Redd Foxx

I find that more and more of the things I think are common knowledge are lost to the generation that now dominates the social networks.  This may be true of the Harlem comedian turned television actor Redd Foxx. 

He was a very raunchy comedian who was known for his 50's "party records". That was the name given to comedy record albums with language and material unsuitable for broadcast. By todays standards they are pretty tame.  However, he continued to push the envelope and kept pandering to looser mores and retained his XX rated act keeping up with the newest dirty material till his death.

In 1975 he was the star of a hit television show named "Sanford and Son". This let him charge big dollars for the dirtier material in clubs and Vegas. He was also heavy into drugs at the time and was somewhat of a loose cannon on board the network show. He was raunchy and unpredictable.

In his Vegas act the band would play him on and off with the theme from his show Sanford and Son, click on that link if you don't know it. It is a catchy tune.

One night in Vegas there was a very small crowd for a late show.  The band played the theme song, Redd Foxx walked to the microphone, looked at the crowd and said, "I'm not doin' my mother fucking show for only this many fuckin' people," and walked off.  The band immediately played the same song for his exit. 

I told John Ivy my PSM the story one night and from then on when we had an audience that was small one of us would scat the Sanford theme to the other and share a laugh.  It was all we had to do to communicate that it was going to be a small house. 

Cut to the last night of the run at the Magic Castle. Our show was so successful that we did a third show for the Sunday night crowd, which is rare unless there is enough people to justify it. It was a compliment that we were that popular but this show was the lightest of the run. Back stage in the green room we performers were trying to get up the energy to tackle what would be a more challenging show.  

Out of habit I started humming the Sanford and Son theme. John was not around and I suspected someone to ask me why I was humming that song. At that time I would get to tell the Redd Foxx Vegas walk off story again. Instead, magician Jack Goldfinger started to laugh out loud. He said, "Yes... exactly. Perfect." He not only knew the reference and the story, he was the opening act for Redd Foxx the night he walked off. He was actually there that night. 

To be honest I was never sure the story was true.  It is a great story and I love to tell it. Jack was able to fill me in on some more graphic details including the fact that he was even more insulting to the small audience than the way I tell it. 

John Ivy was the first person I wrote to with that bit of "Kevin Bacon connecting". You have to love this business cause you never know how careers overlap and stories you have always heard about can come to you first hand. If you are looking for Magic, you find all kinds on and off stage at the Magic Castle.

As you were,

Jay

End of a Great Magic Castle Week
It was great fun. The mind reading act using a ventriloquist as the secret fooled most of the people. We had to expose the gag at the end just so they would understand they were "HAD". Mike and Tina are great and it was a very special show.

As you were,
Jay

The Magic Castle

I am having a great time at the Magic Castle. Two of my heros were in the audience last night. Mark Wilson, who produced and starred in "The Magic Land of Alacazam" on television when I was a kid, ; and Bill Link, who created an wrote such great television shows as, Columbo, Burkes Law, and countless others. Both are grand gentlemen and great talents in two different disciplines.  I have a peripheral love of magic and writing, and admire them both for their talents. I am proud to be their friend.

I don't work at the Castle very often, and should visit more when I am not performing. However, I do have some great memories of great times there. Some that stand out: the memorial service for Di Vernan, and the pre-death wake of Billy McColmb to name only a couple.  And one more that may shock some of my more critical detractors. (I am talking to you Anonymous "with disappointment... 7:11AM")

I am not sure of the date, but I know it would have to be the late 70's or very early 80's. Jeff Dunham was performing at the Palace of Mystery.  Jeff Dunham hadn't moved to Los Angeles yet,  he was unmarried, and one of the few vents to perform the Castle. To get the Magic Castle gig at all was a testimony to his ability.   The Castle was at the the time a place to be seen by LA shakers and movers.  Jeff was making all the right moves and getting people there to see his act.  

At the time I was sort of an itinerate mentor to Jeff Dunham. We grew up in the same town and went to the same high school, and shared some of the same gigs locally, at different times.  We discussed the art form in detail over the years.  I remember we both sat in my dressing room at the Casa Manana Theatre in Ft. Worth, Texas for my entire break.  I had to rush to get on stage for the second show. The differences that we had toward the art form always made for an interesting discussion.  

So, I came to the Palace of Mystery just to see Jeff Dunham perform.  I had not seen his act in a long time.  He was using a McElroy figure back then.  It was a good act.  I remember distinctly that I had never seen anyone use the McElroy upper and lower lip movement with such dexterity. There was another level to the mouth animation that was and still is quite unique. He didn't use the upper lip just as a gesture or expression, he actually used the movement to accent the proper syllables. I suspect this is how the McElroy's intended it to be used.

After the show I went backstage.  It was my turn to spend the break between shows in his dressing room.  After a while Jeff wanted to show me something that he had been working on.  On the table was a "rocks size" bar glass filled with water. He grabbed his figure and began a conversation and while continuing the conversation drank the glass of water.  I had never really seen that done before and have not since. Usually it is done with a trick glass or gaffed props, but until that moment I didn't know that it was really possible to do.  As I suspected Jeff Dunham had found the only solution I thought was possible to actually accomplish that trick. It was a matter of timing glottal strokes and swallowing within the context of specifically chosen words. I understood the mechanics but I'm not sure I could do it as effectively. It was really quite impressive. I never saw him do it again and I don't know if it ever made it into his act, but it should have. 

I doubt it would have the same effect done today in one of his stadium shows, even with the Imag. And it could never be as impressive as it was to me three feet away in the Magic Castle dressing room.

I am impressed with the brotherhood of magicians apparent at the Magic Castle.  They meet and share secrets and support one another.  They say if you get two magicians together you have a convention.  I have heard it said that if you get two vents together you have a fight. Perhaps I can be part of the solution and not the problem.  Perhaps vents should talk together in dressings rooms and not through lawyers and managers. Perhaps...

As  you were,

Jay 

Fooling them at the CASTLE

It has been a very long time since I have performed at the Magic Castle although I have been a member for a long time and go fairly often. I am having a blast with Mike Caveney and Tina Lenert, members of the infamous Left Handed League.

We decided to do a routine together that we thought would be a gag and it turns out it is fooling magicians. Often for only a few moments and sometimes for a much longer.  I can't, of course, reveal  the nature of the trick since it might tip the gaff by talking about it. All I can say is that it involves mind reading or sightless vision. And not to say that the idea we have come up with is so ingenious that the master manipulators can't see it. I think that most of them are looking in the wrong direction. But ultimately that is what stage magic is... miss direction. But what fun. A moment on stage we thought would be a gag has turned into the talk of the Castle for this week. It has become a must see moment.

In reality we were just trying to add a little more magic into the show and not have it look too much like a variety show.

It is frustrating to have a great story like, "Fooling them at the Magic Castle", and not be able to talk about it. Bummer, I usually find that I don't edit myself as much as I should in this blog, but this time it really would go counter to the magicians code of secrets. And I have probably said too much already. Don't know why I brought it up if I can't talk about it. More Later,

As you were,

Jay

Clarification

I meant to say that the drawing I posted yesterday called "Dr. M" was my statement on the Conrad Murray manslaughter trial of Michael Jackson. As you know I am following that trial regularly. This is what I think of the testimony up till now. It works for me...
At the airport early morning, tight connection in Chicago. Sorry to leave Rochester but glad to be heading home.
As you were,
Jay

The Week End

My last night in Rochester. Home tomorrow. Blog next week...until then my
Drawing entitled "Dr. M"
As you were,
Jay

Tough Day at Work

I guess everyone has one of those days. You do your best and give it your all and it just doesn't seem to be enough. The crowd was a decent size for a Wednesday evening. In fact I thought they would be a really good audience. I have gotten great reactions from audiences half their size with this very show in this very theater, so I was not really concerned when I started. John tells me that I can't make a judgement on how the audience will react until after the first performance piece which is the Snake character. So, although I thought their reaction was a little stilted for the opening few minutes, I waited.
The snake routine came and went and there seemed to be no change in their attitude. I kept working them. At every turn of the story I thought I had figured them out. Their reactions proved me wrong, and it took me by surprise. I began to give up on ever finding them as the show rolled on. They were not restless nor distracting, they were just comatose. I could not get a reaction out of them if I delivered it in a Mac truck.
I have done this show for every possible type of audience. I didn't think there was a situation that I had not faced before. These people showed me that an audience is a crap shoot and you can never pigeon hole them. It was like they were in church. No one laughed no one reacted but they were watching and listening intently. Usually you can break through that "television attitude" and get them to respond in a live theatre, but I used every skill that I had ever learned and nothing was working.
The trick in this situation is to not let it get to you and not get vicious . In a club you can take out your frustrations on the audience and let them have it, and sometimes that works and they are brow beaten into submission. But you can't do that in a theatre setting when there is a thread to the story and it must follow a set of scripted cues. It was like trying to fight an opponent in the boxing ring with your feet nailed to the floor. I told John later I thought I was moving concrete blocks, everything took so much effort I wondered if I could go the distance.
Finally it was Darwin's turn. He is the least structured of all the bits and if I could ever go "club" on them this was the time. So I let him go. He bated and harassed the non-responsive as only a monkey can do and get away with it. Compared to the rest of the evening he did get them going, but just moving the bar from on the ground to up an inch was not the success I was hoping for. It was not a satisfying evening as it turned out. I was completely drained and weak. I had gone the distance but it had taken my all to do it.
Like I said, we have all had this experience and there is no insurance policy one can get to make certain it will never happen again. There will be another performance tomorrow night that has the potential of being a barn raiser.
John usually goes outside to have a smoke after the show and hears the comments of the audience as they leave. He said they were very impressed, happy and the comments on the evening were really good. You would think that they could have expressed those feelings to me in some way... a smile, a giggle, any sort of reaction a living body can make.
Oh well, I look at what I do as art and I guess the reaction to art is up to the observers. There is no standard response. They did their part, they observed without distraction. However, I wish I could let them know in some way that if they had participated just a little bit in the experience they might have enjoyed it exponentially, but that moment and that audience is gone and can never be repeated. And... I realize that this is what I love, the unknown response of a live audience. If it was always the same I would get very bored and find another venue for my talents that was not so predictable. I am a professional and sometimes you have a tough day at work.
As you were,
Jay

Memories of Note

My Dad didn't smoke, didn't drink and never said a bad word stronger than Hell, and would apologize for that. It was not easy to maintain that constitution back in his day. Everyone of his friends smoked, I can't think of any grown up I knew when I was a kid who didn't smoke, except my Dad and Mom. It was always my job to go and get the ash tray for Dub, or Gid or Earl and Jo when they came to visit us. I would then have to disappear to my bedroom and go to bed, but I rarely ever went to sleep right away on those occasions. The smell of tobacco and coffee wafting down the hallway, and the conversation that I could almost make out was much too stimulating. I loved listening to my Dad tell stories and converse with his friends.
We lived in a dry county of Texas so liquor was not around, and if those friends drank they did it in secret. However when Dad changed businesses and became a Bond trader in Dallas, Texas the industry was fueled with two martini lunches and cocktail parties. You were just expected to keep up with the guys drink for drink to make a deal. Dad would go up to the bartender and order "a club soda... with none of your comments". He would get to know the bartenders and they would make the club soda look like a mixed drink and sometimes say, "The usual Mr. Johnson," and he would never have to reveal what he was drinking. The last few years of his life he discovered the joy of Baileys Irish Cream in his morning cup of coffee. The last time I was home we had to make a stop at the liquor store for more Balieys. It was the only time I can recall ever buying booze with my Dad. That male bonding experience was late in coming but highly memorable.
In high school I discovered a bottle of rum hidden in the back of the cupboard. It was dusty and old and probably used for "medicinal purposes" long ago. It stayed there for years until one night during my senior year in college.
My best friend Larry Imes enlisted in the Navy and was gone for two years. He came home from duty one evening and called me to pick him up at the airport. I was living at my parents house and commuting to North Texas at the time. We came back to the house and caught up before I took him home to his folks. In celebration of the sailor home from the sea seemed to be a good time to relocate that bottle of rum. It was still there where it always was untouched from my previous discovery. We had rum and Dr Pepper as the hours flew by. At one point the electricity went off and the house went totally dark. It only lasted a few minutes but it was odd. As it got very late my Mom woke up to us giggling in the kitchen. She was surprised to see Larry who was like one of her boys and greeted him appropriately. As Mom was going back to bed Larry said, "Mrs. Johnson, did you know the electricity went out a few minutes ago?" Without missing a beat she said, "It was probably the good Lord telling you to go to bed." Later the next day she asked me how much rum Larry and I drank. I tap danced a little and said, "Just a bit." She pulled the bottle out of the cup board and measured her fingers to display the exact amount we had consumed. She knew exactly how much had been in the bottle before my welcome home party.
As to bad language that is something my Dad never gave into. He thought "Gone with the Wind" was inappropriate with one Damn. This must have been a challenge for him when he was in the Navy. I think cussing like a sailor is the expression. He probably found a good use for the phrase, "I don't give a rats ass" in those days, because that is about all he would stoop to. In fact, when us kids were small he changed it to "Don't give a rats bottom... or simply the initialed explicative "RB". That we were allowed to say, RB in times of great personal trial. It was my favorite and only curse word for years until I found that the F word had more impact in most situations. My high school friend Larry even started repeating RB in times of frustration. I remember five years ago when Larry called me to tell me he had cancer of the liver, I didn't know what to say. He said it all by just saying, "RB"
I knew you didn't recommend a movie to Dad that had even a moderate amount of adult language. He just would not like it if there was any bad language. I am sure that is why my night club act was squeeky clean. I just didn't hear creative uses of certain words when I was growing up. In modern times it was impossible to see a movie that was not objectionable to him with regard to language. It could be the best story in the world, but more than a few bad words and it was not a good film. However, to his credit, when his Grand daughter started working on the producing side of movies he would sit through the worst of language just to see her name go by in the credits. I guess that was Dad. He would do anything for his family.
Larry passed away five years ago, I have had a chance to accept his departure. It has not been long enough since Dad's passing to have a good perspective yet. I guess what we are left with after all is said and done is just memories of what is was like to be with them. I have been blessed with great memories.
As you were,
Jay

Trial Watch...

By now it is no secret that I enjoy a good true crime show or a juicy televised trial. I must remember to thank the Los Angeles Superior Court for timing the Conrad Murray trial during the weeks I would be out of town. With no television at the "star house" there is at least a streaming real life drama for me to watch before going to the theatre. And watch it I do. Because of the time change for the East coast I am able to sleep a little longer and still get up for the morning session. Except for the sessions held when I had to be on stage, I think I have seen the entire trial.
There are a few observations that I have made so far. I really don't have an opinion on Conrad Murray's guilt or innocence. I think ultimately Dr. Murray was hired at $150,000.00 a month to be a personal prescription drug dealer to Michael Jackson. If Michael Jackson needed Propafal to get through the tour, then it was just a cost of doing business for AEG Live. Besides I am sure if Dr. Murray would have refused the unorthodox treatment another Doctor ,ready to comply, would be only a phone call away. Most everyone around Michael Jackson wanted to get him on stage to sing and dance like a trained animal act, or more like a through bred race horse. Anything is fair game to get the horse to run. Perhaps there should be co defendants in this trial. Going all the way back to Joe Jackson and Barry Gordy.
It is sad to me that Michael Jackson was such a cash cow to those living off him. So much so, they would let him do anything to keep the dollars flowing. This was true his entire life, from his father to the record label to the body guards that were there to protect him. Everyone wanted him to keep doing tours and making hit records and anything was fair game to keep that well from running dry. Drugs, cosmetic surgery, kids, amusement park rides, oxygen chambers and a chimp named Bubbles.... it seemed like everyone around him turned a blind eye to anything that kept him happy. Since he was currently deep in debt the axe above his neck was an even greater incentive to keep the money stream flowing. It does seem odd to me that a man who was 400 million dollars in debt lived like a Prince of Bruni in Holmby Hills, California. For those who don't live in LA the people of Holmby Hills have so much money they look down on Beverly Hills as a ghetto.
The defense in the Murray trial will try to establish that Michael ingested and or injected the over dose of Larazapam and Propafal that killed him while Murray was out of the room. According to the defense the good Doctor was just trying to help the poor man sleep. We know that Michael was addicted to Dimeral and one of the side effects of that addiction is a sever interruption of the addict's sleep cycle. Propafal is not a sleeping aid, it just induces coma for surgery. The wear and tare on the body from being "out" on that drug is even worse than not sleeping. For many reasons a Doctor should have known what the drug's affects were and refused to assist in the ultimate destruction of a personal patient. He should have had the proper hospital equipment to administer the drug, and maybe he should not have left his high profile patient alone to call one of his three girl friends on his Iphone. If Jackson did administer the drugs himself the Doctor still seems to be culpable for leaving the room.
The main thing about the trial is Murray's face. He looks so guilty with a scowl that never leaves even for his close up. I wouldn't expect a man to be grinning ear to ear during such a serious situation, but don't scowl like LT. Warf from Star Trek. There is a middle ground between a grin and a look of doom. He should just look neutral. To me his own demeanor is playing right into the case of the prosecution. He looks like a guilty villian.
After the Casey Anthony not guilty verdict, I am done trying to second guess the 12 people who have the duty. I just think that however the trial goes, there was a major crime here. Not totally the Doctor's fault but a crime shared by every person that saw Michael Jackson as a commercial object instead of a man crying for help.
The defense will take over soon. Look for them to try to position Dr. Murray as the odd man out in a household of Islamic body guards and personal assistants. Each one was responsible in their own silence and guilty of not protecting the man they were hired to protect. It is easy to place blame on the person who was the last person there when the music stopped.
As you were,
Jay

Left Overs....

I am going to leave out one fact in this story as I tell it. I think you will understand why once you hear it. However, at the end I will will tell you the missing ingredient and the story will take on a very different meaning.
My friend Harry says that political correctness is a modern obstacle to comedy. There are some jokes that involve an ethnic group that are not racist, just funny. In Texas you can hear an Aggie joke, go to Pensilvania and hear the same joke told as a Polock joke, and in Canada the same joke would be a Nuffee joke. Same joke, just as funny but requires the assignment of a localized group that everyone knows. Most of the time the ethnic group has nothing to do with the humor of the joke, but because of political awareness those jokes are avoided. But given that we live in a world when we need to laugh more than ever, we can not eliminate a joke just because it might contain an ethnic word. We need to find another way to tell them.
Harry suggests we *invent* a group to make fun of. A race that doesn't exist and won't be offended by being the butt of the joke. Then we will be able to tell all the jokes that are now off limits. The world needs a laugh. Harry said.... let's just call them Cleathens. There is no such thing as a Cheahen, so we can make them anything we want. So here is the joke he tells after that lengthy set up: These two Jewish Cleathens walk out of a Synagogue..... Okay that is not quite on point but, here is my story.
Tonight the producer of the show took me, John and some of the staff members of the theatre out for an evening dinner. It was an Indian Restaurant known for exotic dishes not normal to the Rochester bill of fare. It was "special Buffett" night and they featured dishes that are not normally on the menu. The food was very good.
One off the staff volunteers is a lady who takes her tiny dog with her everywhere. She has a purse that is big enough for the dog and she sneaks him into every place she goes. Most of the time the business don't know there is a dog in their store because the pooch stays hidden in the bag. There are ordinances against dogs in the restaurants of Rochester, but so far she seems to be able to circumvent the rules with the hidden dog. Predictably she brought the dog into the restaurant this evening, maybe she is a regular and they know and don't care. I don't know, but none of the waiters seemed to be concerned about the large purse that would occasionally wiggle in the chair next to her.
I forgot to mention that the restaurant is packed there are people waiting outside for any available table that becomes empty. I think in the food service business they would refer to that as being "slammed". The fact that a chair would go unoccupied by an actual eating customer was attention grabbing.
So we finish our meal and the dog lady decides she will take some of the food home with her. They provide a container and the ubiquitous white take out sack for her. She slings the dog purse over the same shoulder with the take out sack. And we exit.
The second we are out the door she opens the purse for the dog to stick its head out, finally. He is curious about the smells coming from the sack and sticks his head in to find out. There is a large group of people standing near the entrance waiting their turn to go in. The dog can't get to the food and gives up. Just then a member of a large party sees the head of a dog coming out of the white sack and says, "Look it's a doggie bag. She is taking the left overs home." They all laughed hysterically.
The part I left out is that the entire party laughing was Asian. I am unsure if they were laughing at the pun, or more about the idea of eating the dog later.
As you were,
Jay

Monday, Monday....

I remember the first time I was away from home for an entire summer I was working at Six Flags over Georgia. I way over-packed and had a foot locker of things I sent back home before the summer was over. I remember that I wanted to have some sort of music at the apartment I would share with David Wylie. It is not that I didn't trust Wylie to have some tunes, but figured it would be opera which was not what I was into at the time. I also knew that we would not have a television to watch.
It wasn't like today when you just take your Ipod and have hours and hours of music. Nor could you just go to Pandora and have all the music you like on a computer. The best that you could do back then was travel with cassette tapes. They were less cumbersome than vinyl records, but took up a lot of space nonetheless. You also needed a player which took up more space.
Just before I left for the job I found something called a "sound machine". It was about the size of a toaster and had speakers and a playback system for mini eight track tapes. Not the eight track tapes that were all over at the time, but a special smaller version of insertable cartridges. It was more expensive than a portable radio cost, but you could listen to the music *you* wanted to hear, not the lame choice of some Atlanta disc jockey.
By the time I spent my money on the player, I didn't have a lot of spare cash left over to buy the special cartridges. Of course it was just a paper weight without the music tracks. I was able to buy two "albums" and thought that I would get more as the summer went on. One of the cartridges was an album by the "Mamas and the Papas" which contained the song "Monday Monday". I played that album hundreds of times a day. Of course you couldn't advance to a particular song, you had to wait till it came back around again, but it was the only music I had. I understand now why Mackinse Philips turned to drugs if she had to listen to that music for her entire childhood. Instead of relaxing me during my time off it was starting to irritate me. It was time to buy some more music to play on my state of art player.
Unfortunately by the time I was ready too start my "sound machine" collection, the machine and all the cartridges had been discontinued. The biggest objection to the buying public was the lack of music available on that format. I was perhaps the only one to actually purchase the device, and there were no special tapes to be had any where. The toaster sized player became my nemesis, a repetitive machine that played the same tunes over and over and over. I started listening to Wylie's opera just to keep my brain from going into atrophy. I should have bought a radio. It was a great lesson in impulse buying. It has stayed with me all these years.
So today is Monday...Monday... can't trust that day....Monday, Monday sometimes it just turns out that way.....( it still haunts me.) and we have a day off. The forecast says it will rain all day. In Rochester the rain this time of year is just a dress rehearsal for the snow that is soon to come. There are no guarantees but I think we will be gone before then. We are starting our last week here.
It will be great to get some rest. For some reason the shows have been sapping my energy more than normal. The venue is a little tough and it takes more effort to move the story up the mountain. However, the crowds have been very responsive even when we have a light house. But I am beat.
So today on a rainy Monday, I will open my Ipad to Pandora, or download some videos to watch, click on IHeartRadio, listen to the the hours and hours of my own mp3's, play some computer games, draw on an art app, surf the Internet, write and publish my next blog, email everyone in my contacts file, post some pictures on Facebook or stream the Conrad Murray trial for entertainment, all on a device that is the size of a thin spiral notebook. For sure I will not have to listen to the same tune over and over again. If I get bored it is my own fault and not the fault of technology. This digital age is either coming to the rescue of us bored road monkeys or it is creating a generation of attention deficit syndrome personalities. About the only thing that my iPad can't provide is rest, but who has time to rest with everything there is to do on a black screen.
As you were,
Jay

The Theraputic Value of Humor

I think I can actually talk about it now. At the time I realized it was something important but could not see it in its true light until time has passed from the night my Dad died.
I wrote about how difficult it was to get through my show that night because of the many reference to my Father in the script. Each time I came to one of those references I found it hard to say without breaking down. They caught me by surprise every time.
I assume it is this way for every actor, but for me I have the script running in my head just a few sentences from actually saying the words The show is happening inside me and I am just repeating the lines with a mental time delay. It is like I am being directed in advance. I know that after the next line I will need to move over to a certain point of the stage and say the next phrase. The script is parsed out a line and a movement at a time and not as the entire performance. A good actor is trained not to play the ending of the scene before you get there. It is called "telegraphing" and it is especially true for comedy. You never want to play the set up for the laugh. The laugh has to be a turn and a surprise. If you tee it up like you are going to say something funny, the audience gets there before you do and it's not funny. So the show running in your head has to be only a sentence or two ahead or you play the punchline.
So it was the night of my Dad's death. I was especially trying not to get ahead of myself because I knew the ending of the show was going to be very difficult. The ending is all about the shock of finding out my mentor has died and it was much to real on this night.
Thirty minutes into the show I cross to a big trunk to sit and tell the story of Big Jon and Sparkie. Until this point the show is really the history of ventriloquism with very few personal references that matter. The Big Jon and Sparkie story begins what is basically the second act, my personal journey. The show in my mind stumbles as I sit there. I realize in the next few lines I will say, "On the trip home my Father says something that will change my life." The mental script stopped with the realization that my life with Dad had minutes ago been forever changed. I was off book now... the reality of saying those words derailed my continuing.
Internal show or not, on stage it was time for that very line. I had to look down at my lap to gain my composure to even utter it. I felt a burning in my eyes that signals tears. Then suddenly it was like a commercial interruption of a television show. Everything on stage stopped and I became aware of my pants. My eyes cleared as the burning stopped. I saw that my zipper was open. It had obviously been down for the entire show. It stopped not only my momentary grieving but the entire show. I looked up and said to the audience, "Are you kidding me?" and zipped up. There really is no subtle way to make that move on stage without calling complete attention to it. There was a nervous giggle from the audience. I said, "Has my zipper been down this entire time and no on said anything... Are you kidding me?" I yelled out at John in the booth, "Where is my stage manager when I need him? John?" John has a very infectious laugh and guffawed from the booth. It was enough to get a nice laugh from the audience. I think my ad-lib to a couple down front was, "No extra charge...." It was okay that the show stopped and we all recovered together. The laughter had taken the wind out of my emotions and I was able to say the difficult line and move on quickly.
There were other references that took me by surprise but that quick laugh let me get through the first one more easily. As tough as the others were the first one is always going to be the toughest simply because it is the first.
Part of my per-entrance ritual is to check my zipper before I go on stage. Some actors have a mantra or a superstition before walking on stage, mine is fundamental to wardrobe appropriateness. I guess the shock of Dad passing just moments before I went on stage distracted me from my process. In hindsight it was probably Dad way of helping me get through it. He would rather that performance be remembered not as the night he died but the night I did half the show with my zipper down.
I guess there really is nothing that laughter can't make a little easier. Since humans are the only species that can laugh it is a divine gift.
Here is to lots of laughs in your days to come... no matter what it is you have to face.
As you were,
Jay

Entertainment vs Reality

As I re-read some of the things I posted, as in yesterday. I realize that sometimes my emotions get the better of my editorial sense. What is a momentary thought gets quickly translated into this document and then sits there for a very long time. That is the problem with this new instant media. It doesn't allow personal thought to be personal long enough to decide it is not worth the typing time.
One would think that I had learned that lesson, but it is not something that seems to be solved by only a few bad examples. What I really want to do is tell stories, funny ones hopefully. Unfortunately for the last week I don't see the humor as clearly. This will pass.
I have been following the Dr. Conrad Murray trial via the internet feed. With the time change making it a little later here in Rochester, it is perfect afternoon entertainment for me before the show. I don't know what fascinates me about a high profile trial, I got just as hung up on the Casey Anthony trial when it was happening. Which was coincidentally during the last Rochester run. The most fascinating thing to me is not just that it is a story told in a very plodding and some what random way, it is that these are not actors. We are so used to watching good actors pretend to have emotions or thoughts we forget what it is like when we see it for real. There is disingenuous quality to reality because we have seen only the depiction of reality so often in dramatic entertainment. We tend to disregard a persons feelings as untruthful if they are not showing the emotion that an actor would in a drama. How weird is that, art not just imitating life, but actually defining it.
When we hear a story of how someone reacted in time of tragedy, if it is not in the dramatic way that we think it should be is seems wrong. The truth is an actor is just portraying how they think a person would react. When an individual is really faced with the situation there is no specified way to react; they have never faced this before so how can they know how the will react? I suggest that the more bizarre, the more real because an emotional event short circuits every cell in your body. Chaos is chaos and is defined by its unique randomness.
Especially today we want a black and white differentiation for anything we comprehend. There is a good guy, a bad guy, a right way and a wrong way, a Republican way and a Democratic way. Life is not so easily parsed. As in art the grey areas give us the depth. The shadows which are neither dark nor light give us value. You can not take a pencil drawing with shades of light and expect that it will photocopy correctly. The camera decides the value. If it is darker than it really is the camera makes it black. That is not the reality... that is a mechanical decision.
We know that the pixel number on a digital camera will make the picture more clear and distinct. The greater the number of values the more beautiful the picture. Why isn't that metaphor more accessible to our every day living. The more information, the more elements, the more sides the more depth one can add to a situation the better perception we have of it. The more divergent sides to a problem the better the solution can be.
Media is still broadcasting in Black and White. To cover a new story you get two pundits touting their extreme sides and they yell their differences at one another, because it is entertainment. They are not broadcasting reality, the pundits are no more representative of a consensus of ideas than Little Red Riding hood is a study of wolves.
Gather it all in especially those you don't agree with. Try to see them as not all right nor all wrong or all left. The true picture is defined by the shades of subtle differences in the two while not really being all of either.
All this to say, the negative things I wrote yesterday have no shading... no reality... it was a dramatic story that I thought was reality...it is not.
As you were,
Jay

The Business of Show

Everything relates to my Dad these last few days. He was a big believer in the fact that Show Business is an equal mix of Show and Business. The business part of the career is just as important as the show. I am so glad that I got some of his understanding of business. It has helped me in more ways than I can say in my career.
So tonight we are sold out for a theatre party. It is a very big deal on a week day. An investment company is giving the show to their customers to thank them for their loyalty. They are serving dinner in the lounge before the show with drinks and have dressed up the tables beautifully. The staff is all in black outfits and there are waiters with trays of goodies working the crowd. John and I arrive a couple of hours early to get into the theatre and set it all up so a sound check will not encroach on the festivities.
Then about 5:45, just before sunset, the power goes out. I thought it was the extra food warmers they had plugged into the theatre circuit, but that is not the case. It seems the grid for our entire area is blacked out.
The guys who promoted and planned the evening begin to panic immediately. People are arriving for the evening and there is only emergency lighting in the theatre and lobby. No one seems to know much about what was going on.
John powers up his smart phone and finds out that 2500 customers are currently without power and that they are estimating they will have the grid back up by 9:00. The show is suppose to go up at 7:15. It looks like that schedule will certainly not hold. I have to say that John is the best techie there ever could be. He can find out what is going on faster and more reliably than anyone I have ever seen. The Rochester locals are coming up to him to ask what the update is on the blackout.
Now there is a discussion about how we can do the show with out electricity. John and I are sitting in the theatre that is lit with only with two emergency lights. It's not a bad situation because he is surfing his smart phone and I am drawing on my Ipad. The enigma about drawing on an Ipad is that normally you look for the best light to draw, but with an Ipad you need the worst light to draw. The owner of the theater instructed the servers to bring us the finger food that is being served in the lobby. Suddenly a person would appear in the dark with skewered chicken or boiled shrimp and ask us if we wanted some. We are happy as clams, waiting for the electrical situation to change.
The stage is too dark to even know it is there. The promoter appears and asks if we can do the show if the lights come back on. I said I was there to do a show and when the lights come back on I would be ready. They are not sure everyone will stay if it gets too dark and the lobby is no longer lit by he outside light. John continues to surf and I continue to draw.
Then at 6:45 suddenly and without warning the lights come back on. It is half hour and John and I jump into performance mode. We were ready, and the show went on, on time and without a slip.
Here is the point. You never know what situation you will find yourself in. In business... especially Show Business you have to be a professional. A professional is ready to do his/her job whenever called upon to do it. The black out was a minor glitch, but a glitch nonetheless. Anybody can perform when everything is perfect... the professional can deliver even on a moments notice under conditions that seem impossible. I think that ethic came directly from my Dad. Thanks Dad.
As you were,
Jay

Ventriloquism and Art

NOTE: This was written in the afternoon of my opening night. At the time I did not know that one phone call would change my night and all others from then on. I didn't even know that my Dad had been taken to the hospital. I wasn't sure I would leave it up and publish it, but in some way it is an attempt to get back some normalcy from the last few days. My Mom would always read my blog to my Dad, this is one he will be able to comprehend on a different level.

As I write this we are several hours away from my opening night at DCT. At that time I will pose a question to the audience, "What is ventriloquism, and why does it even exist?" Like all art it is up to the audience, the observer, to answer it and up to me, the artist, to pose it. Ultimately there is no other obligation between us. I love the question because the answer is as varied as the number of people who comprehend it. The audience will come to their own conclusions and take from it what they personally connect with. If the observer is looking for the answer outside of his own opinion, they will not find it. It is the very thing that makes art valuable, this internal analyzation that can't really be shared. And there is no wrong answer. It is only as you interpret it. The wrong answer is not to have an interpretation.
Of the two adverbs "what" is easier to quantify than "why?" There might be an objective consensus after seeing a demonstration of something on what it is, but the why is totally subjective. What happens when you put a match to gasoline is an easy explanation, why it explodes when water does not is difficult to explain. When asked "what is it that you do?", the best answer is to respond by doing it. There is no demonstrable answer to "Why do you do it?" It IS what I do and that is why I do it. More of a riddle than an actual answer.
In High School my friend Larry used to entertain me with his insightful silliness. He once posed the question, "Why is a duck?" the answer, "because the much you go the more." It was indeed the perfect answer to any question that begins with why.
I demonstrate that I am a ventriloquist in my show. I have tried for years to come up with why I am a ventriloquist. For convenience sake I have invented reasons to use in interviews when asked. I doubt any of them are true because I do not know the answer. All I know is: I do it because I get a thrill from doing it. To watch an audience even for a second believe that there are two of us on stage and not one, is better than drugs to me. That is when the observer becomes the observed and it is my turn to interpret and analyze what they are doing. A performing artist's loop of performer being audience as the audience performs back. In that way art unites us in a common un repeatable experience. There is a bond which only happens because we are both in the same moment, inseparable yet separate with the whole greater than the sum of the parts. It is theatre, it is art, it is valuable and it is nourishment for the human spirit; not taking more than it gives nor giving more than it gets. How can this not be as important to the survival of our human spirit as water is to the survival of our bodies? If this shared bond through art is allowed to die from lack of participation, humans will become a spiritless hive of worker bees with no sense of self or individualism. What I am is a ventriloquist. Why I am a ventriloquist? Because the much you go the more.
As you were,
Jay

Symbols of Life

Although I did not know that my Dad was dying when I walked into the theatre on Thursday night, there was a Raven sitting alone on top of the theatre crowing at John and me as we entered. I am a student of theatrical traditions and love the legends associated with all aspects of the theatre. I said, "Isn't that a bad omen? A raven sitting on the theatre opening night?" In John's manner he said, "Right?" which is both a question and an affirmative in context. We both snickered and as we opened the door I said, "Quote the Raven Nevermore." It might have been the last time I thought of that bird but it was not to be.
Ten minutes before the show I got the call from my sister and Dad died while we were on the phone together.
I called John into the dressing room and said, "Let's go out back for a minute." We went outside the theatre which is empty except for loading docks. There is a tree line just on the other side of this alley way that I am told obscures a beautiful view of the Erie Canal. It is the perfect urban setting where nature tries its best to encroach on asphalt. As John and I are discussing the death of my father, and how we will handle it during and after the show, a raven landed on the telephone pole above us. I am not a raven expert, but it appeared to be the same lonely raven that had greeted us when we walked into the theatre. There were no other ravens or birds of any kind that could be seen or heard at that moment. A rational person would have assumed it was the same bird hanging around. He crowed and crowed very loudly as if not to go unseen. And it seemed to me that the raven was crowing directly at us again
I thought of my Dad. He had been robbed of his speech for a decade from a stroke but never stopped trying to communicate with all of us. He had a few phrases that came out clear, but always with a struggle. He would sometimes get frustrated by not being able to say what he wanted to say and "I... don't... know" would end his attempt. Dad was gone now, his struggle over, and here was this bird free and very vocal announcing its presence in a way that could not be ignored.
I stopped and looked at the raven and said to John, "That's Dad, he can finally talk again." It came out of my mouth before I even knew what I was saying. The raven stayed perched on the top of the pole alternately being loud and silent as John and I came to some decisions.
It was time to go back and do the show. There was no thought of canceling it, Dad would not have wanted that. He loved to see me perform. As we walked back into the theatre the raven gave one last call, took flight and soared over the Erie canal thicket.
I have a friend who says to a carpenter everything looks like a nail. To a person in mourning everything looks like a symbol of hope. The truth is really not as important as the feelings it generates. For me it was a contact from a consciousness that I do not understand. I did not need a bird to tell me that my Dad was finally free, nor do I think that Dad needed a bird to tell me he was okay. But whatever it meant it was a direct call to my heart and it touched me deeply. I may not see the bird again and it may not speak to me with the same symbolism if I do. It was for me, however, one more moment to remember sharing the company of my Dad.
As you are, Dad,
Jay

My Dad

I was reminded that there are a couple of mistakes in the blog about my Dad on Thursday. Dad was a detail guy and would want it to be precise. Particularly when it comes to numbers. Dad rarely made a mistake with numbers and kept complicated bond maturity rates and schedules in his head. On a bond issue once which had been calculated by a computer Dad looked down a column of seven digit numbers on a spread sheet and said that they were incorrect. The young financier who had prepared the numbers was insistent they were right because they were computer generated. After Dad would not give up the numbers were recalculate and found to be wrong to the exact value Dad said they were. The young man had used a formula that was not correct in this case. Dad did not use a computer at all in his career. The only machine he would use was a floating decimal Frieden calculator. It was a mechanical machine that looked more like a typewriter or cash register than a calculator. It used to scare me as a kid; it made noise and numbers flipped by like a crank style movieola.
In my blog for Dad I said he was 89. That is not right... he was 88 on his last birthday in June. I also quoted his military rank as Lt. J.G. The J. G. stands for Junior Grade which is a step or two below the actual full Lt. rank that he actually attained in the Navy.
I think the JG stuck in my mind because of a trophy that occupied an honored spot on the family bookshelf. It is a silver loving cup engraved by the crew of the USS Montrose and given to "Lt. J. G. Arthur Noel Johnson, Jr. for service above and beyond the call of duty in the battle of BeNo Straights." In a story that is right out of Mr. Roberts, Dad took flack from a commanding officer to save his crew from his cruel abuse. The Captain was given to telling the men, "There will BE NO liberty, there will be no movie" until certain duties were performed to his satisfaction. In fact when the play and subsequent movie Mr. Roberts came out, several people contacted Dad to see if he had sold his story to the author. Except for the ending, and a different class of ship, it was the same story. The Captain would not let Dad transfer from the ship. Instead of the men holding a forgery contest to sign the Captains name on a transfer as was depicted in the movie, the actual event was a little more theatrical.
Dad and another officer were sure the Captain was not rational, but neither one could get officials to take a look. All communications to channels were censored by the Captain. No one could get word to the shore officers.
One evening when Dad was officer of the deck, his friend and fellow officer requested permission to go ashore. His name was not on the list to go ashore, but Dad gave him the salute and he boarded the launch dingy. The Captain saw the launch from the ship and ran to Dad to see the list. When he found out who it was going ashore and that the officer was not on the list he grabbed the radio and ordered the launch back to the ship immediately. The radio message was never received by the launch crew and Dad's friend was able to get ashore and report what was going on. Dad was soon transferred and it was discovered that the Captain had a brain tumor that was causing his abusive irrational behavior. He was eventually removed from command and died soon after from the tumor.
Years later when Dad and his officer friend reconnected recalling the event, the true story was told. The crew had heard the radio command by the Captain to return to the ship, but the officer drew his 45 cal. service weapon and told them to disregard the broadcast. They knew something was wrong with the Captain and never reported what really happened. They probably did not need the 45 as incentive, but the fleeing officer was taking no chances.
Dad loved to tell his Navy stories and I loved to listen to them over and over if I could. It was heartbreaking to know that the last couple of decades of his life he was unable to tell them to me again. He was a numbers guy not a writer and never wrote them down. But the family will continue to tell them to his Great Grandchild who is due in February.
Daddy I will never forget. You made me love stories and yours were the best.
As you were,
Jay

Arthur Noel Johnson, Jr.

He was called Noel because his Dad was Arthur and he did not want to be called Junior. I remember as a child he called his Father, Arthur Noel Johnson, by the initials A.N. Noel had a special relationship with A.N. who was a strong smart man of great character with no more than a 3rd grade education. Noel went on to get his Masters degree from Texas Tech University. It made A.N. very proud. Of the four sons that A.N. had, Noel was present at the end as his Dad lost a bout with cancer. I believe of all his sons A.N. favored Noel the most, because he was after all his junior.
Noel was my Dad and the first manager I had in my career. He drove me to shows when I was too young to get a drivers license. On the way home we would analyze the show from the stand point of strengths and weaknesses. He loved to act in that capacity and told me that he was sad when I became old enough to get to shows by myself.
Dad booked the first show I ever did for the Abernathy Lions Club, because he was the president of the organization at the time. I remember at eleven I told him that I did not think I was good enough to perform for the Abernathy Lions Club with my fledgeling act and he said, "Jay you don't have to be that good to perform for the Lions Club."
In some ways I lost my Dad 17 years ago when he suffered a stroke that left him unable to communicate. For a man as eloquent and intelligent as him it was a great struggle to be robbed of his communication skills. He continued to communicate with us even though it was a struggle. He could say, "I love you" with great clarity while not being able to articulate much else.
Dad was a mathematical savant and taught Algebra in high school after a career in the Navy and a recall to the Korean war. He continued to climb the ladder of a teaching career to became the youngest Superintendent of Schools in Texas. He quit his job as Superintendent to form his own securities business and continue to work with schools as the financial advisor for countless school districts. He helped finance more schools for Texas students than companies hundreds of times the size of his own.
At 89 years old he had grown weary of the fight just to communicate and get around. The strong Navy officer had lost too much weight for his 6' 2" form and the struggle became too much. He did not like hospitals nor doctors and did not want to linger. But when the pain from fluid on his lungs became too much to bear he agreed to go to the emergency room.
Six years ago Dad made the trip to be there for my show off Broadway at the Atlantic Theatre and two years later for the opening night of my Broadway run at the Helen Hayes. He never tired of seeing me perform and it was obvious to me even though he could not tell me in so many words. It was in his eyes. He was there to see my show at the Eiseman Theatre in Richardson a short distance from his house in February of this year. I got to introduce him and my Mom from stage. He was truly beaming back stage.
Tonight at half hour before opening night of my Rochester run, I got a call from my sister. The fluid in my Dad's lungs was worse, his heart was racing out of control and they had transferred him to the ICU. Mom and my sister told the doctor that he did not want to be kept alive artificially and the decision was made to make him comfortable and not resuscitate. As I talked to my Mom from such a long distance away, my Dad opened his eyes, closed them again and passed away. It was a very surreal perspective to experience such an event. As the realization hit all of us my phone ran out of battery power and lasted only long enough for me to say I love you to my Mom. It was ten minutes before I was due on stage.
There was no doubt that this show would be done for my Dad watching from a vantage point that I could not comprehend. I wanted to do the best show I could knowing that he was there. In some way I was glad that I had to concentrate on the moment and not dwell on what had just happened. Dad has always admired my professionalism and my ability to do my job under any circumstance. He would call that a "true" professional.
I knew the final scene in my show talking about the death of my mentor Arthur Sieving ( Yes the name Arthur is very much ingrained in my family history) would be difficult to deliver on this night. What I had not realized is the number of times that I refer to my Dad in the context of the script. The references were like mental land mines that took me by surprise every time. For my Dad, I got through it but there were moments I know the audience did not understand. I did not understand the emotions that ambushed me myself.
The show ended and it was time to let go and I sobbed uncontrollably backstage. My stage manager John Ivy was the only one who knew. He allowed me the space to decompress and sent unknowing opening night well wishers away so that I did not have to pull up and be a professional off stage. The ride back to the house was longer than usual until I was able to plug my phone into a power source and call my wife.
I know that Daddy will never miss another one of my shows, but I will miss him forever and a day. Good night Lt. J.G. Arthur Noel Johnson, Jr. mission accomplished with honors.
Jay

I did not know this was on YouTube. It has been many years since I have seen it.

It is the opening credits for a show called Broken Badges. It ran on CBS and was produced by Stephen J. Cannell.
We shot it in Vancouver, Canada and I had a ball. I got to do stunts, carry a badge and a gun and really act. We only did 6 episodes but I wanted it to last forever. They are all on YouTube in 15 minute sections. I just watched the pilot episode this afternoon. I guess if it had run for any length of time I would not have written "The Two and Only". Badges was written by my friend Randall Wallace who left the television business to write some movie called "Braveheart". I guess it worked out well for both of us.
As you were,
Jay

The Ghost of Irondequoit

By now you know that I am a ghost hunter and evangelist on the subject. I grew up in a house that was haunted and no one believed that it was anything but my ventriloquist imagination until I moved out and others in the family saw the apparition I was telling them about.
So here I am at the "star house" for DCT in Rochester and there seems to be some sort of presence that occupies the premisses. Two days ago the thing we call Sammy made his presence known in a most startling way while I was trying to shower. I'm still trying to figure that one out and now... Well, he may have made himself known again last night.
John missed the bus and I was here alone for an additional evening. I was gone most of the time because of the promotional show I was doing at Geva. When I got back to this house I did not feel any sort of unaccounted for energy. There are always bumps and sounds to any place that is unfamiliar and I did not hear anything that could not be explained by the house settling or the climate control going on or off. I did think I heard the water running down stairs at one point, but don't know the house well enough to be sure.
Then there was the noise in the kitchen in the middle of the night. It woke me up enough to know that it came from the kitchen, but again... refrigerators make noise and an ice maker can sound like footsteps. It did not persist so I chalked it up to just that.
In the morning I was jolted awake by the door bell ringing. I stumbled through the living room and down the entrance stairs still mostly asleep. I didn't put on my glasses so everything was blurry. I yelled down the stairs, "Who's there," or "Just a minute" I can't remember which, but when I got to the door no one was there. I opened the door to look around and saw the blurry image of a utility truck in the street. It was the meter reader and he had assumed no one was home. I let him into the basement so he could read the meter.
As he left he casually said, "Sorry... there is usually no one here when I come...I should have waited a minute longer. By the way are you having heating trouble because the basement is really cold." The first morning I woke up a little cold so I had put the furnace on very low the day before. It should have been fine on the lower story as well.
I went into the kitchen to start the coffee and found myself in a pool of water. The door to the freezer was open and the ice had melted all over the kitchen floor.
I have not opened the freezer since I have been here. I noticed that there was nothing there but a bag of ice that had melted onto the floor. The other thing I noticed is that this refrigerator does not have an ice maker.
There are many ways that this can be explained which do not involve he concept of Sammy. Unfortunately, the Sammy explanation is the easiest and quickest conclusion.
John arrived this afternoon and got a kick out of the signs I taped on the bedroom doors. There is a sign that says Jay's room, one that says John's room and the extra bedroom up stairs says, "Sammy's room". I am hoping, however, that Sammy stays downstairs in the cold.
As you were,
Jay