Well, dear readers, I suppose I’ve been blessed in my life to have, in my formative years, met some people who have done me kindnesses – total strangers – and I have never forgotten them. Some I’ve written about, some I haven’t. So, let me do a big call out to some people whose kindness have informed my life and taught me about graciousness and support and making people feel good. I was a very precocious teenager with no fear and a hungry appetite for knowledge and creativity. In Kritzer Time, I wrote about two people who were especially kind to me, the precocious teen. One of them was a disc jockey who worked at an LA jazz station – a man whose name I sadly don’t remember, but who instilled in me a lifelong love of classic jazz. One night I was twirling the radio dial and I heard a Dave Brubeck tune. I loved it and I found the name of the station, listened for the DJ’s name, got the phone number of the station and called the DJ right then and there. To my surprise, he answered the phone. That began a wonderful and brief relationship, the kind that could never happen today because no parent would allow it. There was nothing untoward about it. He just liked my thirst for knowledge and I wanted to know everything. We spoke on the phone often while he was working, and he’d play tunes for me to hear and we’d discuss them. Eventually, he invited me to the station and I went, and he showed me how everything worked, and I told him I wanted to be an actor and he suggested I read a play called The Winslow Boy or The Browning Version (I can’t remember which one), which he thought would be a good thing for me. Whichever play it was, I loved it. Without the kindness of this man, I probably would never have gotten into jazz or known about the Rattigan play. He was a wonderful, warm person and I hope he had a wonderful life.
Soon after that, I fell in love with a singer/songwriter named Oscar Brown, Jr. I also wrote about him in Kritzer Time, so I won’t rehash the whole story, other than to say I went backstage after seeing his show at the Music Box Theater on La Brea and Hollywood Boulevard, and this man was so sweet to me – he took an INTEREST in me, asked me what my dreams were, and told me to never stop pursuing them. I told him I wrote songs and was an actor and wanted to write and direct and he said, “Do it all, do it well,” words I’ve never forgotten. For him to take the time with a geeky teenager still amazes me to this day. He was a huge influence on me. Remember, there was no Internet then, and one was usually alone in one’s passions – especially for theater, as most other teens back then had 0 interest in the theater or the arts.
I’ve told the story of seeing The Most Happy Fella at a theater in the round in the outskirts of LA. They’d brought in the two stars of the Broadway production, Robert Weede and Art Lund. I saw the Sunday matinee (they would be doing one more performance that evening, closing night) and it changed my life. I’d never seen anything like it. The music was so glorious (I’d heard the cast album but it wasn’t like seeing it live), and the production was so terrific (directed by Ernie Sarracino), but mostly it was because of Mr. Weede, who gave what is still the finest performance I’ve ever seen on the stage. I was in tears throughout most of the show. Afterwards, being the impetuous youngster I was (I was, I think, seventeen when I saw it, maybe eighteen), I went back to the little tented area where that served as the backstage and dressing rooms. I asked to meet Mr. Weede and I was told to wait. Next thing I knew Mr. Weede was standing in front of me. I told him his was the most wonderful performance I’d ever seen and how moving it was to me. He stood and talked to me for about twenty minutes, asking me about ME, wanting to know what I liked, what I wanted to do. He was so gracious and then he asked if I’d like to see the show again. I, of course, said yes, and he secured me a ticket to the closing show. He told me to come backstage after and that I would be his guest at the cast party. The show was even better the second time (I couldn’t believe he could do that show twice in one day), and true to his word, he escorted me to the cast party, held in that backstage tent. He introduced me to everyone. I went home afterwards, on cloud nine. And I’ve never forgotten that man’s generosity.
There were other performers I met back then who were very sweet to me – Rip Torn, Joel Grey, Jason Robards, Jr., Tammy Grimes, John Astin.
The next person I met who would have a profound effect on me was Ring Lardner, Jr. In my final semester at LACC I’d done a revue called Shut Up, He Explained, based on Mr. Lardner’s work. I’d written some songs for it, and it had gone over very well. Just before I moved to New York in 1968, I wrote to him and told him about the show. He wrote back and invited me to visit him at his apartment. A week after I arrived I went to meet Mr. Lardner. Again, he asked all about the show, was thrilled it had gone well, and asked me to play him my songs, which I did. He smiled and said, “I don’t know what they have to do with my father’s work, but they’re very good.” Of course, he was right – they had nothing to do with his father’s work. He told me that he couldn’t grant any rights to me because someone else was doing a revue based on his father’s material. He invited me to what would today be considered a reading of the show. All I remember is that it starred Orson Bean and Melinda Dillon – I thought they were wonderful, but being the precocious sort that I was, I didn’t think the show was as good as the one we’d done. Apparently, no one else thought it was good either, because that reading was its one and only appearance. But Mr. Lardner, like the others that I’ve mentioned, was kind and supportive and made me feel special.
And now, here’s a story I’ve never told until we did the LACCTAA panel a few months ago. When I moved back to LA in early 1970, after having failed to do much in New York, my daughter was born, which was, for a twenty-two-year-old a pretty amazing and frightening thing. I was doing nothing. There was no waiver theater in LA, and I just sat around and actually began writing a musical version of To Kill A Mockingbird. I was a little depressed, because all I wanted to do was to act and I wasn’t acting. Then, in August, I got a call from Norman Mennes, who was the head of the LACC theater department. He told me he was doing a play by Murray Schisgal called Jimmy Shine, and he didn’t feel that anyone in the department could do it and was I interested in coming back as an alum. I jumped at the chance. It was a great part (Dustin Hoffman had played it in the original production) and rehearsals were a dream. We opened, and the audiences loved the show. I think it was the second or third performance when, after the show, a lady came backstage. As I came out of the dressing room she came up to me and said hi and told me she was an alum of the theater department, and how much she’d loved my performance. She asked if I had an agent – of course I didn’t. She told me she’d like to help me – she thought I was a good type and a good actor. She gave me her number and told me to call. Her name was Shelly Morrison, and she’d been a regular on The Flying Nun – a wonderful and very funny actress. I didn’t really think she meant any of it, but I called her the next day, and the next thing I knew was she was bringing me to meet her agent, a wonderful man named Alex Brewis. She ushered me into his office. Another actor was just leaving and I couldn’t believe my eyes when I realized who it was – John Hoyt, the star of one of my favorite childhood movies, Attack Of The Puppet People. I told him how great I thought he was and I know Mr. Hoyt appreciated hearing it. I talked to Alex Brewis for about fifteen minutes and based on that talk and Shelly’s recommendation, he signed me right then and there. A week later I was testing for the lead in an ABC pilot – it came down to me and another actor and the other actor got it – but to have gotten that close first time out of the gate was just as good as actually getting the pilot, at least in my mind. Two weeks later I booked my first guest shot, on The Young Lawyers. Though one tends to forget these things over the years, I owe my entire acting career to Miss Morrison – without her support and kindness who knows what would have happened?
My final story, which I’ve probably mentioned here before, concerns that very first guest shot. I was petrified, but everyone on that set was so great to me – the director, John Newland (another childhood fave), Phil Clark, who was a series regular and who would later go on to appear in my musical Stages, the dialogue coach, Bobby Hoffman, who single-handedly prevented me from being completely embarrassing in my role. But mostly it was Gary Lockwood, the other guest star. He just took a shine to me and stopped me from being nervous and explained the camera to me and how to do less. And one day, his then best friend, actor Chris Connelly came to visit, and they invited me to lunch. Chris was so sweet and genuine and I never forgot how wonderful he was to me that day – telling me I had a long career ahead of me, and to enjoy it and not take any of it seriously (best advice EVER). Flash forward to 1988 – I’d been hired to direct a movie and we were casting. I didn’t know at that time that the producer was a complete flake, although I did get paid to rewrite his script. But we went all the way through casting the entire film. I was determined to bring in as many people that I’d worked with as possible, and that included both Mr. Lockwood and Mr. Connelly. Lockwood came in and gave a good reading and because I’d seen him many times over the years, we chatted about those times. Then Mr. Connelly came in. He looked much older than his years, and he was, in fact, nearing the end of his life, which he would lose to throat cancer a year later. He could barely speak. I was about to ask him if he remembered me from The Young Lawyers, so I could thank him for how wonderful he was to me, but before I could he said, “Do you remember that we met before, way back in 1970 when I visited the set of The Young Lawyers?” I was absolutely flabbergasted. I couldn’t believe it. I told him how I’d never forgotten the day we had lunch and how important his words had been to me. He was very touched. He was a wonderful man who died way too young.
There have been many other stories like that – the kindness of strangers. And I have tried to live my life by those examples, and whenever I’ve been able to, I’ve done the same for young people who’ve come to me – fans of my recordings, or my shows, or Nudie Musical. If a fan wrote me about my albums, I would frequently invite them to the studio if they happened to be in New York or LA. I would talk to them on the phone or in person if I met them somewhere, always taking plenty of time and asking about them and their dreams. I’ve even hired some of them to sing on my albums if there was something for them and they were good enough. I have never shined someone on because I was busy or didn’t feel like talking to them. And that’s because I never have forgotten those people who took the time to do so for me. It’s my payback. It’s necessary. And maybe, just maybe, it has a positive effect – and the world needs as much positive as we can provide.
Well, why don’t we all click on the Unseemly Button below because now I’m feeling all mushy and sentimental, and I’m jiggy with that. As a side note, when we were putting together that panel for the LACCTAA event, the first person I wrote was Shelly Morrison – and I told her how much she’d meant to me.
Yesterday was quite a nondescript day. I got up early, answered some e-mails, then did the long jog. I had to do a few errands and whatnot, and I shipped out about eight packages. I went to a local eatery and had a sandwich and fries and proofed another four chapters of the new book. After that, I came home, did some more things around the house, and then attended a meeting for the charity event I’m helping with. After that, I came home, had some ham and eggs, and that was that.
Today, I have to go speak to a beginning theater class at LACC – I have no idea what I’ll be saying. I’m sure it will be a Q&A of some sort and I’m looking forward to it. At two-thirty, I’m going to an audio place to transfer a couple of things off the four-track masters of Illya Darling – I’m very interested to hear them. After that, I’ll be starting to address packages, presuming the 700 boxes have arrived.
Well, dear readers, I must take the day, I must do the things I do, I must, for example, speak to a class, maybe do the long jog upon my return, transfer tapes, address packages, and then finish a motion picture on DVD. Today’s topic of discussion: Tell us some of your kindness of strangers stories – those people you didn’t know who really made a difference in your life by taking the time to talk to you, to be supportive, and to care. Let’s have loads of lovely postings, shall we, and do remember that I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers.