camelot era of American politics, and I wanted him to win. I wanted a picture of him for my wall -- something that said a new era was aborning. And as the night grew long, it looked as if he was going to win.
 Los Angeles Times photo
At the Ambassador Hotel, crowds of supporters flash a "V" sign to celebrate Kennedy's victory in the California primary.
I entered the hotel pantry area early June 5, shortly after midnight, just as Bobby walked by and into the main ballroom to make his victory speech. I hadn't brought a flash unit into the hotel, opting to use "natural light," which was in vogue in 1968. I followed him and stood near the podium. As he finished I shouted, "Bobby, give us a V!"
He did. I made a photo and then ran back to the pantry to get a closer photo as he passed by.
I got more than I wanted.
It was crowded, so I sat on one of the freezers, next to Pasadena Star News photographer Dick Drew. As a rush of people came from the ballroom I aimed my camera, but I didn't see Kennedy. "Hey, Boris," Drew said, "you missed him."
I hopped down from the freezer and moved off to my right, spying Bobby shaking hands with some people. I aimed the camera, but there wasn't enough light.
Then there were a couple of explosions that seemed to light up the entire room.
 As debris hit my face, the smell and the stinging bits reminded me of the firecrackers I'd played with as a child in Iowa. Then the crowd around Bobby parted and there was a man with a contorted face and a revolver, and shots were still being fired.
Bobby put both arms up and began to bob and weave like a boxer. At one point he put his head down almost to his knees, but the man with the gun kept lunging and firing, wounding five other people.
I froze. "No," I said to myself. "Not again. Not another Kennedy."
As soon as the firing stopped, several men in suits jumped the shooter and pinned him to the metal counter top. They tried to force the revolver out of his hand, but he was still grabbing for it.
During my professional career I have been instructed to not touch things, especially at a crime scene. But as I watched the shooter go for his revolver, I broke the rule, crouched under the swinging arms and grabbed the gun. I was shocked to feel that the grip of the gun was smooth and very warm. Then someone took the weapon from me. I turned to see who, but all I saw were business suits and tuxedos. I figured it was probably a cop and turned back to Bobby, who in the darkness was sinking to the floor.
Suddenly the area was lighted by a TV film camera and I started to make photos of Kennedy sprawled on the floor, a busboy near him.
My mind was shrieking, "No . . . no, this can't be. I'm here to make a photo for my wall."
Someone grabs my arm. It is a woman, and all I see is her face. Her mouth is making funny sounds. "Don't take pictures," she says. "I'm a photographer, and I'm not taking pictures!" She is pulling on my arm, trying to move the camera from my eye. I am shooting at a very slow shutter speed, and she has stopped me.
I pull my arm from her grasp and growl, "Goddamn it, lady. This is history!"
I made several other frames until the crowd blocked Bobby from my view. Then I remembered Times photographer Steve Fontanini's words earlier in the evening: "They're holding deadline for a victory picture."
I ran around the hotel lobby until I found a pay phone. I called City Editor Bill Thomas and told him Bobby Kennedy had been shot. He said, "Yeah, we heard he was hit in the leg."
"Sir," I replied, "I saw blood dripping from his ear." Thomas didn't hesitate: "Get the film back quickly."
In the newsroom, as my film was being processed, I was being debriefed for the story. I was a lousy witness; the rewrite man was trying to talk me out of my shock. Photographer William S. Murphy, who painstakingly developed the underexposed film, came by and told me there were good images.
I saw them. They hurt.
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Photograph by Boris Yaro
Los Angeles Times |
It was more than six months before I could physically handle the negatives; I couldn't stand looking at the images in the darkroom.
That picture I wanted for my wall? It would be 10 years before I could put one frame up in my home, and then I buried it in the far corner of the den.
I had trouble being in crowded places and more than once became edgy and upset and had to leave a theater or a restaurant because there were too many people.
As the early morning hours of June 5 wore on, those problems had not yet manifested themselves. But after all the questions were over in the newsroom, I walked back to my cubbyhole darkroom in the photo department and, out of sight of everybody, I cried hot tears of anger.
I cried for me and you and all the world. Bobby would cling to life for another day, but the truth was already there:
Camelot was lost.
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| Note: Boris Yaro retired from The Times in 2001. |
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At left, Marshal Dillon and Miss Kitty! But wait, there's roller derby: the San Francisco Bay Bombers vs. the Los Angeles Braves!
Talk about mind-rotting nostalgia: "Heckle and Jeckle," "Mighty Mouse" and "Howdy Doody."
And, hmm.... "Bowling Time" or "Topper"? Oh, I think I'll watch "Topper."
Tough choice at 8 p.m.: Gale Storm, Perry Como or Spade Cooley.
On second thought, I'll wait until 8:30 p.m. for "Have Gun, Will Travel."
Best of all: "Perry Mason."
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May 4, 1958
By Keith Thursby
Times Staff Writer
 The Dodgers’ contract with the city of Los Angeles heated up as a political issue in the spring of 1958. Proposition B was on the June 3 ballot and stories started appearing with some regularity in The Times about various groups or politicians weighing in on either side of the issue.
Television would not be left out of the discussion.
Dinah Shore (at right in a 1942 photo by Bruno of Hollywood) was one of the top names in TV in 1958. She had graduated from a 15-minute show to an hour program on Sunday nights. Cecil Smith, The Times’ entertainment editor, profiled her as busy and happy — but worried about the Dodgers.
Shore recounted seeing the Dodgers lose, 15-2, at the Coliseum and an exchange with team owner Walter O’Malley:
“I kept telling Mr. O’Malley how sorry I was. But some man called up to him, 'Don’t worry, Walter, we’ll get 'em next time,' and Mr. O’Malley said: 'Such wonderful people; in Brooklyn, they’d have thrown a pop bottle at me.’ ”
Then came the politics:
“But if he loses Chavez Ravine, what’ll he do? That’s what worries me, what’ll he do?”
keith.thursby@latimes.com
Meet an earnest young scientist named Fred Horowitz, who received a wireless message sent from across the city, a newsworthy achievement in 1908. The other young Edison is Mars Baumgardt, whom you may recall from a previous post on the 1947project as the inventor of a radio-controlled boat.*
Sadly, Fred was badly injured the next month in another experiment. While trying to launch a kite by trailing it from his bicycle, he was hit by a car near Huntington Boulevard and Alhambra Road, The Times said. He suffered a concussion and a broken leg. Unfortunately, The Times never reported further on his adventures with radio. He was the son of Moses Horowitz, a merchant. 922 W. 1st St.
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* The 1947project website seems to be broken and my friends have moved on to their Bunker Hill project, so rather than redo the post, I've published a draft version I wrote in 2006.
Above, there are people in this world who insist that before the advent of top-40 radio in the 1950s, programming was a formless blob. Note, in fact, that programming was often tightly organized in 15-minute blocks. Below, Officer Donald M. Draper testifies that he rented the LAPD observation post at 2711 E. 7th St. on behalf of Police Capt. Earle Kynette to spy on bombing victim Harry Raymond. Draper takes the 5th Amendment on questions of whether he tapped Raymond's phone ... And look at the labor news: Violence in the strike at the Ford Motor plant ... reinstatement of strikers at Douglas Aircraft and indictments of 11 Los Angeles members of the Teamsters.
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Above, the Dodgers get a champagne welcome from Lawrence Welk at the Aragon Ballroom. Below, can it really be 50 years since Van Cliburn won the Tchaikovsky piano competition? And in case you're wondering: Liu Shi-kun and Lev Vlasenko tied for second place. Daniel Pollack of Los Angeles was awarded eighth place ... Mary Livingston is just fine, by the way....  Email me
KNOB-FM (103.1) went on the air in August 1957 as the world's first all-jazz station under the ownership of Sleepy Stein, The Times said. According to an Aug. 18, 1957, story by Don Page, the station had received permission to raise its power to 70,000 watts and would be moving 97.9-FM. However a 1958 story says the station wanted to raise its power to 7,000 watts.
By 1966, the station had moved to Anaheim and was sold to Jack and Jeannette Banoczi and by October of that year KNOB-FM had a pop music format. Several 1984 stories say the station was in Anaheim and had an easy listening format. Think MOR: Barry Manilow, Kenny Rogers and Olivia Newton-John. In 1986, the station went to "love rock" and in 1988, it became KSKQ-FM, all-Spanish contemporary.
Alex "Sleepy" Stein died July 27, 2000, at the age of 81. The Los Angeles Jazz Institute has a collection of his material.
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March 24, 1958
Los Angeles
Just because the deadline passed 50 years ago doesn't mean the Daily Mirror can't have a little fun. There are no prizes, only a little vintage amusement.... Send me your best interpretation of the NBC Peacock and remember to color inside the lines. Neatness counts! Remember: There are NO prizes! The deadline passed 50 years ago! The only reward is fun!
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Well at least one person took me "seriously." Thanks to Howard Decker!
Reader Holly Cannon's entry. Now there are two!
March 24, 1958
A Beverly Hills lady named Eve is willing to stipulate that--at the
moment at least--it's a very temporary world, particularly for those
who aspire to the drama.
A few mornings ago she was visited by a tax assessor who confided after
a few minutes' chat that he wasn't regularly a tax assessor. He was
really an actor but things had been a little slow.
That afternoon Eve went to the hospital for an operation. She was lying
in bed, reading Variety, when a man came into take a blood test.
Seeing what she was reading, he asked if she was in the entertainment business. No, she said, but her husband was.
"I'm an actor," he said, "but things have been a little slow and you know how it is, a fellow has to make a living."
YOU KNOW HOW cold and efficient and merciless Boris Karloff is when he plays the part of a mad scientist or a zombie?
Well, there he was in a market at Sunset and Laurel Canyon boulevards
the other day, tugging mildly at a shopping cart telescoped into a
whole batch of them, trying in vain to get it loose. A magnificent
study in quiet desperation.
Finally, reports writer John D. Weaver, a woman at the check stand
finished with her cart and Boris, in great relief, appropriated it to
do his shopping.
AN ENGINEER from Northrop Aircraft Inc., gave a talk the other night at which films of the development of the Snark missile were shown.
A spy who was there reports the engineer commented wryly, "You've all
read about the trouble the Navy had getting the Vanguard into orbit
after so many of them plopped into the sea. Well when we were testing
our missile at Cape Canaveral we used to refer to the Atlantic Ocean as
'the Snark-infested waters.' "
AND THIS profound
but devious reflection came in a letter Mack Tuesley received from his
mother: "Glad the Navy finally got its grapefruit into orbit, although
it is a little difficult for me to understand why they went to all that
trouble and spent all that money, never knowing what these experiments
will discover. I suppose it's a case of not knowing what we can't get
along without until we have one. Like my new dishwashing machine."
ONLY IN L.A. -- If
anyone has wondered what all those people are looking at in the store
window at 837 N. Fairfax Ave., they're gazing at the 7x5-foot oil
painting titled "Oscarama," by artist Ted Gilien, whose studio it is.
He brought it out in front to commemorate the Academy Awards Wednesday.
It's a brutally satiric study of movie types, men and women, at the
"moment of truth" when they receive their statues. And in the
background center, just for the heck of it, Ted painted himself and his
wife with three-count 'em--three Oscars in front of him.
AT RANDOM --
Heather Lowe, 2, got into the aspirin and was rushed to Santa Monica
Emergency Hospital. After a pump job she came out beaming, holding a
lollipop and balloon. Turned out these are budgeted items at the
hospital, kept on hand for just such cases. Very nice ... Pat Buttram,
CBS radio funnyman, bought a new home in Northridge with swimming pool,
push-button garage door and other luxuries--but you know what impressed
him most? A gold-plated weather vane on the roof ... The Manchester
Guardian reports a famous inn near London had a notice in superbly
appropriate orthography: "Whet Paynte." Which is about as quaint as you
can get ... A reader who is sensitive about such things reports that he
heard Gen. Gruenther say on a TV program that "over-all-wise" the Red
Cross campaign was doing very well.
Above, the brainstorm of John Pace, general manager of KABC-AM (790), "Airwatch" was announced Dec. 30, 1957. Below, Times writer Walter Ames goes along with Max Schumacher and Donn Reed for a jaunt above Los Angeles' freeways. Quote of the day: "Both Reed and Schumacher confess that after flying over the freeways for the past two months they are terrified to come down out of the air and brave automobile traffic. Both drive roundabout routes to get home rather than traverse the freeways."
Email me Update: Capt. Max & Donn Reed later went to work for KMPC. Dick Whittinghill,
the morning DJ on KMPC, used to refer to Capt. Max as flying his "infuriated
palm tree." Tragically, in the late '60s, Capt Max collided with an LAPD
helicopter over the Elysian Park area, I believe it was. He and 2 LAPD Officers
were killed.
Duane Laible
Frances Farmer is interviewed by The Times' Cecil Smith upon her return to acting in "The Tongues of Angels," a "Studio One" production. Farmer, whose life imploded in the 1940s, says: "I'm better now at my work than I have ever been."
Update: Several people have commented on Farmers' purported lobotomy. The Times' clips refer to this procedure as a possibility when commenting on "Shadowland," the biography by William Arnold, and on the movie "Frances," but there's nothing more substantial than that and certainly nothing was said at the time it might have occurred. That bastion of accuracy (or sinkhole of truthiness and gossip) known as Wikipedia says she never had a lobotomy. At least that's what it says today; the entry could claim something entirely different tomorrow--or even in another hour.
Arye Michael Bender writes: That Frances Farmer appeared on "Studio One" speaks volumes. The show was the
highest quality, one hour drama anthology on TV. It was performed LIVE. There
was no more terrifying a high wire act than performing live, on the number one
network, coast to coast. If she successfully pulled that off, then she should
have been ready for anything.
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April 28, 1958
Los Angeles
As The Times noted in November 1957, NBC planned to introduce videotaped programs with the switch to daylight saving time.
Although the time switch didn't occur until April 27 in 1958, we have already rolled the clocks ahead, so this seems to be a good time to focus on the technology that revolutionized television.
Arye Michael Bender (who worked under the name Leslie Michael Bender) worked at WBKB-TV in Chicago at a young age as mail room clerk, freelance publicity photographer and entrepreneur filmmaker. He attended Columbia College of Broadcasting while in high school in 1959. From 1960 to '63, he worked his way through college as a staff director for WSIU-TV in Carbondale, Ill. He began working with videotape at ABC in Los Angeles in 1963. He shares his recollections of the early days:
Got into editing when a microscope was added to the razor blade and mylar tape system.
 At first, at ABC Hollywood, it was the old radio engineers who practiced the "art" of editing. This was because they had been working with audio tape in the late days of network radio. Engineers tend to be better at dealing with mechanical things than they are people and the arts.
The first show to expand editing into an attempted art was "The Ernie Kovacs Show." He was a pioneer in using the developing techniques of television to illuminate comedy -- in much the same way Buster Keaton did 40 years before.
The editing was very stilted because the engineers believed that you edited on pauses, rather than action. Sixty years of the motion picture art of editing had been thrown out the window.
Ernie Kovacs had died in a grisly accident [1962--lrh] the year before I came to work for ABC. So editing was stopped in its tracks with his death, there being no one to explore what it could do.
I had just turned 21 when I was hired. I didn't connect the dots, so never mentioned my forays in Chicago television. I got the job because I had worked as a paid staff director at my college television station in Southern Illinois.
They purchased the two videotape machines used for the Adolf Eichmann trial in Israel, when the trial was over. My curiosity demanded that I learn all working TV positions, so I learned how to operate those pot metal and tube behemoths.
Since 20-year-old would-be directors from the sticks were a dime a dozen, but people who could operate a VTR were still rare, I got hired.
I was assigned as the lowest level "engineer" in the tape room. t was called The Submarine because of the narrow passageways between VTRs, that never saw daylight and was kept cold as a tomb to keep the tubes cool.
It was a strange and wonderful place.
At NBC in the era, they handled the aesthetics of tape editing with a unique approach.
They kinescoped the raw tape footage, then assigned the editing to a film editor.
Art Schneider was NBC's top West Coast editor. He cut the 16-millimeter film in the traditional fashion, then an another engineer (I believe) was assigned the daunting and repetitive task of conforming the videotape with scissors and mylar.
Keep in mind that no image was on the tape itself, only vertical lines of electronic information. In order to see if the splices worked, the edited tape would have to be played back, one splice at a time, on those giant machines. Since the mylar splices would deteriorate quickly, only a very limited number of passes could be attempted.
Each time a master tape was physically handled to see image, damage was done. It was a very hair-raising process.
March 4, 1958
Oct. 3, 1957--A former Santa Monica councilman was announced as
winner of the $140,000 capital prize in the Irish Sweepstakes today.
Jack Guercio, 49, had a ticket on Stephanotis, which brought home his $140,000 by winning the Cambridgeshire Handicap.
Guercio
resides at 1703 Maple St. with his wife, Pauline, and two youngest
sons, Vincent, 17, and Jackie Jr., 13. His oldest son, Ronald, 23, is
married.
Mrs. Guercio, overwhelmed by her husband's fortune, told reporters:
"I'd like a trip to Honolulu for the whole family, and maybe a new car."
Her
husband's plans were more conservative. "It'll send the boys to
college, help us redecorate our home and probably pay off the mortgage." At the time of Jack Guercio's
windfall, I figured he was too damn blase about the whole affair. And
if there's anything that annoys me, it's a man who can keep his wits
about him after winning $140,000. So, for the last few months I've been waiting. I've been waiting for Guercio to get his hands on that green--and to go stark raving out of his mind, like any respectable amateur gambler would do. 
Then, I figured, I'd call him up. And let him pour our his soul to me--about how he frittered all those beautiful green dollars. So yesterday I phoned him.
"Paul Coates," I said. "How's everything going, Jack?"
"Fine," he said. "Just fine."
"The wife?"
"Fine."
"The $140,000?"
"The what?" he demanded.
"The $140,000," I repeated.
"Oh," he said. "That! That's fine too--what there's left of it."
Now I was getting somewhere. "Been having a ball, eh?" I pressed.
Guercio laughed, casually. "I mean what's left of it after the income tax men took theirs."
"I see," I said. "But how about your share?"
"Like I told you," he repeated, "it's fine."
"Bought a lot of nice luxuries with it, I'll bet?"
"No," he said.
"New house?"
"No."
"But you DID redecorate the old one," I insisted. "After all, it's been over four months."
Guercio chuckled evenly. "Not yet. But we're thinking about it."
"The mortgage, then. You've paid that off."
"No," was the reply. "Not yet."
The
man was being difficult. "So," I finally ventured, "you took the wife
and kids on that luxury cruise to Hawaii, like she wanted. Like she'd
always dreamed of."
There was a pause. Finally, Guercio answered: "As a matter of fact, no."
"Come
on, Jack," I pleaded. "You've been swamped with all kinds of offers.
Trips. yachts. Expensive cars. You must have bitten on some of them."
"Paul, it's surprising. But hardly anybody's pestered us at all."
"The money!" I demanded. "The money? Where is it?"
Guercio laughed, harshly. "It may be gathering dust but it's gathering interest too. Something for the boys' education."
"You mean to say," I asked, "You didn't even make a trip?"
Guercio
told me that he didn't mean to say anything of the kind. "Didn't you
hear? My wife and I took the two youngest boys over to Ireland."
"Then you did squander some of it?"
"What happened," Guercio
explained, "is that I went to my local bank and they refused to collect
our winnings for us. They didn't want to get involved. So I figured--"
"So you blew a big chunk of it on a fancy trip to Europe," I interrupted.
"Well," Guercio admitted. "The four of us did go. It was a very pleasant vacation."
"Wastrel," I hissed half-heartedly, hanging up.
Studio executive Harry Cohn dies ... On the jump, the rest of the Cohn obituary ... A man commits suicide by jumping from the Subway Terminal Building ... Pilot whale Bubbles "celebrates" a year in captivity ... The Fire Department rescues a boy who was trying to trap pigeons beneath the 4th Street bridge over the Los Angeles River ... And Gene Sherman's column.
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Read on »
Feb. 8, 1958
Los Angeles
OK, I give up. Any ideas?
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Feb. 4, 1958
Los Angeles
More rain ... A woman dies in a bizarre shooting ... The Norwalk air disaster provokes calls to restrict flights over the city ... The governor submits a budget with no tax increases, but calls for an overhaul of the state's tax structure (sound familiar?) Above, an interview with Hugh O'Brian, star of "Wyatt Earp," at that time the No. 4 TV show in the country. "Gunsmoke" was the top-rated TV show, followed by "Perry Como," "Tales of Wells Fargo," "Wyatt Earp," "I've Got a Secret," "Have Gun, Will Travel," "Restless Gun," "Wagon Train" and "Danny Thomas" with "Lassie" and "Father Knows Best" tied for 10th.
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Jan. 29, 1958
The Kingfish and I got a pretty fair raking over the coals a few days ago.
And, somehow, I'm not quite sure that we deserved it.
The man who did the raking is a colleague of mine--a local newspaper
columnist named Stanley Robertson. He writes for the Negro publication,
the Los Angeles Sentinel.
It's his written opinion that Kingfish and I were responsible this month for what he calls "television's darkest hour."
And, apparently, that we--in two 15-minute KTTV telecasts--set the Negro race back at least a hundred years.
According to Robertson, the actions of Tim Moore, the 70-year-old actor
who portrays Kingfish in the "Amos 'n' Andy" TV series, have been
"disgraceful" since he became involved in the roast-beef episode with
his in-laws three weeks ago.
And my television show, with Tim as my guest, was "the bitter end."
To quote part of Robertson's complaint:
"Egged on into carrying his buffoon role of Kingfish over into real
life by the publicity he has received, especially (on) the Coates
television show, Moore has given credence to the millions of people who
believe that 'Amos 'n' Andy' is a true portrayal of the way Negro life
exists in the U.S."
In the first place, I question whether Moore is trying to be an
off-stage Kingfish. Or whether the fictitious Kingfish hasn't become a
popular television personality because Tim Moore injected quite a bit
of his real-life self into the character.
More is just that. He's a character.
He's a comic, a polished showman and maybe--as Mr. Robertson contends--he's even a buffoon.
He's also a pretty wonderful, sincere man, and I very strongly resent Robertson's attack on him.
I do so, especially, when the attack is one which I consider nothing
more than an outburst of some highly supersensitive emotion.
Mr. Robertson's column says, in gist, that the comical happy Negro who
has become as much a part of American folklore as Paul Bunyan and
Johnny Appleseed should be buried and forgotten, so that today's Negro
will not be discredited by the memory.
Let people look at the Marian Anderson,s the Ralph Bunches, the Jackie Robinsons, Walter Whites and Paul R. Williamses.
But at all costs get rid of the prototypes which inspired minstrel acts of men like Jolson and Cantor.
Somehow, this logic doesn't hold up.
If we follow it a little further, I'm afraid we'll have to outlaw jokes
about Irish cops, mothers-in-law, thrifty Scotsmen, sleepy Mexicans,
oil-soaked Texans, and, of course, the rich humor of the Jewish dialect
story.
Every country, every race, every geographical section, even every
profession has certain traits which--either justly or otherwise--are
attributed to it.
It would be sad to contemplate that we should ever become a nation so
hypersensitive we can't poke light fun at ourselves now and then.
Apparently, this is what Mr. Robertson wants. I gather from his column that he doesn't even like the "Amos 'n' Andy" show.
About it, he comments:
"I know many people who have always disliked 'Amos 'n' Andy,' but who
watched it occasionally, who have sworn they'll never watch it again
after the 'Affair Pot Roast.'
"And Mr. Coates must realize, too, that the interviews with the Kingfish have possibly done him more harm than good.
"An elderly Negro woman, obviously a domestic, riding on the
Crenshaw-Hollywood bus the other day, summed up the Coates' programs:
"Who does Paul Coates think he's kidding?"
I'm not kidding anybody.
But may be if I were a little more hypersensitive, I could build up a
fair-sized neurosis about prototypes like the stupid American tourist,
the henpecked husband and the provincial transplanted New Yorker.
Not to forget the cliche newspaperman who always needs a drink.
And at this point, I'm ready.
Sept. 4, 1948
Los Angeles
The King's, 8153 Santa Monica Blvd., 1945-1954
KWIK-AM (1490) 1947-1951
Johnny Grant 1923-2008
You may be wondering why you are looking at a poster of the 1973 film
"Bad Charleston Charlie." (And what a poster: the hair... the bloated
lettering... the hearts... that suit! If this doesn't say "lousy 1970s movie" I don't know what
does).
I can explain.
You see, I had planned to use the last days of the year to get caught
up on a few stories that slipped through the cracks before we rolled
over into 1958. (Yes, that's what we're going to do at the Daily Mirror).
Today, I was going to write about the introduction of videotape. Except
that the subject of videotape, though it revolutionized broadcasting,
is about as interesting as staring at a Betamax cartridge for an hour.
(Hey, Grandpa, what's a Betamax? Oh, you kids).
In researching a post on videotape (which is about as much fun as it sounds) I came across the name of Kelly Thordsen,
a former LAPD motorcycle officer who became an actor. Thordsen turns up
in many films and TV shows from the 1950s into the 1970s, including
1957's "Fuzzy Pink Nightgown." He often played a police officer in
contemporary films or a lawman in period pieces.
According to The Times, Thordsen began
his show business career after serving as master of ceremonies at an
LAPD benefit that featured William Bendix. After the performance,
Bendix complimented Thordsen and suggested that he turn pro. By 1960,
Thorsden had appeared in many TV shows, including such hits of the era
as "Yancey Derringer" and "Tales of Wells Fargo." He also was a member
of SPEBSQA.
Thordsen was never the subject of a Times profile, but as a character
actor he often ended up in three-bullet items at the bottom of a
column, working regularly in projects such as "The Ugly Dachshund" and
"Texas Across the River." And, five years before his death in 1978,
"Bad Charleston Charlie."
So here's to you, Kelly Thordsen, actor and police officer. The Daily
Mirror salutes you for capturing three robbers single-handedly in
1953--with only one pair of handcuffs.
As for videotape, NBC President Robert W. Sarnoff said in 1957 that the
new recording medium would free television from
the clunky technology of the day: kinescopes. NBC built what it called
the Western Tape Center at its Color City in Burbank to house 11
videotape recorders, The Times said. NBC planned to go to videotape for
the switch to Daylight Saving Time in 1958 to contend with the
challenges of broadcasting shows in different time zones across the
country.
Did I mention that "Bad Charleston Charlie" is out on videotape (but
not DVD)? See, I knew I could pull this together if I thought about it.
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Bonus factoid: As several people have noted, "Bad Charleston Charlie" was directed by Ivan "Izzy Sleeze's Casting Couch Cuties" Nagy, remembered today for his role in the case of Hollywood Madam Heidi Fleiss. Of course there are many claimants to the title "Hollywood Madam," including Madam Alex, and much earlier, Ronnie Quillan and Brenda Allen.
 Photograph by Al Seib / Los Angeles Times
I let it pass when we first ran this photo a few weeks ago, but I couldn't help noticing something unusual about Al Seib's picture of Jay Leno delivering doughnuts to striking writers walking the picket line. But here it is again today.
Why, Leno is wearing a badge. It looks awfully authentic, too. I managed to get a detail shot from my colleague Robert St. John on the photo desk:
Notice that the badge says: "Special Agent" and "Division of Criminal Investigation."
A little online sleuthing finds that it is apparently a badge from the state of Wyoming. A real one.
Behold:
Hm. I somehow suspect it's unwise for a civilian to tool around Los Angeles wearing an actual law enforcement badge even if he is Jay Leno (did I mention he has a great car collection?).
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Update: The 1947p's/LAPL's own Mary McCoy delves into ProQuest and turns up some ready answers, noting: "Gotta leave some for the rest of the kids to answer - no one likes a
ProQuest-it-all!"
Update II: I'm going to start filling in some of the answers--but very slowly just to give people one more chance to show off their expertise in Presleyana.
Update III: OK, here are the rest of the answers. Hope you had fun with that--I sure did.
And in case you're wondering, as I was, The Times apparently never shot Elvis in the 1950s. All we have are handout pictures. I would love to know the reason behind that.
I had so much fun doing yesterday's post on Elvis Presley that I had to share some of these wonderful factoids:
 1. In 1957, columnist Hedda Hopper listed Elvis Presley among the worst-dressed male personalities of the previous year. Who else was on the
list?
- Marlon Brando? (David Andrews) Bingo! He was one of them.
- James Dean? No. He died in 1955.
- Tab Hunter, at right. I should dig up some of the 1957 profiles of Hunter to show what he was trying to contend with. He told Hopper: "I'm a product of Hollywood publicity." Fairly astute for a young man of 24.
- Dennis Hopper (Gee, ya think?)
- Pa Kettle (Oh don't pick on poor Pa Kettle. That's as bad as saying Tugboat Annie is a slob. Oh wait, she says Tubgoat Annie is a slob).
- Bing Crosby, whom she singles out as a particularly notorious offender. He wears a shirt that looks like an Italian sunset with his best suit!
She also listed the worst-dress female personalities, including:
- Jayne Mansfield? (David Andrews) Bingo!
- Marilyn Monroe? (David Andrews) Absolutely.
Hedda Hopper's fashion tips for gals: "Some of them prefer slacks and turtle-neck sweaters, which are all right in their place, but not walking down Wilshire Boulevard, Fifth Avenue or Bond Street." That's it, ladies, no slacks and sweaters on Wilshire!
 2. On what campus was Presley performing when someone threw eggs at him from the balcony?
-
University of Alabama? No. But an interesting guess.
- Villanova University? (Mary McCoy). Bingo! Juniors William Quinn, William B. Oates, James Stark and John Edit denied egging Presley.
3. What was the name of the neighborhood where Presley bought Graceland in 1957?
- Graceland was near Whitehaven, a suburb south of downtown. (Mary McCoy). Exactly right. According to The Times, Graceland was in Whitehaven.
4. What polite, modest, young TV personality emerged in 1957 who was described as a wholesome alternative to Presley?
- Pat Boone? No. Boone was offered as a wholesome alternative, but this man was described as representing a wholesome, literate, intellectual alternative to Presley.
- Charles Van Doren? (David Andrews) Incredible but true. "It's a long time--if ever--since the public has been so impressed by an intelligent, courteous, modest young man such as Van Doren." Charles Mercer, Associated Press.
5. 
What future movie star was kicked off the university track team for refusing to trim his Elvis-like sideburns?
- Michael Landon? No, but that's a great guess!
- Bruce Dern? (Mary McCoy) Bingo! Bruce Dern, star of Penn's two-mile relay team, quit rather than shave his sideburns. (At right, tragedy at the Dern home, 1962).
6. Bootleg Presley recordings were selling for 50 rubles ($12.50 USD 1957)
in the Soviet Union in 1957. These bootlegs were not vinyl but on
another medium. What was it?
- Reel-to-reel magnetic tape? No. The Soviets used a nontraditional recording medium.
- Shellac? No. The Soviets were using an improvised medium never intended for recording.
- Used X-ray film? (Mary McCoy). Absolutely. This was known as "music on bones."
7. What folk music expert said: Elvis Presley is "a crime against society.
Rock 'n' roll is going to die. In fact the process has already started."
- Pete Seeger? Interesting guess. No, but I wonder what Seeger thought of Presley.
- Alan Lomax? Excellent guess. But no.
- Burl Ives? Excellent guess! But no.
- Woody Guthrie? Excellent guess. But no.
- Dorothea Dix Lawrence? (Mary McCoy). Absolutely right. Lawrence cataloged 378 verses of "Frankie and Johnnie" (a.k.a. "Frankie and Albert").
8. Two young women making a promotional tour of the country ran into
Presley as he was parking his Cadillac at the Beverly Wilshire. What
were they promoting and what scary prop did they have with them?
- National Mothproofing Month? (Mary McCoy) Bingo! Mary Hall and Cherry Gordon (at right, behold the fearsome terror of proto-Mothra) were carrying a 35-pound giant prop moth nicknamed "Max the Monster." Elvis said: "What's that?" They replied: "Pat Boone."
9. What famous Presley movie was briefly given the working title "Treat Me Nice?"
- "Jailhouse Rock?" (Delilah Schelen) Exactly right.
10. What rumor about Presley was hotly denied in a 1957 magazine article? (Note: There may be many rumors, I'm thinking of a specific rumor listed in The Times).
- That he had left the building: "One rumor even had it that he was dead," The Times said May 2, 1957. "You may think he's out of this world or down the tube but you'll have to agree he's far from dead!
11. What actress wasn't allowed to visit Presley while he was filming in 1957?
- Natalie Wood? No, another actress was specifically banned from visiting him, according to The Times.
- Debra Paget? No. Interesting guess, but no.
- Mae West? Interesting guess. But no.
- Tura Satana? Well that's different. No, but interesting guess.
- Vampira? Oh very interesting g
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aybe you remember him as Al Sleet, the "Hippy, Dippy Weatherman with the hippy, dippy weather ... man" or as Rufus in "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure" or the author of an incredible number of jokes that are eternally circulating on the Internet. Or perhaps you have heard of his bit on the "Seven Dirty Words." Here's a transcript of the skit that got him in trouble. 
he acerbic stand-up comedian and social commentator is celebrating 50 years in show biz -- and last week's release of "George Carlin: All My Stuff," a 14-DVD collection of his HBO specials spanning 1977 to 2005. Although he shows no sign of slowing down, he did take some time to chat about his career, his healthy pessimism and our commander in chief.
ell, I am a pessimist as far as the world is concerned. I have absolutely low prospects for the human race; I have very low prospects for this country. For myself, though, very high prospects. I'm a personal optimist.
bout 30 years ago, I became a person who said, "You know something? People aren't worth worrying about and caring about." One by one, yes; any time I'm with one person, I'm fine. There's all sorts of compassion and empathy in my heart. But when you consider them as a group, from a distance, I don't give a . . . about them.
