The genius of the English language is that it is always in a state of flux much like fashion or the stock market. Our language’s constant state of development is because English, charming and confusing, is in the hands of common people for better or for worse; further, there are more of them than, say, English teachers.
Most of us are better at one form of expression than another. Chances are pretty good that if you write for a living, the likelihood of being a skilled user of the spoken word is slim although there are exceptions. One would be Jean Shepherd who talked and wrote funny; a classic example is his Christmas Story. Both the film’s writing and narration are his and examples of his remarkable radio work (all of it adlibbed) are available via free downloads.
The luxuries of writing as opposed to speaking are profound. Writers can sit down in front of a computer or typewriter, stare at the machine for any length of time, then, maybe begin writing. Should the output prove wanting, then a cup of coffee or stronger may be necessary.
Liquor more than once was a subject of discussion with Pulitzer Prize-winning editorial cartoonist John Fischetti. Employed by Field Enterprises (its holdings included the Chicago Sun-Times & Daily News), we were convinced that the booze muse by way of a couple of martinis at lunch made us more creative during the afternoon struggle. I’ll have more down the road about Fischetti, my all-time favorite luncheon buddy whose enormously human work appeared in the New York Herald Tribune before he moved to the Daily News and later the Sun-Times after the Daily News folded. It was at Fischetti’s funeral that he was eulogized by TV host/journalist Bob Cromie as “probably the inventor of the long lunch.”
Long lunches were not the forte of the enormously serious general manager of a Kansas City TV station back in the early 60s. We weren’t pals but let’s be kind and call the fatuous GM simply by his first name.
Joe had one of those out-of-focus backgrounds for a guy hired to provide television leadership in the boonies. Actually, it was better than most--even a bit exotic in those days. Joe had been advance man for Irene Wicker, radio’s “Singing Lady” who somehow missed being acknowledged in Woody Allen’s wonderfully nostalgic Radio Days film. Check it out for a look at the effect radio had on people in the 40s.
Joe had the worst memory of anyone I’ve ever run into this side of Alzheimer’s. People could be introduced to him countless times and he could never get their names straight. How he maintained employment with his publishing empire owners was beyond the ken of most who knew him. Of help, of course, was TV’s being the original cash cow in the days when the competition in typical big city situations was a couple of other stations.
Guys like Joe always seem to have a Kick-Me to push around. For those who don’t know, cartoonist Al Capp invented the Kick-Me for “Lil’ Abner,” a long-running cartoon strip. Weighted on the bottom, the Kick-Me always bounced back when delivered a boot or punch. Eventually, the Kick-Me was manufactured and is now a collectable.
Joe’s Kick-Me was Mike whose Herculean last name (Strawn) suggested he might earn his keep as a private eye, professional football player or rodeo cowboy. Wrong. Mike was a long-suffering promotion manager of the CBS affiliate and if he wasn’t playing indentured servant to Joe’s plantation owner, he was attempting to right one of his boss’s wrongs.
The one thing Joe feared more than anything was intense criticism from women--particularly those with children who might witness something untoward on his station. One day Joe appeared at a luncheon held in a restaurant on the edge of Country Club Plaza--one of Kansas City’s upscale areas still considered a major attraction. Among those gathered was your faithful scribe, then employed by TV Guide, plus a large collection of PTA women representing a great many of the community’s schools. Before each of them was a massive array of papers put together by Strawn to strengthen the suggestion that Joe’s programming for children could be trusted. A master of detail and very much of the opinion that sheer weight can often win the day, Joe had demanded and received massive proof of his station’s superiority including impressive charts, graphs and diagrams involving every possible aspect of television that made KCMO a buy impossible for advertisers to ignore. Joe beamed as Mike gave his usual groveling and unctuous introduction.
Joe the GM got off to predictably stumbling start, drifted into some unfathomable communications jive indicating, as best I could tell, that he was essentially up with up and down with down and then kicked into high gear. “Ladies,” he intoned waving on high evidence of his station’s deepest held principles, “I want all of you to grab your diaphragms.”
Tiny titters were enjoined by polite giggles in turn by somewhat controlled guffaws all of which converged with wild explosions of laughter--real belly busters. Members of the audience were repeating what had been said to those whose minds had been benumbed by the executive’s earlier attempts to communicate.
Not used to creating uproars and stunned by the audience reaction, Joe didn’t have a clue regarding what he had said. The tsunami of hilarity had developed into such a perfect storm of uncontrolled laughter that the speaker couldn’t go on. Finally, Mike, seated at the head table, approached his boss explaining the situation. Things finally quieted down and the red-faced general manager continued.
During my own searches for what I hope is the right word, the memory of Joe and the greatest laugh I’ve ever witnessed often returns. In terms of audience reaction, it was better than anything I’ve heard out of Shecky Greene, Carol Burnett or Richard Pryor.
Some humor is simply beyond clever writing and delivery.
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