Excuse me for sitting next to the world's best poker players - for five wonderous seasons - and picking up a thing or two about a thing or two. Of course, I had the advantage of watching the brilliant mind of Gabe Kaplan tick right beside me in that lonely, quiet sound room. And I also had the Voice of God - my producer Mori Eskandani - amazingly finding the mistakes or strategically explaining the finite percentages that sometimes separates who's big winner or big loser.
And in my limited understanding of Texas Hold 'em - if me and Gabe were hole cards that GSN execs were ready to gamble with- I think this upcoming season they suddenly began to view us as a 7-Deuce. Or maybe Gabe as an Ace and me as a low, unsuited card.
But even I know this is a common beginner's mistake, playing any, old ace. Again, it may win occasionally, and heads-up it's a fine hand, but at a table of four or more, this hand shouldn't be played if there's a raise in front of you. You're going to be outkicked a lot with Ace-little, and it's going to feel like a kick in the junk when the other player shows their higher ace. Anyhow...I get the feeling that most of the GSN execs who will still be around for the premiere of HSP Season 6, will either be gone from the network or will have had to fold had they had a seat at the table.
And, after all the who-haw about my firing from High Stakes Poker, I'd like to call an end to to the (much-appreciated) comments that continue to mount on my blog.
I sent the folks at GSN a letter - partly an apology letter on account of some of you all not knowing when to stop saying nasty things about the GSN execs and partly because we all have to go on with our lives.
I'll close with this: I hope the chick they get to do some table interviews during the three-days of play at the Golden Nugget really, truly compliments and adds a great dose of comedy that was apparently lacking up in the booth manned by me and Gabe Kaplan over the past five seasons. Does GSN realize they have apparently copied "Poker After Dark," the show that feels like a marriage between a Xanax and a Valium? I apologize to Mori, knowing he also produces that show too.
This is me saying let's give them a chance. Don't waste your time cursing the executives currently in charge because they'll be gone before you know it. I very much appreciate your care and concern about me. But, in terms of GSN, forget them. You have no idea how close they are to extinction. And I wish....ooooh I wish, you knew how many execs said they'd speak to me personally, but never had the balls. Pity them. Don't hate them. This is the way most sissies in Hollywood get shit done.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
A FLOP, A TURN and a RIVER of SHIT
I ask forgiveness for those of you who know not where our little poker show aired. Though it wasn't too hard to find for the real poker fan out there - and in my day I've met hundreds of them.
See, I was co-host with the very professional Gabe Kaplan on a show that posted No. 1 ratings for five straight seasons on GSN - the station that usually feeds you repeats of Lingo, antique
Jeopardy episodes and the new, omni-sexual "Newlywed Game."
Last week, I had a conference call with a couple suits at GSN about the possibility of dropping me for a chick to work with Gabe Kaplan. (Sound sexy to you yet?)
I flat out told the guys who will remain nameless - oh screw it, it was Bary Nugent and David Shiff - that if you have the best pizza in town for 5 seasons, why try and add licorice as a new topping? I also told them I was the guy who always did my own publicity for the show because GSN had NEVER set up not even as much as a radio interview for me. So I scour internet poker sites and make myself available and - whattya know! - instant publicity.
What gives me agita- and I'll be sure to tell this to Barry Nugent (who wants to have a lunch with me for other opportunities at GSN for me) is that I spoke to both Schiff and Nugent and I asked them if they were fathers. They jubilantly said they were. So surely they would know the hardships of losing a top-rated gig while raising little children in the process. (Oh and did I mention that I have a son who is a Freshman in college?) So armed with my track record on giving GSN 5 seasons of a No. 1 rated show,I decided to hit them in the spot where it's supposed to make a father go mush.
I said...."Let's talk man-to-man and father-to-father." To their credit, they said, "Absolutely."
I unashamedly told those two guys that if I dont get my gig back....."you're basically putting a man and his family on the street. Is that what you want on your concience?"
I offered to take a pay cut for Chrissakes, Shit....the economy is in the tank, so I'm willing to take less to do the same job. But I just want to put it out there y'all. This is the kind of stuff that goes on in Hollywood. You sometimes bust your balls for a network for a number of years and then the day comes when your balls are suddenly on the chopping block. And a group of execs you've never quite met during your tenure are standing above you sharpening the butcher knife.
I will have my lunch with Nugent - and I promise I wont slash him with a broken bottle of Pellegrino. He and I go way back to my E! days, and honestly, he's a good guy with a good heart.
But I would just be plugging up the flow of the Sicilian blood that boils within me, if he didn't end up on the receiving end of a my take on things. I know he knows that. What I'm gonna say, I haven't yet practiced in the mirror. But it'll be Oscar-worthy when I'm through.
So no more High Stakes Poker for me. No more calling flops, turns and rivers - and trying for the life of me to understand what a "Double gutter, belly buster" means.
I will miss the most difficult part of my job, and that was being the gracious straight man for the legendary comedic timing of Gabe Kaplan - just another guy who grew up within miles of where I did in Brooklyn. And I will miss the generosity and patience of the show's producer and unglamorous gluestick of Mori Eskandani. I'm gonna throw in the behind-the-scenes professionalism of producers Phil Smith and the show's birth mother Kevin Belinkoff. Sometimes it took all those guys to make the repartee between me and Gabe to sound real and unrehearsed. And to me, those moments were what made the show stand out from the other poker shows around the dial. I hope you like the female they toss in front of you. And I hope the conversation between she and Gabe works smoothly. I don't think I'll watch the show too often, but I wish it well. I've met too many people attached to the show across the past five seasons to want any one of them to drive home feeling the show has lost some of it's pop and spontaneity.
The female they toss in front of you is sure to be pretty, prepared and a pro. But I know she won't be able to throw "Godfather" references around like Gabe and I did.
If the GSN execs responsible for my firing were ever in on the joke, surely one of them would've said or written to my manager..."Tell A.J. we always liked him. But it was strictly business."
That 'goodbye' I would've understood. And cherished.
See, I was co-host with the very professional Gabe Kaplan on a show that posted No. 1 ratings for five straight seasons on GSN - the station that usually feeds you repeats of Lingo, antique
Jeopardy episodes and the new, omni-sexual "Newlywed Game."
Last week, I had a conference call with a couple suits at GSN about the possibility of dropping me for a chick to work with Gabe Kaplan. (Sound sexy to you yet?)
I flat out told the guys who will remain nameless - oh screw it, it was Bary Nugent and David Shiff - that if you have the best pizza in town for 5 seasons, why try and add licorice as a new topping? I also told them I was the guy who always did my own publicity for the show because GSN had NEVER set up not even as much as a radio interview for me. So I scour internet poker sites and make myself available and - whattya know! - instant publicity.
What gives me agita- and I'll be sure to tell this to Barry Nugent (who wants to have a lunch with me for other opportunities at GSN for me) is that I spoke to both Schiff and Nugent and I asked them if they were fathers. They jubilantly said they were. So surely they would know the hardships of losing a top-rated gig while raising little children in the process. (Oh and did I mention that I have a son who is a Freshman in college?) So armed with my track record on giving GSN 5 seasons of a No. 1 rated show,I decided to hit them in the spot where it's supposed to make a father go mush.
I said...."Let's talk man-to-man and father-to-father." To their credit, they said, "Absolutely."
I unashamedly told those two guys that if I dont get my gig back....."you're basically putting a man and his family on the street. Is that what you want on your concience?"
I offered to take a pay cut for Chrissakes, Shit....the economy is in the tank, so I'm willing to take less to do the same job. But I just want to put it out there y'all. This is the kind of stuff that goes on in Hollywood. You sometimes bust your balls for a network for a number of years and then the day comes when your balls are suddenly on the chopping block. And a group of execs you've never quite met during your tenure are standing above you sharpening the butcher knife.
I will have my lunch with Nugent - and I promise I wont slash him with a broken bottle of Pellegrino. He and I go way back to my E! days, and honestly, he's a good guy with a good heart.
But I would just be plugging up the flow of the Sicilian blood that boils within me, if he didn't end up on the receiving end of a my take on things. I know he knows that. What I'm gonna say, I haven't yet practiced in the mirror. But it'll be Oscar-worthy when I'm through.
So no more High Stakes Poker for me. No more calling flops, turns and rivers - and trying for the life of me to understand what a "Double gutter, belly buster" means.
I will miss the most difficult part of my job, and that was being the gracious straight man for the legendary comedic timing of Gabe Kaplan - just another guy who grew up within miles of where I did in Brooklyn. And I will miss the generosity and patience of the show's producer and unglamorous gluestick of Mori Eskandani. I'm gonna throw in the behind-the-scenes professionalism of producers Phil Smith and the show's birth mother Kevin Belinkoff. Sometimes it took all those guys to make the repartee between me and Gabe to sound real and unrehearsed. And to me, those moments were what made the show stand out from the other poker shows around the dial. I hope you like the female they toss in front of you. And I hope the conversation between she and Gabe works smoothly. I don't think I'll watch the show too often, but I wish it well. I've met too many people attached to the show across the past five seasons to want any one of them to drive home feeling the show has lost some of it's pop and spontaneity.
The female they toss in front of you is sure to be pretty, prepared and a pro. But I know she won't be able to throw "Godfather" references around like Gabe and I did.
If the GSN execs responsible for my firing were ever in on the joke, surely one of them would've said or written to my manager..."Tell A.J. we always liked him. But it was strictly business."
That 'goodbye' I would've understood. And cherished.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Go, Army!
Outside of California's Hollywood elite, no one knew who the fuck Army Archerd was. Let's be real. They might've recognized the name or maybe even remarkably recalled that he spent 100 years as the last journalist all superstars spoke to on their last stop before entering the Academy Awards ceremony. But, in terms of what every state outside of California grew to learn about the inner workings of Hollywood, no one had a clue who he was or what he stood for. You only knew him if you were fortunate enough to be employed in a business that the make-believe magazine Variety covered.
I had the pleasure to know and work with Army on a TV show for a few years over at the E! Channel's "Gossip Show," the much more in-depth and on-the-money celebrity news show that ran a good eight years before TMZ hit the airwaves. Now, don't get me wrong: I love me some "TMZ," I just dont think a paparazzi chasing down celebrities on Roxbury Ave. after a colonoscopy always makes for cunning television.
But I digress.
What I really should say is what a great man and stand-up journalist Army was. How Hollywood's A-list gave him scoops because they knew they would be safe with him. And that they knew they were dropping their stories - sometimes back-stabbing tales - into the hands of the gatekeeper of Hollywood's bygone era. And he would always keep their names a thousand miles away from the story. Happens all the time in the business. Don't think Army was any different.
There is no doubt that Army counted some of the industry's greats as his very personal friends. And there is no doubt that he most likely turned up his nose at the rise of all the glossy tabloids and that multi-haired frig-face Perez Hilton. I can actually imagine Army's hatred at the side of the business, only because I found myself at the bad end of the Almighty's anger and confusion.
When the execs at E! moved me from the ranks of the "Gossip Show" and gave me a shot at hosting "Mysteries & Scandals," I confidentially found out that Army was furious and wanted me fired from my position so that he could take over. He even threatened that he would quit doing remotes for the "Gossip Show" if I continued on as host of "Mysteries & Scandals." The way he saw it, it was he who should be the guy in the $2,000 suits, in the dark alleys of Hollywood, shooting straight about the sordid lives and deaths of most of the movie stars he had covered over the years.
I remember watching my "M&S" producer fielding a call from an incensed Archerd - calling from his Variety office in the same building. He couldn't accept that a guy like me would be able to carry the episode on Judy Garland's death.
"I should be hosting that show, damnit," Army said. "I knew all these people you're covering. What does that kid Benza know?"
I know that I hosted 172 episodes without Army's help to great success. And, as you read all the slurpy accolades upon his death, know that he wasn't all sugar and spice and everything nice.
He was a reporter. And, at one point or another, all reporters act like cocksuckers.
I had the pleasure to know and work with Army on a TV show for a few years over at the E! Channel's "Gossip Show," the much more in-depth and on-the-money celebrity news show that ran a good eight years before TMZ hit the airwaves. Now, don't get me wrong: I love me some "TMZ," I just dont think a paparazzi chasing down celebrities on Roxbury Ave. after a colonoscopy always makes for cunning television.
But I digress.
What I really should say is what a great man and stand-up journalist Army was. How Hollywood's A-list gave him scoops because they knew they would be safe with him. And that they knew they were dropping their stories - sometimes back-stabbing tales - into the hands of the gatekeeper of Hollywood's bygone era. And he would always keep their names a thousand miles away from the story. Happens all the time in the business. Don't think Army was any different.
There is no doubt that Army counted some of the industry's greats as his very personal friends. And there is no doubt that he most likely turned up his nose at the rise of all the glossy tabloids and that multi-haired frig-face Perez Hilton. I can actually imagine Army's hatred at the side of the business, only because I found myself at the bad end of the Almighty's anger and confusion.
When the execs at E! moved me from the ranks of the "Gossip Show" and gave me a shot at hosting "Mysteries & Scandals," I confidentially found out that Army was furious and wanted me fired from my position so that he could take over. He even threatened that he would quit doing remotes for the "Gossip Show" if I continued on as host of "Mysteries & Scandals." The way he saw it, it was he who should be the guy in the $2,000 suits, in the dark alleys of Hollywood, shooting straight about the sordid lives and deaths of most of the movie stars he had covered over the years.
I remember watching my "M&S" producer fielding a call from an incensed Archerd - calling from his Variety office in the same building. He couldn't accept that a guy like me would be able to carry the episode on Judy Garland's death.
"I should be hosting that show, damnit," Army said. "I knew all these people you're covering. What does that kid Benza know?"
I know that I hosted 172 episodes without Army's help to great success. And, as you read all the slurpy accolades upon his death, know that he wasn't all sugar and spice and everything nice.
He was a reporter. And, at one point or another, all reporters act like cocksuckers.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Love On The Rox
My 5-year-old daughter, Roxy, starts Kindergarten in less than a week.
For she, it is the start of a wondrous, fun-filled journey where anxiety and adventure battle for space along with the shiny red apple in her new back-to-school backpack. It is three hours a day of independence - and a mere three blocks from our home - where her count of friends will grow to a small army and our chats on the walk home will have her beautiful face flush with a newfound, tiny taste of fun, freedom and snippets of time she otherwise would have spent with her father. It's the beginning of everything for my girl. So why am I crying in the shower every morning or bubbling up with emotion inside the privacy of my car whenever I'm off on an errand?
My wife, like most moms (especially those with a younger child still at home at the moment and our oldest son commuting to college from home) is over the moon at this. She couldn't get the paperwork done quicker or arrange the physical exams faster to get her off and into a classroom of children her own age. But for me, I can't help but see it as the first step in the slow process of losing somewhat of a grip on my girl. Daughters leave. Sons stay. That's the way I've always seen things from where I sit.
My wife can't get over this drama unfoldig in my head. "She needs friends. She can't just always play with her cousins or stay at home and play with you."
Why not? I've grown to like the unpredictibility of "Sponge Bob, Square Pants," or the laid-back plot lines of "Max & Ruby." Not to mention the tireless adventures of Dora and Diego. Our discussions over the cultural complications on "Ni Hao Kai- Lan" have been epic. And my bold observance that "Yo Gabba-Gabba" is nothing more than a recycled "Zoom" have led discussions well into the night. Plus she finally knows all the names of the New York Yankees.
Does it sound yet to you that I need a life?
You'all might be right. But Roxy's daddy is not a regular 9-to-5er. I've been lucky enough that when I do land a TV job, I go off and work for four days or so and then am able to spend the next 30 days or so at home until the next taping. That means I have been around for every football game and track meet that her big brother has ever had. And I've been fortunate to never miss a new tooth, a scary fall, a high fever, a new word or those God-given moments when your 18-month-old son decides to squeeze his sister tight and plant a kiss on her lips without any proding from me or my wife. It is those gorgeous moments of parenting that you have to see to believe. And once they are gone, you sit back and can't believe you were lucky enough to see them.
Having that time home alone with then is something you can't negotiate in a boardroom at the office or across a Hollywood conference room table as wide as an airplane wing.
"It's just three hours a day," my wife laughs. "She's not going off to Iraq."
I know, I know. But this is my little, best friend we're talking about here. And the hours of 11:37 AM to 2:20 PM will move slow for me. As if the hands on the kitchen clock have come down with Arthritis.
The wife and kid are off buying school clothes now and the little one is asleep. We'll all be with her on that first walk to school next week and every other walk she entitles me to as she grows older and more independent.
My wife laughs. My daughter can't wait. And a proud father cries.
Daughters leave. They go away to school. They date boys and come home with broken hearts until the day she meets the right man and they marry. And then she will adopt his opinions, and maybe even silence her daddy from time to time. She might not even remember that I ever told her that "Yo Gabba-Gabba" is "Zoom" and, in this world, everything old is new again.
Last night she held my cheeks in her hands and said, "Daddy, don't worry. I will only be at school for a little while and then you and Mommy will pick me up and you and I can play. Okay?"
"Okay, doll," I told her.
"Are you crying" she asked me.
"No," I told her. "It's Daddy's allergies."
Then she squeezed me tight and left me alone on my bed, as she and her mommy talked about the new dress she wants to buy for her first day at school.
For she, it is the start of a wondrous, fun-filled journey where anxiety and adventure battle for space along with the shiny red apple in her new back-to-school backpack. It is three hours a day of independence - and a mere three blocks from our home - where her count of friends will grow to a small army and our chats on the walk home will have her beautiful face flush with a newfound, tiny taste of fun, freedom and snippets of time she otherwise would have spent with her father. It's the beginning of everything for my girl. So why am I crying in the shower every morning or bubbling up with emotion inside the privacy of my car whenever I'm off on an errand?
My wife, like most moms (especially those with a younger child still at home at the moment and our oldest son commuting to college from home) is over the moon at this. She couldn't get the paperwork done quicker or arrange the physical exams faster to get her off and into a classroom of children her own age. But for me, I can't help but see it as the first step in the slow process of losing somewhat of a grip on my girl. Daughters leave. Sons stay. That's the way I've always seen things from where I sit.
My wife can't get over this drama unfoldig in my head. "She needs friends. She can't just always play with her cousins or stay at home and play with you."
Why not? I've grown to like the unpredictibility of "Sponge Bob, Square Pants," or the laid-back plot lines of "Max & Ruby." Not to mention the tireless adventures of Dora and Diego. Our discussions over the cultural complications on "Ni Hao Kai- Lan" have been epic. And my bold observance that "Yo Gabba-Gabba" is nothing more than a recycled "Zoom" have led discussions well into the night. Plus she finally knows all the names of the New York Yankees.
Does it sound yet to you that I need a life?
You'all might be right. But Roxy's daddy is not a regular 9-to-5er. I've been lucky enough that when I do land a TV job, I go off and work for four days or so and then am able to spend the next 30 days or so at home until the next taping. That means I have been around for every football game and track meet that her big brother has ever had. And I've been fortunate to never miss a new tooth, a scary fall, a high fever, a new word or those God-given moments when your 18-month-old son decides to squeeze his sister tight and plant a kiss on her lips without any proding from me or my wife. It is those gorgeous moments of parenting that you have to see to believe. And once they are gone, you sit back and can't believe you were lucky enough to see them.
Having that time home alone with then is something you can't negotiate in a boardroom at the office or across a Hollywood conference room table as wide as an airplane wing.
"It's just three hours a day," my wife laughs. "She's not going off to Iraq."
I know, I know. But this is my little, best friend we're talking about here. And the hours of 11:37 AM to 2:20 PM will move slow for me. As if the hands on the kitchen clock have come down with Arthritis.
The wife and kid are off buying school clothes now and the little one is asleep. We'll all be with her on that first walk to school next week and every other walk she entitles me to as she grows older and more independent.
My wife laughs. My daughter can't wait. And a proud father cries.
Daughters leave. They go away to school. They date boys and come home with broken hearts until the day she meets the right man and they marry. And then she will adopt his opinions, and maybe even silence her daddy from time to time. She might not even remember that I ever told her that "Yo Gabba-Gabba" is "Zoom" and, in this world, everything old is new again.
Last night she held my cheeks in her hands and said, "Daddy, don't worry. I will only be at school for a little while and then you and Mommy will pick me up and you and I can play. Okay?"
"Okay, doll," I told her.
"Are you crying" she asked me.
"No," I told her. "It's Daddy's allergies."
Then she squeezed me tight and left me alone on my bed, as she and her mommy talked about the new dress she wants to buy for her first day at school.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
YOU ARE THERE!
Boy you couldn't beat that lifelong newsman Walter Cronkite to deliver you the truth when it counted most, right? And you especially knew the standards in which he carried out his private life had to be as morally upstanding and above anyone's ideals. I mean, we're talking Cronkite here. Television's "Mr. America," and the most stoic, stand-up and honest man who, among other things, managed to get the battling forces of Israel and Palestine to finally speak softly. The man who cried with us when he learned of President Kennedy's assassination. The man who always promised us that what he was reporting was nothing short of the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
What can I tell you: I was infatuated with Cronkite when I was in grade school. And he's absolutely one of the reasons why I decided to study journalism in college and hope to be anything at all like the truth-sayer Cronkite was for all America.
I remember the day NASA landed men on the moon and my mother called me in from the schoolyard - where me and 15 other boys were playing "kill the guy with the ball."
"They're walking on the moon," my mother yelled across the street. "Get your ass inside."
I remember the way Cronkite handled that magic moment. And, honestly, it were moments like that - with his proud, stucatto voice announcing it all - that made me want to be the kind of guy who, when I grew up, was able to supply people with news they wouldn't ordinarily be privy to.
I graduated high school and college with Cronkite's voice playing as a constant narration of what seemed like every important moment in my life. (I honestly feel badly for youngsters who seek a career in broadcast journalism now and no doubt have a hard time emulating anyone as professional as Cronkite.)
But when Cronkite stepped down and told America a qualified fella named Dan Rather would be taking over for him, I didn't give it much thought. I was in college and trying to find my way into a journalism career. Luckily...I was able to avoid tracking down stories for neaningless stories in East Asswipe, Alabama...and I stalked enough NYC newspaper editors to land my first job as a gossip columnist for NY Newsday and the several glory years I enjoyed as a columnist at the Daily News.
By that time, I thought like who the Hell I thought I was. You follow? I'm saying I started to feel I was bigger than the columns I was writing. And no one could tell me otherwise. And I think this simple - but complex - paradox happens to almost everyone who starts to sail behind the wake of his own popularity.
All of this brings me to a night in the 1990's - when I was at the top of my game. A buddy and I were finished visiting Jack Nicholson at The Carlyle Hotel one late night, when we stumbled to the elevator and hit the down button.
How the fuck do you think I felt when the elevator arrived and opened and featured Mr. Cronkite holding an ice bucket with a champagne bottle packed inside it while two stunning females - dressed in clingy dresses and stilettos heels - guided "Mr. America" off to his room?
Now...these could've been his neices. What do I know? I only know the expression he shot me was one of embarrassment.
Next story about a trustworthy newsman.
Several years later and I found myself friends with Cronkite's replacement, Dan Rather. Dan and I got to be friendly mainly because his assistant was an ex-flame of mine. Anyhow...one night Dan and his assistant decide to meet me for drinks at the W Hotel in Westwood. As soon as we got there, Dan took me aside and said, "This place is packed with pussy!." No matter how prepared you think you might be...you never expect the voice of the nation's 6 O'Clock News to speak that way.
After three drinks at the W, we moved over to a Sunset Strip club formerly known as Barfly, where Dan kept telling the bartenders that he wanted "Three fingers Wild Turkey in a rock's glass, with a water back. But, barkeep, that's three fingers vertical. Not horizontal."
After four hours of hitting the town, we all ended up sleeping at a Century City Hotel. We got in at 3 A.M. At 6 A.M. my phone rang with a very clear-headed Rather asking me if I wanted to fly to Alaska in a couple hours to go fly fishing."
I remember I went to his room to politely turn him down, but spotted a pair of female panties in his opened suitcase. "Oh...somebody slipped me these when I had no idea," was his answer.
My final example of how little you know about the men who give you the world news has to do with my sitting down with a Fox News bigshot (I'll keep him nameless for his sake)who had the duty of interviewing me about my memoirs which I wrote in 2001. Everything was as above-board as you can imagine, until with about 10 seconds to air the powerful host asked me...."Tell me...who's the most famous woman you fucked?"
I sat there stunned for a few seconds until I realized he really was salivating for an answer. I lied and blurted out, "Mariah Carey."
"Was she good," the big-time anchor asked with three seconds to spare before air.
"Oh yeah. Tremendous," I said.
"Fuckin' fantastic," he said, as his producer counted backward from 3 to 2 to 1.
Just goes to show you: There are two sides to every story you ever hear. And there are two sides to the men you trust to give those stories.
What can I tell you: I was infatuated with Cronkite when I was in grade school. And he's absolutely one of the reasons why I decided to study journalism in college and hope to be anything at all like the truth-sayer Cronkite was for all America.
I remember the day NASA landed men on the moon and my mother called me in from the schoolyard - where me and 15 other boys were playing "kill the guy with the ball."
"They're walking on the moon," my mother yelled across the street. "Get your ass inside."
I remember the way Cronkite handled that magic moment. And, honestly, it were moments like that - with his proud, stucatto voice announcing it all - that made me want to be the kind of guy who, when I grew up, was able to supply people with news they wouldn't ordinarily be privy to.
I graduated high school and college with Cronkite's voice playing as a constant narration of what seemed like every important moment in my life. (I honestly feel badly for youngsters who seek a career in broadcast journalism now and no doubt have a hard time emulating anyone as professional as Cronkite.)
But when Cronkite stepped down and told America a qualified fella named Dan Rather would be taking over for him, I didn't give it much thought. I was in college and trying to find my way into a journalism career. Luckily...I was able to avoid tracking down stories for neaningless stories in East Asswipe, Alabama...and I stalked enough NYC newspaper editors to land my first job as a gossip columnist for NY Newsday and the several glory years I enjoyed as a columnist at the Daily News.
By that time, I thought like who the Hell I thought I was. You follow? I'm saying I started to feel I was bigger than the columns I was writing. And no one could tell me otherwise. And I think this simple - but complex - paradox happens to almost everyone who starts to sail behind the wake of his own popularity.
All of this brings me to a night in the 1990's - when I was at the top of my game. A buddy and I were finished visiting Jack Nicholson at The Carlyle Hotel one late night, when we stumbled to the elevator and hit the down button.
How the fuck do you think I felt when the elevator arrived and opened and featured Mr. Cronkite holding an ice bucket with a champagne bottle packed inside it while two stunning females - dressed in clingy dresses and stilettos heels - guided "Mr. America" off to his room?
Now...these could've been his neices. What do I know? I only know the expression he shot me was one of embarrassment.
Next story about a trustworthy newsman.
Several years later and I found myself friends with Cronkite's replacement, Dan Rather. Dan and I got to be friendly mainly because his assistant was an ex-flame of mine. Anyhow...one night Dan and his assistant decide to meet me for drinks at the W Hotel in Westwood. As soon as we got there, Dan took me aside and said, "This place is packed with pussy!." No matter how prepared you think you might be...you never expect the voice of the nation's 6 O'Clock News to speak that way.
After three drinks at the W, we moved over to a Sunset Strip club formerly known as Barfly, where Dan kept telling the bartenders that he wanted "Three fingers Wild Turkey in a rock's glass, with a water back. But, barkeep, that's three fingers vertical. Not horizontal."
After four hours of hitting the town, we all ended up sleeping at a Century City Hotel. We got in at 3 A.M. At 6 A.M. my phone rang with a very clear-headed Rather asking me if I wanted to fly to Alaska in a couple hours to go fly fishing."
I remember I went to his room to politely turn him down, but spotted a pair of female panties in his opened suitcase. "Oh...somebody slipped me these when I had no idea," was his answer.
My final example of how little you know about the men who give you the world news has to do with my sitting down with a Fox News bigshot (I'll keep him nameless for his sake)who had the duty of interviewing me about my memoirs which I wrote in 2001. Everything was as above-board as you can imagine, until with about 10 seconds to air the powerful host asked me...."Tell me...who's the most famous woman you fucked?"
I sat there stunned for a few seconds until I realized he really was salivating for an answer. I lied and blurted out, "Mariah Carey."
"Was she good," the big-time anchor asked with three seconds to spare before air.
"Oh yeah. Tremendous," I said.
"Fuckin' fantastic," he said, as his producer counted backward from 3 to 2 to 1.
Just goes to show you: There are two sides to every story you ever hear. And there are two sides to the men you trust to give those stories.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The Opera House
Damn. This column wasn't easy for me to write. And that's part of my problem - well, any writer's problem. It's hardest most to write what's closest to you. And what's closer to any of us than the old neighborhood and the original house we grew up in? Now imagine how hard it might be to pull the trigger on saying a final goodbye to that spot. I found myself doing just that a couple weeks ago, while I remembered bits and pieces of my youth on those familiar fields and streets and stoops.
As a kid growing up in West Islip, Long Island, I was lucky enough to have my eldest sister Rosalie and her husband Jack buy the two-story ranch that butted our backyard. The day the house became legally theirs, the chainlink fence separating our backyards was joyfully torn down by Jack and my father. And from that day forward - I'm talking 1971 - a compound was formed.
Initially, it was we who had the pool and the 18-foot fishing boat, which we docked in their backyard. But it wasn't until my father's green thumb and Sicilian know-how planted grape seeds and built a wooden arbor connecting the two properties, that the homes became one. In what seemed like overnight, a perfect umbrella of green leaves and purple grapes became the path that linked our homes. My father would cut down the grapes when they were ready and make some of the strongest red wine you've ever had. His wine sat on our dinner tables every night of the week. And, though, I was barely 15, I was expected to lift the bottle and let the wine touch my lips.
But before I was 26, both my mom and dad had passed. My sisters and I sold the house and watched the new neighbors, cut down the grape arbor and put up a new chainlink fence separating the yards. But with that closure came a new era of Jack and Rosalie putting in a pool of their own and opening up their backyard to every holiday and birthday you could think of. And let me just say....it was here that a young Italian boy grew up within the wonder of an opera.
But nowadays, with both their sons relocating tothe West Coast and me and my family living there as well, it so happens that the house suddenly has a For Sale planted on the front lawn. It looked strange when we arrived and it looked evil when we left two weeks later. My sister isn't going to give the house away, but if the right offer comes in...she's gone. I'm ecstatic they're coming to be near all of us, but allow me to reminisce a bit, if that was in fact the last time I'll ever see the house again. It seemed like yesterday that I would watched the newlyweds dancing on the pool deck to "Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch." And then spending quiet moments lying on top of the redwood picnic table and searching for shooting stars.
As it turned out - in the two weeks me, my wife and children stayed there - we were there for the death of her beloved Yorkies, my nephew's relationship with his girlfriend ended, they threw a great pool party for my daughter's 5th birthday and my other sister Lorraine stood in as Godmother to my son, Rocco, at his Baptism at St. Joe's in Babylon. I take it for granted but, that's the church I was confirmed in, where me and my sisters got married and where my daughter was also baptised. So....my eyes filled up quite a bit. When the priest said my son is now a "Christ follower," I sighed and said "Good luck with that shit, son."
On July 4th, my cousin Phil brought over a box of fireworks that we lit by the tips of our Macanudo cigars. Several nights later we watched Phil (who is 47) wrestle in an open outdoor tournament. I felt like I was in high school all over again, yelling at his opponents, cursing the refs, etc.
On another good note, the Yankees lost only one game while I was in town, Jermaine Jackson made me cry when he sang "Smile" at his drug-addicted brother's memorial and every morning I did something you cannot do in Los Angeles - I bought a bacon, egg & cheese on a roll (with crispy bacon) along with The News and The Post.
The beautiful thing is, my father's grape vine still grows between the two houses, and I promised myself to dig up a sapling and re-plant it here in L.A. But I forgot. I was too busy watching my daughter run on the same lawn I used to run, helping my son shoot at the same hoop I used to shoot at and relishing in the sounds and cacaphony of a family happy in a pool. "You want more Sangria?," "Watch my sauce for me,"..." "Make the Gipsy Kings louder!"...."I made 20 veal cutlets, you think that's enough?" We're like that.
In the end - as our airport van peeled away, and I wiped the tears from my daughter's cheeks - I just tried to take in all the sights and sounds and smells that made up a magical childhood. I'm sure I missed some. But it wouldn't have been as amazing if I were able to grab them all. Afterall, it is those
non-refundable fragments of eternity that make the storyteller come out. However hard the task.
As a kid growing up in West Islip, Long Island, I was lucky enough to have my eldest sister Rosalie and her husband Jack buy the two-story ranch that butted our backyard. The day the house became legally theirs, the chainlink fence separating our backyards was joyfully torn down by Jack and my father. And from that day forward - I'm talking 1971 - a compound was formed.
Initially, it was we who had the pool and the 18-foot fishing boat, which we docked in their backyard. But it wasn't until my father's green thumb and Sicilian know-how planted grape seeds and built a wooden arbor connecting the two properties, that the homes became one. In what seemed like overnight, a perfect umbrella of green leaves and purple grapes became the path that linked our homes. My father would cut down the grapes when they were ready and make some of the strongest red wine you've ever had. His wine sat on our dinner tables every night of the week. And, though, I was barely 15, I was expected to lift the bottle and let the wine touch my lips.
But before I was 26, both my mom and dad had passed. My sisters and I sold the house and watched the new neighbors, cut down the grape arbor and put up a new chainlink fence separating the yards. But with that closure came a new era of Jack and Rosalie putting in a pool of their own and opening up their backyard to every holiday and birthday you could think of. And let me just say....it was here that a young Italian boy grew up within the wonder of an opera.
But nowadays, with both their sons relocating tothe West Coast and me and my family living there as well, it so happens that the house suddenly has a For Sale planted on the front lawn. It looked strange when we arrived and it looked evil when we left two weeks later. My sister isn't going to give the house away, but if the right offer comes in...she's gone. I'm ecstatic they're coming to be near all of us, but allow me to reminisce a bit, if that was in fact the last time I'll ever see the house again. It seemed like yesterday that I would watched the newlyweds dancing on the pool deck to "Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch." And then spending quiet moments lying on top of the redwood picnic table and searching for shooting stars.
As it turned out - in the two weeks me, my wife and children stayed there - we were there for the death of her beloved Yorkies, my nephew's relationship with his girlfriend ended, they threw a great pool party for my daughter's 5th birthday and my other sister Lorraine stood in as Godmother to my son, Rocco, at his Baptism at St. Joe's in Babylon. I take it for granted but, that's the church I was confirmed in, where me and my sisters got married and where my daughter was also baptised. So....my eyes filled up quite a bit. When the priest said my son is now a "Christ follower," I sighed and said "Good luck with that shit, son."
On July 4th, my cousin Phil brought over a box of fireworks that we lit by the tips of our Macanudo cigars. Several nights later we watched Phil (who is 47) wrestle in an open outdoor tournament. I felt like I was in high school all over again, yelling at his opponents, cursing the refs, etc.
On another good note, the Yankees lost only one game while I was in town, Jermaine Jackson made me cry when he sang "Smile" at his drug-addicted brother's memorial and every morning I did something you cannot do in Los Angeles - I bought a bacon, egg & cheese on a roll (with crispy bacon) along with The News and The Post.
The beautiful thing is, my father's grape vine still grows between the two houses, and I promised myself to dig up a sapling and re-plant it here in L.A. But I forgot. I was too busy watching my daughter run on the same lawn I used to run, helping my son shoot at the same hoop I used to shoot at and relishing in the sounds and cacaphony of a family happy in a pool. "You want more Sangria?," "Watch my sauce for me,"..." "Make the Gipsy Kings louder!"...."I made 20 veal cutlets, you think that's enough?" We're like that.
In the end - as our airport van peeled away, and I wiped the tears from my daughter's cheeks - I just tried to take in all the sights and sounds and smells that made up a magical childhood. I'm sure I missed some. But it wouldn't have been as amazing if I were able to grab them all. Afterall, it is those
non-refundable fragments of eternity that make the storyteller come out. However hard the task.
Friday, June 26, 2009
POP GOES THE WEASEL
I wasn't kind to Michael Jackson in the 1990's.
Mostly because I knew too much about Michael Jackson in the 1990's, from where I sat as a columnist for the NY Daily News. What especially disturbed me was his behavior toward underaged boys, and the remarkable extremes he went through so that regular folks would never, ever get to know the now infamous and, ahem!, alleged claims of child molestation.
I wasn't alone in what I learned as flat-out fact back then. I was flanked by my boss and mentor, Linda Stasi (currently a TV critic for the NY Post) and Michael Lewittes, a Yale graduate who eventually became the invaluable Robin to my Batman, once Linda decided to leave the gossip game for good.
But when the three of us were together, our column "Hot Copy," - was the first to shake the initial kernels of confirmation out of the bullshit bush - leaving Liz Smith, Cindy Adams and Page Six in the dark as Jackson's nightmare unfolded and our papers flew off the racks. To this day, I hear so many journalists taking credit for breaking the story and it makes me want to light the rest of my hair on fire. They're all full of shit. Here's how it literally fell into our laps.
A wonderful, impeccably-dressed, sweet-hearted publicist named Bernie Bennett (who has since died) innocently told us over lunch one day that his wife's best friend was the mother of the kid who Jackson was allegedly molesting. We even printed the kid's name - Jordan Chandler - because we thought it was odd that Jackson was taking this kid to Euro-Disney, Neverland and anywhere else he thought a good time could be had. Once we printed that Jackson had a new 13-year-old sleep-over buddy, all the other columns started to dip their toes into the water.
What these other columnists didn't have - and would never have - was the pillow-talk and off-the-record testimony that we were receiving almost on a daily basis.
In addition to all this, were the phone calls and personal meetings I would have lunch with Michael's sister LaToya Jackson, begging me to tell the truth about how Michael keeps his bedroom door locked whenever a few of the kids from Neverland wanted a Jesus Juice break. She'd plead with me, "A.J. PLEASE do something about this. I love my brother, but he's not normal. He was abused as a child and I just know he is abusing those boys up in his room."
This was pretty explosive shit for a columnist to receive, but at the time, LaToya was working a burlesque show in Paris and had also just posed nude in Playboy with a yellow boa constrictor in her layout. I couldn't write what she told me, but it always stayed with me. Just what was a 35-year-old man doing behind closed doors with teenage boys? I don't know about you...but if my 13-year-old nephew one day introduced me to his 35-year-old best friend and locked his bedroom door to catch a few videos....I'd be heading in through the wall with a sledgehammer and a flame thrower.
And then when Jackson pays a $23 million out-of-court settlement, we're all supposed to forget about it and write it off as another civilian sucking a celebrity dry.
Somebody was definitely getting sucked dry.
Listen, in terms of creativity and musical genius, I believe Michael Jackson deserves a send-off in the same manner as John Lennon, Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra, you name it. I had his posters on my wall. I wore out dozens of socks trying to Moonwalk. I even pleaded with my varsity basketball coach that we enter the gymnasium to, "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough."
But it's almost like all these years, he was telling us through his music that he wasn't right up in his head. His song titles alone: "Bad," "Smooth Criminal," "Dangerous," "Pretty Young Thing," "In The Closet," "Off The Wall," "Leave Me Alone." Shit, he even looked at the man in the mirror and asked him to change his ways.
But you all didn't see this coming? Maybe you have to have known a few fucked-up drug addicts in your day to fully appreciate what happened to Michael Jackson. A 50-year-old sickly man is faced with millions of dollars in debt, and can no longer do the one thing - dance like nobody else in the world - that can get him out of that hole. That, right there, is enough for a man to reach for more drugs than you can imagine to make the pain go way. That's what he did. The autopsy will read like an all-you-can-eat buffet at an after-hours house in South Central. We're talking a little Zoloft just to stop being a downer to his friends. Then a few Paxil to see some sunshine through the rain. Hell, a handful of Vicodin will keep you strong through lunch. Might even have some young dancer playing catch-up to you during rehearsal. Of course, after all that exertion, you're gonna need a few injections of Demerol. Damn, three millograms will make you feel like you're on Morphine, Now, after that long, crazy day of 50-year-old aches and pains, you're gonna wanna come down with s little cocktail of more Vicodin, a couple Soma to relax your muscles and, finally, some Xanax to make sure your body shuts down to do it all over again tomorrow.
Mourn him all you want, but Michael Jackson finally decided to take his mask off and be free.
Mostly because I knew too much about Michael Jackson in the 1990's, from where I sat as a columnist for the NY Daily News. What especially disturbed me was his behavior toward underaged boys, and the remarkable extremes he went through so that regular folks would never, ever get to know the now infamous and, ahem!, alleged claims of child molestation.
I wasn't alone in what I learned as flat-out fact back then. I was flanked by my boss and mentor, Linda Stasi (currently a TV critic for the NY Post) and Michael Lewittes, a Yale graduate who eventually became the invaluable Robin to my Batman, once Linda decided to leave the gossip game for good.
But when the three of us were together, our column "Hot Copy," - was the first to shake the initial kernels of confirmation out of the bullshit bush - leaving Liz Smith, Cindy Adams and Page Six in the dark as Jackson's nightmare unfolded and our papers flew off the racks. To this day, I hear so many journalists taking credit for breaking the story and it makes me want to light the rest of my hair on fire. They're all full of shit. Here's how it literally fell into our laps.
A wonderful, impeccably-dressed, sweet-hearted publicist named Bernie Bennett (who has since died) innocently told us over lunch one day that his wife's best friend was the mother of the kid who Jackson was allegedly molesting. We even printed the kid's name - Jordan Chandler - because we thought it was odd that Jackson was taking this kid to Euro-Disney, Neverland and anywhere else he thought a good time could be had. Once we printed that Jackson had a new 13-year-old sleep-over buddy, all the other columns started to dip their toes into the water.
What these other columnists didn't have - and would never have - was the pillow-talk and off-the-record testimony that we were receiving almost on a daily basis.
In addition to all this, were the phone calls and personal meetings I would have lunch with Michael's sister LaToya Jackson, begging me to tell the truth about how Michael keeps his bedroom door locked whenever a few of the kids from Neverland wanted a Jesus Juice break. She'd plead with me, "A.J. PLEASE do something about this. I love my brother, but he's not normal. He was abused as a child and I just know he is abusing those boys up in his room."
This was pretty explosive shit for a columnist to receive, but at the time, LaToya was working a burlesque show in Paris and had also just posed nude in Playboy with a yellow boa constrictor in her layout. I couldn't write what she told me, but it always stayed with me. Just what was a 35-year-old man doing behind closed doors with teenage boys? I don't know about you...but if my 13-year-old nephew one day introduced me to his 35-year-old best friend and locked his bedroom door to catch a few videos....I'd be heading in through the wall with a sledgehammer and a flame thrower.
And then when Jackson pays a $23 million out-of-court settlement, we're all supposed to forget about it and write it off as another civilian sucking a celebrity dry.
Somebody was definitely getting sucked dry.
Listen, in terms of creativity and musical genius, I believe Michael Jackson deserves a send-off in the same manner as John Lennon, Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra, you name it. I had his posters on my wall. I wore out dozens of socks trying to Moonwalk. I even pleaded with my varsity basketball coach that we enter the gymnasium to, "Don't Stop Till You Get Enough."
But it's almost like all these years, he was telling us through his music that he wasn't right up in his head. His song titles alone: "Bad," "Smooth Criminal," "Dangerous," "Pretty Young Thing," "In The Closet," "Off The Wall," "Leave Me Alone." Shit, he even looked at the man in the mirror and asked him to change his ways.
But you all didn't see this coming? Maybe you have to have known a few fucked-up drug addicts in your day to fully appreciate what happened to Michael Jackson. A 50-year-old sickly man is faced with millions of dollars in debt, and can no longer do the one thing - dance like nobody else in the world - that can get him out of that hole. That, right there, is enough for a man to reach for more drugs than you can imagine to make the pain go way. That's what he did. The autopsy will read like an all-you-can-eat buffet at an after-hours house in South Central. We're talking a little Zoloft just to stop being a downer to his friends. Then a few Paxil to see some sunshine through the rain. Hell, a handful of Vicodin will keep you strong through lunch. Might even have some young dancer playing catch-up to you during rehearsal. Of course, after all that exertion, you're gonna need a few injections of Demerol. Damn, three millograms will make you feel like you're on Morphine, Now, after that long, crazy day of 50-year-old aches and pains, you're gonna wanna come down with s little cocktail of more Vicodin, a couple Soma to relax your muscles and, finally, some Xanax to make sure your body shuts down to do it all over again tomorrow.
Mourn him all you want, but Michael Jackson finally decided to take his mask off and be free.
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