Every Picture Tells A Story: Liza Minelli written March 5th 2014
Liza Minelli is an American singer and actress best known for her work in the films "Cabaret" and "Arthur." The daughter of "Wizard Of Oz" star Judy Garland and acclaimed director Vincent Minelli was literally born into show business. For over five decades Liza has entertained millions of fans with her high energy concerts around the world. Her hits include "Liza With A Z," "Losing My Mind," "Zing Went The Strings" and "The Day After That." Minelli is an icon in film, music, the gay community and a Las Vegas legend. And contrary to Ellen's lame and cruel joke on the 2014 Academy Awards telecast, Liza is not a man. She is all woman. I can attest to that.
This photo isn't from the first time I met Liza. That picture is the one below and to the left. But it is from the best time I met Liza. The time she showed me her boobs. Now don't get excited. It wasn't part of some backstage tryst. But it did happen backstage. Liza was playing in Boston at a lovely outdoor venue right on the Charles River. The name of the place slips my memory. It was the mid 1990s. The opening act was comic legend Dudley Moore who was also a wiz at the classical piano. I was working at Capitol-Emi at the time and Liza had just put out a new CD titled "Gently" on Angel, which was the classic arm of Capitol. I escorted about 12 key retail and radio backstage after her set to meet Minelli. But before she agreed to see anyone she wanted to see me, alone, in her star trailer. Okay.
Her assistant escorted me into the trailer's first room, a living room type space. "Keith is here" he said as he exited, leaving me alone. Liza popped out from the dressing area around the corner. "Keith so good to see you again." Liza said smiling and smoking as she walked towards me. In her rush to greet me she had thrown a t-shirt over her head put had not completely pulled it down to cover her boobs. I could clearly see both of her beautiful breast and perfect nipples. "Liza, um I realize that most guys that come backstage to see you wouldn't be fazed by those but I must say...Thank you." She laughed, covered up and then gave me a big hug. Maybe I should have waited to tell her about the exposure after I got the hug?
We sat on the couch and chatted about how the record was doing and what I thought of the show. I had met her at that point three previous times but it felt more like we had been lifelong friends. I then paraded in the VIPS for photo ops and autographs. After that was done Liza had me hang back with my now wife. She thanked me for all my work and for coming to see her. I thanked her and as we hugged she said, "Glad you liked em." I blushed and exited. I'm pretty sure she was talking about her boobs. No matter how old she gets I will always think fondly to Liza. She was always kind to me. And her boobs were amazing.
This photo isn't from the first time I met Liza. That picture is the one below and to the left. But it is from the best time I met Liza. The time she showed me her boobs. Now don't get excited. It wasn't part of some backstage tryst. But it did happen backstage. Liza was playing in Boston at a lovely outdoor venue right on the Charles River. The name of the place slips my memory. It was the mid 1990s. The opening act was comic legend Dudley Moore who was also a wiz at the classical piano. I was working at Capitol-Emi at the time and Liza had just put out a new CD titled "Gently" on Angel, which was the classic arm of Capitol. I escorted about 12 key retail and radio backstage after her set to meet Minelli. But before she agreed to see anyone she wanted to see me, alone, in her star trailer. Okay.
Her assistant escorted me into the trailer's first room, a living room type space. "Keith is here" he said as he exited, leaving me alone. Liza popped out from the dressing area around the corner. "Keith so good to see you again." Liza said smiling and smoking as she walked towards me. In her rush to greet me she had thrown a t-shirt over her head put had not completely pulled it down to cover her boobs. I could clearly see both of her beautiful breast and perfect nipples. "Liza, um I realize that most guys that come backstage to see you wouldn't be fazed by those but I must say...Thank you." She laughed, covered up and then gave me a big hug. Maybe I should have waited to tell her about the exposure after I got the hug?
We sat on the couch and chatted about how the record was doing and what I thought of the show. I had met her at that point three previous times but it felt more like we had been lifelong friends. I then paraded in the VIPS for photo ops and autographs. After that was done Liza had me hang back with my now wife. She thanked me for all my work and for coming to see her. I thanked her and as we hugged she said, "Glad you liked em." I blushed and exited. I'm pretty sure she was talking about her boobs. No matter how old she gets I will always think fondly to Liza. She was always kind to me. And her boobs were amazing.
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Every Picture Tells A Story: Sid Caesar: Written February 12th 2014
Sid Caesar was an American comedy icon. The legendary performer was on of the Televisions first true stars. His groundbreaking series "Your Show Of Shows" and "Caesar's Hour" launched the careers of other comedy giants including Woody Allen and Carl Reiner. He starred in several great comedy films including "It's A Mad Mad World." Sadly he died today at the age of 91.
I was lucky enough to see him live and meet him backstage at Westbury Music Fair in the early 1990s. He was doing a roast like show with some other TV innovators including Milton Berle. He was kind and welcoming as my date and I were escorted into his dressing room. He took the time to introduce us to everyone in the room including his manager, wife and several long time friends. He asked what I did. At the time I told him I worked in the music business. Then someone added, my date or friends at the theater, that I did stand up comedy as well. I turned pale. This man was a master of comedy.
You don't stand in front of Sid Caesar and mention you do comedy. My 3 minutes sets at some on New York City's finest comedy dumps was no match for the genius of the genre who stood before me. He smiled and asked in his gentle baritone, "Are you funny?" Good question I thought. How to answer it? Make a joke? A sarcastic comment? Nope. I simply and humbly replied, "I'd like to think I am." "Good" he said "Because if you think you are funny then the audience will too. Keep at it. Be funny." Then the photo was taken and off we went. I'll never forget his advice. And for many years I kept at it. And even though it's been several years since I stood onstage and told jokes I will never stop being funny.
I was lucky enough to see him live and meet him backstage at Westbury Music Fair in the early 1990s. He was doing a roast like show with some other TV innovators including Milton Berle. He was kind and welcoming as my date and I were escorted into his dressing room. He took the time to introduce us to everyone in the room including his manager, wife and several long time friends. He asked what I did. At the time I told him I worked in the music business. Then someone added, my date or friends at the theater, that I did stand up comedy as well. I turned pale. This man was a master of comedy.
You don't stand in front of Sid Caesar and mention you do comedy. My 3 minutes sets at some on New York City's finest comedy dumps was no match for the genius of the genre who stood before me. He smiled and asked in his gentle baritone, "Are you funny?" Good question I thought. How to answer it? Make a joke? A sarcastic comment? Nope. I simply and humbly replied, "I'd like to think I am." "Good" he said "Because if you think you are funny then the audience will too. Keep at it. Be funny." Then the photo was taken and off we went. I'll never forget his advice. And for many years I kept at it. And even though it's been several years since I stood onstage and told jokes I will never stop being funny.
Every Picture Tells A Story: Everly Brothers: Written January 6th 2014
It was a "Sophie's Choice" moment backstage at the Warwick Musical Theater for the Kris Kristopherson and Everly Brothers show sometime in the early 1990s. There were separate meet and greets at the exact same time and I had to choice one artist. I picked Kris. Always admired his songwriting. My then wife and mom did too. My dad picked the Everly Brothers. Don't get me wrong, I loved their music too. The harmonies were other worldly. But I could only pick one. And figured a Kris op would look great next to me photos with Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash. So I never met Phil & Don. Dad did and this is the photo op. I remember the show being amazing. The voices, even that late in their careers, were pitch perfect. Sadly, I will never have the chance to meet them since Phil is now gone. But you gotta admit the below photo (sans ex-wife--Thanks Photo Shop!) is amazing. R.I.P. Phil. Your voice and your influence lives on.
Every Picture Tells A Story: Keith Richards (and The Rolling Stones) Written 12/18/13
Keith Richards is the British guitarist from The Rolling Stones. The enduring band behind decades of rock and roll hits including "Time In On My Side," "Under My Thumb," "Gimme Shelter," "Start Me Up," "Emotional Rescue," "Waiting On A Friend" and hundreds (make that thousands more!) Away from the legendary band Richards has released solo albums and acted in a "Pirates Of The Caribbean" movie. Alongside Mick Jagger. Charlie Watts and Ron Wood, Richards continues to record and tour with The Stones. Today is his 70th birthday.
Some people need no introduction. Or so I thought. 1996 i was helping set up the backstage meet and greet room at Giant's Stadium in New Jersey. Just another night on the job. Except this night the room was for The Rolling Stones who were on their "Voodoo Lounge" tour. After helping my co-worker Mauro decorate the place, we were getting ready to leave the VIP area when John Boulos, a promo guy for Virgin Records, (the Stones label at that point) invited us to stick around to meet the band. I had met hundreds of bands at that point but none as huge as The Rolling Stones.
Mauro and I waited with some Radio programmers and Retail managers to meet the band. We were told ahead of time the band would come in, say hello and pose for a group picture. No autographs. No individual photos. Then the door opened and in they came, "Ladies and Gentlemen...The Rolling Stones." No one said that but they should have. The band casually entered, taking time to meet and shake hands with each of us one by one. "Hello I'm Mick" Jagger said as he shook my hand. "I know" I said. Then came Ronnie Wood, followed by Charlie Watts. "I'm Charlie" he said in a droll voice. "Nice to meet you" my reply. Trailing at the end of the line was Guitarist Keith Richards. "E'llo I'm Keith" He said to me in his trademark cigarette coated growl.
"Hello, I'm Keith." I said. My reply stopped Richards in his tracks. "My name is Keith!" Said Richards. "Me to. " I said. "Imagine that two Keiths!"
Then the big group photo was taken and I managed to find myself smack dab in between Keith Richards and Charlie Watts. As they exited the room Kieht Richards turned back to me, "Two Keith's. Imagine that! Mate you blew my mind. Cheers." he said as he walked into the night and on to the stage. Imagine that.
Some people need no introduction. Or so I thought. 1996 i was helping set up the backstage meet and greet room at Giant's Stadium in New Jersey. Just another night on the job. Except this night the room was for The Rolling Stones who were on their "Voodoo Lounge" tour. After helping my co-worker Mauro decorate the place, we were getting ready to leave the VIP area when John Boulos, a promo guy for Virgin Records, (the Stones label at that point) invited us to stick around to meet the band. I had met hundreds of bands at that point but none as huge as The Rolling Stones.
Mauro and I waited with some Radio programmers and Retail managers to meet the band. We were told ahead of time the band would come in, say hello and pose for a group picture. No autographs. No individual photos. Then the door opened and in they came, "Ladies and Gentlemen...The Rolling Stones." No one said that but they should have. The band casually entered, taking time to meet and shake hands with each of us one by one. "Hello I'm Mick" Jagger said as he shook my hand. "I know" I said. Then came Ronnie Wood, followed by Charlie Watts. "I'm Charlie" he said in a droll voice. "Nice to meet you" my reply. Trailing at the end of the line was Guitarist Keith Richards. "E'llo I'm Keith" He said to me in his trademark cigarette coated growl.
"Hello, I'm Keith." I said. My reply stopped Richards in his tracks. "My name is Keith!" Said Richards. "Me to. " I said. "Imagine that two Keiths!"
Then the big group photo was taken and I managed to find myself smack dab in between Keith Richards and Charlie Watts. As they exited the room Kieht Richards turned back to me, "Two Keith's. Imagine that! Mate you blew my mind. Cheers." he said as he walked into the night and on to the stage. Imagine that.
Every Picture Tells A Story: Al Sharpton. Written 12/17/13
Rev Al Sharpton is a preacher, politician and polarizing figure. He marched with Martin Luther King, created false panic with Tawana Brawley, ran for the Senate and the presidency and he was pals with James Brown.
One night after yet another rock show in NYC, two of my co-workers and I (Jill Capone and Kelly Diamond) decided to grab some late night eats at the Coach House Diner, a solid old school eatery located near our Capitol-Emi offices in Hackensack, New Jersey offices. The joint was cheap, near by and the food was really, really good. Man, I miss those fries. As we were finishing up our food we noticed a recognizable figure with wavy James Brown hair at a table to our left. Around his neck he wore a giant medallion. It was the one and only Rev Al Sharpton.
Excited that young folks wanted to talk to him, the Rev couldn't have been nicer. Can't say the same for his dinner companion, a giant Rasta man who was obviously perturped we had busted into their meeting. To be fair, we did wait until they had finished eating before approaching the table. Al gladly posed for pictures with us. "What do you kids do?" He asked. When I told him we worked at Capitol Records he couldn't help himself. "You know I'm friends with Mr, James Brown." I did know that. That was probably why I wanted the photo op. At that point I had yet to meet the "Godfather Of Soul" whom I worshiped. 3 years later when I finally got to meet James Brown, Al Sharpton would be there backstage at his side.
Of course this photo would have never existed if I hadn't always carried a camera everywhere I went. Remember this was the early 1990s, years before every phone featured a camera. At that point I don't even think most of us owned mobile phones. Beepers? Yup. Mobil phones with cameras built in? Not for years to come. Still to this day I always carry a camera wherever I go. Not a camera phone. Not an iPad. A camera.
One night after yet another rock show in NYC, two of my co-workers and I (Jill Capone and Kelly Diamond) decided to grab some late night eats at the Coach House Diner, a solid old school eatery located near our Capitol-Emi offices in Hackensack, New Jersey offices. The joint was cheap, near by and the food was really, really good. Man, I miss those fries. As we were finishing up our food we noticed a recognizable figure with wavy James Brown hair at a table to our left. Around his neck he wore a giant medallion. It was the one and only Rev Al Sharpton.
Excited that young folks wanted to talk to him, the Rev couldn't have been nicer. Can't say the same for his dinner companion, a giant Rasta man who was obviously perturped we had busted into their meeting. To be fair, we did wait until they had finished eating before approaching the table. Al gladly posed for pictures with us. "What do you kids do?" He asked. When I told him we worked at Capitol Records he couldn't help himself. "You know I'm friends with Mr, James Brown." I did know that. That was probably why I wanted the photo op. At that point I had yet to meet the "Godfather Of Soul" whom I worshiped. 3 years later when I finally got to meet James Brown, Al Sharpton would be there backstage at his side.
Of course this photo would have never existed if I hadn't always carried a camera everywhere I went. Remember this was the early 1990s, years before every phone featured a camera. At that point I don't even think most of us owned mobile phones. Beepers? Yup. Mobil phones with cameras built in? Not for years to come. Still to this day I always carry a camera wherever I go. Not a camera phone. Not an iPad. A camera.
Every Picture Tells A Story: Tommy Lee. Written 12/16/13
Tommy Lee is the drummer for Motley Crue. The back beat behind their hits "Girls, Girls, Girls," "Shout At The Devil", "Dr. Feelgood" and "Home Sweet Home." He is also the coolest dude on the planet with an uncanny ability to get the hottest women alive. The list includes Heather Locklear, Pink and Pamela Anderson. Pretty sure you've seen the film. Musically away from Crue he has recorded several CDs as a solo artist and as the band Methods Of Mayhem.
I always ask the publicist, "Is there anything I shouldn't bring up?" The usual replies are "Don't mention the Ex" or "No talk of the drug past." But when I asked Tommy Lee's PR rep the question she said, "Don't ask him about the kid who drowned in his pool." The statement left me stunned. Why the fuck would anyone (especially me) ask about that?
It was a tragic event that had happened years before. Of all the "Off Limits" warnings I've heard from publicists this was the worst. But hey I asked. Now I was free to get down and dirty (I know.. Eww) with Tommy Lee. The first thing you notice about Tommy is he doesn't walk. He bounds. Like Tigger. His wiry frame is full of energy that he can hardly contain. He is excited about his life and wants to share it with you. He greeted me at the the door of his gated Malibu community home with a huge grin. "Hey I'm Tommy. You want a Jaeger shot?" Being that it was 10:30am and I was sober for over a decade my answer was a quick. "No. But thanks." He looked disappointed then shrugged, "Wanna see my coy pond?" "Okay sure." I said praying to God it wasn't a euphemism for his penis. It wasn't. It was a coy pond full of exotic fish. In the middle of his living room.
From there we were off running from room to room of his mansion as Tommy narrated. "Wanna see my gold records?" There they were, over 100 gold and platinum plaques. "I'm building a studio in the basement." With that he flew down some dark stairs out of view. "You coming?" He yelled from the dark. Why the hell not? I followed him into the darkness. Once down there is a hole that would alter become a state of the art recording studio he asked excitedly, "Wanna see my doorbell?" "Doorbell? Um sure." Who the hell wants to see a doorbell? Larger than life it was a giant gong that covered an entire wall. I would guess 40ft round. He handed me a giant mallet and told me to back up to get a running start. With that Tommy Lee and I ran top speed accross his basement jumping and smashing mallets into the gong/doorbell. The ear shattering sound rang in my ears for five minutes after the fact. "Fucking great huh?" I heard Tommy say over the ringing in my ears.
The interview over the next two hours was a roller coaster ride through the mind and life of Tommy Lee. At the end I realized that he is at heart a giant kid. It remains one of my favorite interviews I got to do during my time at Hustler. The photo op, though not the best (there are better ones from a second chat I had with him time about 2 years later) shows the joy of two man childs hanging by the pool.
I always ask the publicist, "Is there anything I shouldn't bring up?" The usual replies are "Don't mention the Ex" or "No talk of the drug past." But when I asked Tommy Lee's PR rep the question she said, "Don't ask him about the kid who drowned in his pool." The statement left me stunned. Why the fuck would anyone (especially me) ask about that?
It was a tragic event that had happened years before. Of all the "Off Limits" warnings I've heard from publicists this was the worst. But hey I asked. Now I was free to get down and dirty (I know.. Eww) with Tommy Lee. The first thing you notice about Tommy is he doesn't walk. He bounds. Like Tigger. His wiry frame is full of energy that he can hardly contain. He is excited about his life and wants to share it with you. He greeted me at the the door of his gated Malibu community home with a huge grin. "Hey I'm Tommy. You want a Jaeger shot?" Being that it was 10:30am and I was sober for over a decade my answer was a quick. "No. But thanks." He looked disappointed then shrugged, "Wanna see my coy pond?" "Okay sure." I said praying to God it wasn't a euphemism for his penis. It wasn't. It was a coy pond full of exotic fish. In the middle of his living room.
From there we were off running from room to room of his mansion as Tommy narrated. "Wanna see my gold records?" There they were, over 100 gold and platinum plaques. "I'm building a studio in the basement." With that he flew down some dark stairs out of view. "You coming?" He yelled from the dark. Why the hell not? I followed him into the darkness. Once down there is a hole that would alter become a state of the art recording studio he asked excitedly, "Wanna see my doorbell?" "Doorbell? Um sure." Who the hell wants to see a doorbell? Larger than life it was a giant gong that covered an entire wall. I would guess 40ft round. He handed me a giant mallet and told me to back up to get a running start. With that Tommy Lee and I ran top speed accross his basement jumping and smashing mallets into the gong/doorbell. The ear shattering sound rang in my ears for five minutes after the fact. "Fucking great huh?" I heard Tommy say over the ringing in my ears.
The interview over the next two hours was a roller coaster ride through the mind and life of Tommy Lee. At the end I realized that he is at heart a giant kid. It remains one of my favorite interviews I got to do during my time at Hustler. The photo op, though not the best (there are better ones from a second chat I had with him time about 2 years later) shows the joy of two man childs hanging by the pool.
Every Picture Tells A Story: Joan Jett. Written 12/13/12
Joan Jett is an American rock and roll singer and guitarist best known for being part of the ground breaking all girl group The Runaways. The band comprised of Jett, Cherie Currie, Lita Ford, Sandy West and Jackie Fox, was assembled by music maven Kim Fowley. Post-Runaways, Jett scored a slew of hits with her band the Blackhearts including: "I Hate Myself For Lovin' You," "Crimson & Clover," "Light Of Day," "Do You Wanna Touch Me?" and "I Love Rock & Roll."
We were having an album release party at the Knitting Factory (an ultra-hip downtown performance space) in New York City for a new singer named Casey Scott. Musically, she was like Patti Smith but weirder. Her debut was a ramshackle mix of poetry and rock and roll. To me it was just another night at work. Things got interesting when none other than rocker Joan Jett showed up at the party. Why was she there? Who the hell can remember. Maybe she worked on the CD or managed Casey Scott or they were friends. I don't recall. I do remember two things: Joan appeared to be a bit "out of it" (or "altered") and, oh yeah, she took a swing at me.
Not a playful swing but a full-on-fist-toward-the-face punch. Let me explain. I was talking to Joan, who, as I mentioned, seemed a bit "off." Maybe she was just tired. This was the middle of the night in New York City after all. After a short chat about music I asked if we could get a photo together. "Sure. Cool. Sure," She said. Just as the photo was about to be taken, one of my coworkers, Jill, moved in front of the photographer. I reached out and motioned to Jill to move out of the way. That's when it got ugly. I felt the whoosh of Joan Jett's fist fly just inches from my face. "Don't you ever push a woman!" Joan snarled at me. "What? Push a woman?" I assured her that I hadn't. I simply motioned for Jill to move to the side since she was blocking the photographer from getting a shot of Joan and I. Joan paused for a moment, looked down, and then said quietly, "Oh. Then um, never mind. Let's take a picture." And so we did. So we did. But Joan Jett almost kicked my ass.
We were having an album release party at the Knitting Factory (an ultra-hip downtown performance space) in New York City for a new singer named Casey Scott. Musically, she was like Patti Smith but weirder. Her debut was a ramshackle mix of poetry and rock and roll. To me it was just another night at work. Things got interesting when none other than rocker Joan Jett showed up at the party. Why was she there? Who the hell can remember. Maybe she worked on the CD or managed Casey Scott or they were friends. I don't recall. I do remember two things: Joan appeared to be a bit "out of it" (or "altered") and, oh yeah, she took a swing at me.
Not a playful swing but a full-on-fist-toward-the-face punch. Let me explain. I was talking to Joan, who, as I mentioned, seemed a bit "off." Maybe she was just tired. This was the middle of the night in New York City after all. After a short chat about music I asked if we could get a photo together. "Sure. Cool. Sure," She said. Just as the photo was about to be taken, one of my coworkers, Jill, moved in front of the photographer. I reached out and motioned to Jill to move out of the way. That's when it got ugly. I felt the whoosh of Joan Jett's fist fly just inches from my face. "Don't you ever push a woman!" Joan snarled at me. "What? Push a woman?" I assured her that I hadn't. I simply motioned for Jill to move to the side since she was blocking the photographer from getting a shot of Joan and I. Joan paused for a moment, looked down, and then said quietly, "Oh. Then um, never mind. Let's take a picture." And so we did. So we did. But Joan Jett almost kicked my ass.
Every Picture Tells A Story: Frank Sinatra. Written 12/12/13
Frank Sinatra was an American Singer and Actor. Born in Hoboken, New Jersey he was first discovered by band leader Tommy Dorsey after winning a talent contest. He recorded for Columbia Records, then Capitol Records and eventually started his own label Reprise Records. Creating hundreds of timeless hits. (too numerous to list.) As an actor he starred in over 50 films including the role that would be him the 1954 Academy Award for "Best Supporting Actor" in "From Here To Eternity."
Sinatra was part of the "Rat Pack,"(named by Lauren Bacall) a legendary group of like minded singer and actors that included Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Joey Bishop and Peter Lawford. While filming the original "Oceans Eleven" during the day in Las Vegas the group billing themselves as "The Summit" (also called "The Clan") played a series of long remembered live shows at night. He was a larger than life entertainer who mixed and mingled with everyone from presidents to mobsters and everyone in between. In the end he wanted to be remembered simply as an "Interpreter of songs."
Frank Sinatra died in 1998.
When I heard in the early 1990s that Sinatra was recording new material for a "Duets" CD and releasing it on Capitol Record (my then employer) I made it my mission to meet Frank Sinatra. After meeting Sammy David Jr. just four years previous I was hell bent on meeting all the members of The Rat Pack. And as you can see in the book. I did. Except Peter Lawford, who sadly died when I was in high school, long before I was hip to the hippest gang on Earth. But getting to Sinatra proved to be no easy task.
I was very close several times in 1993 once the "Duets" Cd came out. If close meant being 100 feet away blocked by a wall of tough guys. He was untouchable. Three events (including a memorial for Jilly Rizzo) Three tries. Three fails. Everyone I knew was hip to the fact that Sinatra was number one on my "Photo Op Wish List." Then out of the blue in April of 1994 one of my co-workers at Capitol, Mr. Francis Murray said, "I think I have your in to meet Sinatra.. My cousin Jay is the entertainment director at The Sands in Atlantic City. If you're willing to go to A.C. he can set it up." Willing to go to A.C.? I would have driven to the end of the earth to meet the man.
"Just wait here." We stood nervously in the deserted part of backstage. In the distance I could hear "Doobie Dobbie Doo." Then the sound of someone clearing his throat. Doing vocal warm up exercises. "I lost you to the summer wind.." At first I thought someone was playing a prank. Maybe Phil Hartman was actually playing. If this was a joke I would be crushed. And then I saw a large group of men making their way down the hall towards us. There in the middle was Frank Sinatra. His white hair shining. His blue eyes like beacons. Even from a hundred feet away I could see those eyes. "Where the hell we going now?" He asked in his trademark voice. Jay from The Sands guided him towards us. "This is Keith from Capitol records and his girl. Sinatra shook our hands. "Hello Chickee. Hello Baby." I wasn't sure which of us was "Chickee" and which was "Baby." "Let's take a picture." As with every photo op we flanked the celebrity, one on the left. The other on the right. The photographer lined up the shot and Sinatra yelled. "Wait!" Wait? wait, what? Did we do something to offend him? My heart dropped.
Then Sinatra stepped out from between us and said to me, "I Gotta Be Next To The Chick...Else It Wouldn't Look Right." With that, Sinatra slid my girlfriend into the middle of the two of us. Created a wedge between himself and I. He then looked directly at the photograph "Shoot Baby!" Two flashes of light and then Sinatra turned to his group of guys all named Tony. "What's next?" He asked as they ushered the Chairman Of The Board down the hall toward the stage just as the comic finished his set. I stood there backstage at The Sands in a daze. Did that really just happen? Did I just meet Francis Albert Sinatra. I don't remember much more of the night. I'm not even sure if we saw the show. Don't think we did. I did have the wits to ask our host and the photographer to please save the negative and send it to me as well. A week later, in the mail, the photo and negative arrived. It was only then I said, "Holy crap. I met Frank Sinatra."
In 1995 that girlfriend became my first wife, then my first ex-wife. In 1998 I found the love of my life, the mother of my children, my second (and final) wife Marivi. As we started a new life in Los Angeles she let me know she was always bugged by the fact that the face on my ex wife was on my "Wall Of Fame" staring down at us. She asked me to please have the photo "Fixed." Now mind you this is back when Photo Shop was a high end program only used by photographers and publishing professionals. I had to search someone out in Los Angeles to edit the picture. Nowadays I can edit and fix anything on my pictures in photo shop (no need for acne or bad hair days) myself but back then it cost $165.00. "Well worth it." Said my wife. Even today.
Sinatra was part of the "Rat Pack,"(named by Lauren Bacall) a legendary group of like minded singer and actors that included Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Joey Bishop and Peter Lawford. While filming the original "Oceans Eleven" during the day in Las Vegas the group billing themselves as "The Summit" (also called "The Clan") played a series of long remembered live shows at night. He was a larger than life entertainer who mixed and mingled with everyone from presidents to mobsters and everyone in between. In the end he wanted to be remembered simply as an "Interpreter of songs."
Frank Sinatra died in 1998.
When I heard in the early 1990s that Sinatra was recording new material for a "Duets" CD and releasing it on Capitol Record (my then employer) I made it my mission to meet Frank Sinatra. After meeting Sammy David Jr. just four years previous I was hell bent on meeting all the members of The Rat Pack. And as you can see in the book. I did. Except Peter Lawford, who sadly died when I was in high school, long before I was hip to the hippest gang on Earth. But getting to Sinatra proved to be no easy task.
I was very close several times in 1993 once the "Duets" Cd came out. If close meant being 100 feet away blocked by a wall of tough guys. He was untouchable. Three events (including a memorial for Jilly Rizzo) Three tries. Three fails. Everyone I knew was hip to the fact that Sinatra was number one on my "Photo Op Wish List." Then out of the blue in April of 1994 one of my co-workers at Capitol, Mr. Francis Murray said, "I think I have your in to meet Sinatra.. My cousin Jay is the entertainment director at The Sands in Atlantic City. If you're willing to go to A.C. he can set it up." Willing to go to A.C.? I would have driven to the end of the earth to meet the man.
"Just wait here." We stood nervously in the deserted part of backstage. In the distance I could hear "Doobie Dobbie Doo." Then the sound of someone clearing his throat. Doing vocal warm up exercises. "I lost you to the summer wind.." At first I thought someone was playing a prank. Maybe Phil Hartman was actually playing. If this was a joke I would be crushed. And then I saw a large group of men making their way down the hall towards us. There in the middle was Frank Sinatra. His white hair shining. His blue eyes like beacons. Even from a hundred feet away I could see those eyes. "Where the hell we going now?" He asked in his trademark voice. Jay from The Sands guided him towards us. "This is Keith from Capitol records and his girl. Sinatra shook our hands. "Hello Chickee. Hello Baby." I wasn't sure which of us was "Chickee" and which was "Baby." "Let's take a picture." As with every photo op we flanked the celebrity, one on the left. The other on the right. The photographer lined up the shot and Sinatra yelled. "Wait!" Wait? wait, what? Did we do something to offend him? My heart dropped.
Then Sinatra stepped out from between us and said to me, "I Gotta Be Next To The Chick...Else It Wouldn't Look Right." With that, Sinatra slid my girlfriend into the middle of the two of us. Created a wedge between himself and I. He then looked directly at the photograph "Shoot Baby!" Two flashes of light and then Sinatra turned to his group of guys all named Tony. "What's next?" He asked as they ushered the Chairman Of The Board down the hall toward the stage just as the comic finished his set. I stood there backstage at The Sands in a daze. Did that really just happen? Did I just meet Francis Albert Sinatra. I don't remember much more of the night. I'm not even sure if we saw the show. Don't think we did. I did have the wits to ask our host and the photographer to please save the negative and send it to me as well. A week later, in the mail, the photo and negative arrived. It was only then I said, "Holy crap. I met Frank Sinatra."
In 1995 that girlfriend became my first wife, then my first ex-wife. In 1998 I found the love of my life, the mother of my children, my second (and final) wife Marivi. As we started a new life in Los Angeles she let me know she was always bugged by the fact that the face on my ex wife was on my "Wall Of Fame" staring down at us. She asked me to please have the photo "Fixed." Now mind you this is back when Photo Shop was a high end program only used by photographers and publishing professionals. I had to search someone out in Los Angeles to edit the picture. Nowadays I can edit and fix anything on my pictures in photo shop (no need for acne or bad hair days) myself but back then it cost $165.00. "Well worth it." Said my wife. Even today.
"An Unlikely Hustler" Chapter 2 . Written 12/11/13
“Only The Beginning”
My attitude was simple. Approach the job like a mercenary. Go in, take their money, get out. Only stay as long as I could stomach it. If I make it a week, I make this amount of money. A month. This much. A year. Oh, I won't be here a year. My acting career will blow up by then and this will just be a funny footnote in my history that I could tell on Letterman when I'm really famous. Plus it will be great for material for my stand up act. This should be a funny place to work. Gotta be a funny place to work. Right? Just don't let any of the other parents at my kid's Catholic School know. That was what I thought as I pulled into the ominous, "Death Star" looking building in Beverly Hills for my first day.
This was officially my fourth time in the structure. I had come in three times before to interview for the job of “Bits & Pieces” Editor. To those unfamiliar with Hustler, or those who subscribe and never noticed there is something other than naked ladies in it, “Bits & Pieces” is a four page comedy section at the front of the magazine comprised of 2-3 paragraph stories/skits complete with images. I say comedy in the loosest interpretation.
Before I started the job the section consisted mainly of tampon and dick jokes. Not always together. They sat alongside monthly features that asked “What would random celeb look like with a dick in their mouth?” of “What would this hot chick look like with a (insert large item here) in her ass?” Each complete with photo shopped images to illustrate the point. These laugh out loud (No) items sat alongside some of the most offensive cartoons ever drawn.
After a rigorous briefing from the HR department by a woman that I'm pretty sure was actually a robot, I was then escorted down several floors to where Hustler was made. The change in appearance between the top floor, which was full of art and gaudy furniture to the actual work space was drastic. It was like going from a French whorehouse or a high end art gallery owned by hillbillies to a closed down Midwestern insurance company days from being closed down. This was all in a matter of 7 floors. Upstairs the carpets were lush. Downstairs they were covered with unidentifiable stains. Like those seen at a crime scene.
On the dingy 3rd floor I was introduced to the Office Manager who would show me to my new digs. This woman, I think she was a woman, (sure she wasn't a robot) was a bridge troll in a ill fitting, off the rack at Marshall’s business suit. Her voice deep and smoky reminiscent of Brenda Vacaro only with serious chest cold and a touch of advanced throat cancer. He skin was ashen gray and on her head she wore a greasy germ curl style wig that when the light hit it looked like motor oil soaked macrame. It made Ice Cube's N.W.A. era hairdo look good.
She gave me the run down on hours, keys and office supplies. “If you need a pen or something best to rummage through the drawers of a desk in an empty office. If that doesn't work and you need it we can get you one from office supplies.” No joke. She also told me that the windows in my office would leak when it rained. “If that happens move your computer away from the window and call me for some paper towels.” She hastily added “Oh and there are ants...” She then unlocked my private office with a view. As the door swung wide I didn't see your average work space. Instead I saw what looked like the set of a Quentin Tarrantino film.
The place was trashed. Two large metal file cabinets were turned on their side will the contents spilled all over the room. Piles of old film negatives were covering the entire room. The desk had all it's drawers ripped out of it. On the desk I saw what appeared to be a used condom tied off. I stood there frozen not knowing what to say. What the hell had I gotten myself into?! Was this really my new office. It has to be some sort of porno magazine hazing joke. Without flinching, the unfazed office manager glanced at the the ravaged pile that may have been an office at one point and handed me the keys. “Well good luck.” was all she said as turned and walked away. From down the hall she called back, “I'll have someone get you paper towels.”
I stood there frozen. “Run Like Hell” from Pink Floyd played in my head. Never one to quit, I took a deep breath (bad idea) and slowly started to dig. What I thought was a used condom was indeed a used condom. I actually found two used condoms, tied in a knots to prevent the contents from leaking. Considerate. Along with a bullet. Several empty prescription bottles for both anti depressant and anti anxiety medicines. I half eaten sandwich (ham and cheese I think) covered in mold and bugs. There were the ants I'd heard about! White powder in Ziploc bags that could have either been cocaine, baby powder or anthrax. Piles (literally hundreds of vintage (pre-1970) black and white porn photos, a file marked “What Would This Honey Look Like With A ______ In Her Ass” and a box of sex toys marked “Gently used.” Guess the guy I replaced left in a hurry.
Why didn't I just drop the keys in a trash can and run? I don't know. It's what a sane man would do. Maybe because I couldn't find a trash can in all that rubble. The whole place was a trash can. Maybe I needed the money? In the years to follow I would learn that 90 percent of adult entertainers end up in it because they have no other way to make money. And unemployed actors are the second biggest whores you'll ever meet. Or maybe I wanted to see what would happen next? Still hoping to find comedy material in all this. Who would work here? Years later when trying to find my replacement I would train no less than seven people who would all either quit or be let go within 1 week of taking the gig. One guy lasted a day and a half. Two others accepted the job but then never showed up on their appointed starting date.
But I soldered on. Started cleaning and straightening up the place. Three days, a box of rubber gloves and several gallons of hand sanitizer later I was able to transform this office that looked like a hurricane ravaged sex shop into what would become my cozy work space for the next six plus years.
My attitude was simple. Approach the job like a mercenary. Go in, take their money, get out. Only stay as long as I could stomach it. If I make it a week, I make this amount of money. A month. This much. A year. Oh, I won't be here a year. My acting career will blow up by then and this will just be a funny footnote in my history that I could tell on Letterman when I'm really famous. Plus it will be great for material for my stand up act. This should be a funny place to work. Gotta be a funny place to work. Right? Just don't let any of the other parents at my kid's Catholic School know. That was what I thought as I pulled into the ominous, "Death Star" looking building in Beverly Hills for my first day.
This was officially my fourth time in the structure. I had come in three times before to interview for the job of “Bits & Pieces” Editor. To those unfamiliar with Hustler, or those who subscribe and never noticed there is something other than naked ladies in it, “Bits & Pieces” is a four page comedy section at the front of the magazine comprised of 2-3 paragraph stories/skits complete with images. I say comedy in the loosest interpretation.
Before I started the job the section consisted mainly of tampon and dick jokes. Not always together. They sat alongside monthly features that asked “What would random celeb look like with a dick in their mouth?” of “What would this hot chick look like with a (insert large item here) in her ass?” Each complete with photo shopped images to illustrate the point. These laugh out loud (No) items sat alongside some of the most offensive cartoons ever drawn.
After a rigorous briefing from the HR department by a woman that I'm pretty sure was actually a robot, I was then escorted down several floors to where Hustler was made. The change in appearance between the top floor, which was full of art and gaudy furniture to the actual work space was drastic. It was like going from a French whorehouse or a high end art gallery owned by hillbillies to a closed down Midwestern insurance company days from being closed down. This was all in a matter of 7 floors. Upstairs the carpets were lush. Downstairs they were covered with unidentifiable stains. Like those seen at a crime scene.
On the dingy 3rd floor I was introduced to the Office Manager who would show me to my new digs. This woman, I think she was a woman, (sure she wasn't a robot) was a bridge troll in a ill fitting, off the rack at Marshall’s business suit. Her voice deep and smoky reminiscent of Brenda Vacaro only with serious chest cold and a touch of advanced throat cancer. He skin was ashen gray and on her head she wore a greasy germ curl style wig that when the light hit it looked like motor oil soaked macrame. It made Ice Cube's N.W.A. era hairdo look good.
She gave me the run down on hours, keys and office supplies. “If you need a pen or something best to rummage through the drawers of a desk in an empty office. If that doesn't work and you need it we can get you one from office supplies.” No joke. She also told me that the windows in my office would leak when it rained. “If that happens move your computer away from the window and call me for some paper towels.” She hastily added “Oh and there are ants...” She then unlocked my private office with a view. As the door swung wide I didn't see your average work space. Instead I saw what looked like the set of a Quentin Tarrantino film.
The place was trashed. Two large metal file cabinets were turned on their side will the contents spilled all over the room. Piles of old film negatives were covering the entire room. The desk had all it's drawers ripped out of it. On the desk I saw what appeared to be a used condom tied off. I stood there frozen not knowing what to say. What the hell had I gotten myself into?! Was this really my new office. It has to be some sort of porno magazine hazing joke. Without flinching, the unfazed office manager glanced at the the ravaged pile that may have been an office at one point and handed me the keys. “Well good luck.” was all she said as turned and walked away. From down the hall she called back, “I'll have someone get you paper towels.”
I stood there frozen. “Run Like Hell” from Pink Floyd played in my head. Never one to quit, I took a deep breath (bad idea) and slowly started to dig. What I thought was a used condom was indeed a used condom. I actually found two used condoms, tied in a knots to prevent the contents from leaking. Considerate. Along with a bullet. Several empty prescription bottles for both anti depressant and anti anxiety medicines. I half eaten sandwich (ham and cheese I think) covered in mold and bugs. There were the ants I'd heard about! White powder in Ziploc bags that could have either been cocaine, baby powder or anthrax. Piles (literally hundreds of vintage (pre-1970) black and white porn photos, a file marked “What Would This Honey Look Like With A ______ In Her Ass” and a box of sex toys marked “Gently used.” Guess the guy I replaced left in a hurry.
Why didn't I just drop the keys in a trash can and run? I don't know. It's what a sane man would do. Maybe because I couldn't find a trash can in all that rubble. The whole place was a trash can. Maybe I needed the money? In the years to follow I would learn that 90 percent of adult entertainers end up in it because they have no other way to make money. And unemployed actors are the second biggest whores you'll ever meet. Or maybe I wanted to see what would happen next? Still hoping to find comedy material in all this. Who would work here? Years later when trying to find my replacement I would train no less than seven people who would all either quit or be let go within 1 week of taking the gig. One guy lasted a day and a half. Two others accepted the job but then never showed up on their appointed starting date.
But I soldered on. Started cleaning and straightening up the place. Three days, a box of rubber gloves and several gallons of hand sanitizer later I was able to transform this office that looked like a hurricane ravaged sex shop into what would become my cozy work space for the next six plus years.
Every Picture Tells A Story: Anna Nicole Smith. Written 12/10/13
Anna Nicole Smith (born Vickie Lynn Hogan) was a stunning southern beauty who came to prominence as a model, pin up and TV star. Her breakthrough came in the early 1990s when she was the face of Guess Jeans. She became a playboy playmate in 1992 and "Playmate Of The Year" in 1994. That same year, at age 26, she shocked the world by marrying Texas millionaire tycoon J Howard Marshall the 2nd, who was 63 years older than her (age 89.) Later in life she would sue to get money she claimed Marshall had promised her. The case went all the way to the Supreme Court. In 2002 a now bloated and seemingly drugged up Anna Nicole starred in her own reality show "The Anna Nicole Show" which ran for two years. Afterwords she starred in a few forgettable movies, eventually becoming the spokesperson for a diet drug which seemed to work. In 2007 Nicole gave birth to her second child, a daughter while in the Bahamas. While this should have been a time of joy for the beauty, things turned tragic just three days later when her first born, a 20 year old son, died of a drug overdose. Sadly, in 2007, she was found dead at Seminole Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Hollywood, Florida. The victim of a a drug overdose of prescription pills. Anna Nicole Smith was just 39.
But years before Anna Nicole Smith became a household name, tabloid fodder, a bloated joke and a another tragic blonde (gone too soon) we met at a hip and cool club in New York City. The Year was 1991, I had recently relocated from Boston to New York city (Okay Hackensack, New Jersey) and was having the time of my life working for Capitol-Emi Records. And buying lots and lots of shiny vests. Hey, I though they looked good. So wrong. So very very wrong.
My days were filled with the best job I ever had, marketing music to people. And the nights? Adventure after adventure. Rock and roll shows. Dinners with stars. And celebrity packed parties. Nice work if you can get it. And I did. One night while "Working" I found myself at Club USA in Manhattan at a party for smelly rocker Lenny Kravitz (it's called soap Lenny.) The club had one very unique feature--a giant kids slide that allowed you to go from the balcony party room right down to the dance floor. Needless to say after getting my photo taken with Lenny, and introducing him to all my accounts, it was time to slide and slide the night away. On my 5th trip down I bumped into I bumped into an old college friend Jamie Askin who was running a party on the lower level.
"What are you doing here?" I asked. "Some event for Guess Jeans. Hey, do you wanna meet "Chesty Besty" Jaime asked? "Who's that?" I asked. "I don't know, some blonde Guess Jeans girl with big boobs! Come take a picture!" Jaime said dragging my to the center of her party. Sure. Why not. I like having my picture taken. And, honestly, I like boobs. And there she was, a blonde vision with a million dollar smile. And boobs. Really big boobs. She was truly beautiful and her smile was mesmerizing. "Anna, this is Keith Valcourt from Capitol Records. Let's get a picture of you two." In her sweet as pie southern drawl she cooed, "Sure. I like him." 2 shots were taken then Anna asked, "So what are you doing here?" Ever the goofball I replied, "I'm just here to ride the slide." "I'd like to ride it but they won't let me." pouted Anna. "Really? Come on I'll take you. We're having a party for Lenny Kravitz upstairs. You can meet him and then slide down." "Okay!" she said grasping my arm. But just as we tried to make our way to the stairs that led to the balcony a pair of burly men, who appeared to have left their necks at the club's coat check, stepped in. Thinking they must just be club security and confused I said, "It's okay guys I'm Keith from Capitol Records. We're going to the Lenny Kravitz Party."
"You may be but she ain't. Anna, you gotta stay here." Said the wall of muscle as he not so gently pulled Anna back toward the fray. "I just wanna go upstairs and slide. Please?" I remember how she asked sounding like a sad little girl. How she Looked like a prisoner. "No. Let's go." said Rocco. Or Tony. "Sorry Keith. Next time?" Anna Nicole Smith chirped sadly, lightly kissing my cheek, as she was dragged off into the night. Of course, there would be no next time. Within less than 4 year's time the adorable blonde once only known as "Chesty Besty" became a star. First with Guess Jeans, then Playboy, then as the bloated star of her own reality show. In less than a decade she would go from that sweet vision I met to a memory. She had been run though the Hollywood machine. Used by those who were supposed to protect her. Then thrown away. Gone forever. This photo reminds me that show business is a motherfucker. It can and will kill you. Be careful who you surround yourself with.
R.I.P. Anna. Hope there's a slide in heaven.
But years before Anna Nicole Smith became a household name, tabloid fodder, a bloated joke and a another tragic blonde (gone too soon) we met at a hip and cool club in New York City. The Year was 1991, I had recently relocated from Boston to New York city (Okay Hackensack, New Jersey) and was having the time of my life working for Capitol-Emi Records. And buying lots and lots of shiny vests. Hey, I though they looked good. So wrong. So very very wrong.
My days were filled with the best job I ever had, marketing music to people. And the nights? Adventure after adventure. Rock and roll shows. Dinners with stars. And celebrity packed parties. Nice work if you can get it. And I did. One night while "Working" I found myself at Club USA in Manhattan at a party for smelly rocker Lenny Kravitz (it's called soap Lenny.) The club had one very unique feature--a giant kids slide that allowed you to go from the balcony party room right down to the dance floor. Needless to say after getting my photo taken with Lenny, and introducing him to all my accounts, it was time to slide and slide the night away. On my 5th trip down I bumped into I bumped into an old college friend Jamie Askin who was running a party on the lower level.
"What are you doing here?" I asked. "Some event for Guess Jeans. Hey, do you wanna meet "Chesty Besty" Jaime asked? "Who's that?" I asked. "I don't know, some blonde Guess Jeans girl with big boobs! Come take a picture!" Jaime said dragging my to the center of her party. Sure. Why not. I like having my picture taken. And, honestly, I like boobs. And there she was, a blonde vision with a million dollar smile. And boobs. Really big boobs. She was truly beautiful and her smile was mesmerizing. "Anna, this is Keith Valcourt from Capitol Records. Let's get a picture of you two." In her sweet as pie southern drawl she cooed, "Sure. I like him." 2 shots were taken then Anna asked, "So what are you doing here?" Ever the goofball I replied, "I'm just here to ride the slide." "I'd like to ride it but they won't let me." pouted Anna. "Really? Come on I'll take you. We're having a party for Lenny Kravitz upstairs. You can meet him and then slide down." "Okay!" she said grasping my arm. But just as we tried to make our way to the stairs that led to the balcony a pair of burly men, who appeared to have left their necks at the club's coat check, stepped in. Thinking they must just be club security and confused I said, "It's okay guys I'm Keith from Capitol Records. We're going to the Lenny Kravitz Party."
"You may be but she ain't. Anna, you gotta stay here." Said the wall of muscle as he not so gently pulled Anna back toward the fray. "I just wanna go upstairs and slide. Please?" I remember how she asked sounding like a sad little girl. How she Looked like a prisoner. "No. Let's go." said Rocco. Or Tony. "Sorry Keith. Next time?" Anna Nicole Smith chirped sadly, lightly kissing my cheek, as she was dragged off into the night. Of course, there would be no next time. Within less than 4 year's time the adorable blonde once only known as "Chesty Besty" became a star. First with Guess Jeans, then Playboy, then as the bloated star of her own reality show. In less than a decade she would go from that sweet vision I met to a memory. She had been run though the Hollywood machine. Used by those who were supposed to protect her. Then thrown away. Gone forever. This photo reminds me that show business is a motherfucker. It can and will kill you. Be careful who you surround yourself with.
R.I.P. Anna. Hope there's a slide in heaven.
An Unlikely Hustler: Chapter One Written 12/9/13
- “Don't Let Start”
As part of the honor I was interviewed by the company newsletter “The LFP (Larry Flynt Publishing) Insider.” A poorly assembled black and white photo copied 4 page rag. Spell check was never used to proof the Insider (which seemed odd for a publishing company.) The interview focused on my life history, miss-spelling my previous employer as Capital Records (It's Capitol), and my emotions surrounding this rare occasion. My main quote was: “Never in a million years would I have dreamed I would have this job.” Now to those who believed I had the greatest job in the world that is how it read. Inflection doesn't often jump off the written page. The truth of the statement was this. “Never in a million years did I dream I'd have THIS job.” I was living the dream. Not my dream.
My dream was to be a sitcom actor. That's why this catholic boy from a small town in Rhode Island moved to Los Angeles in the first place. But like so many small town folks who come to Hollywood to be a star I ended up meeting the wrong people. And was now in porn. An employee of Hustler Magazine. Not just an employee but I was employee of the month! But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Every story has a beginning. So in the words of the poet David Byrne: “You may say to yourself, well how did I get here?” There are two stories I tell about how I came to be Hustler Magazine's Bits & Pieces (AKA comedy, lifestyle and arts )Editor. The Hollywood version goes like this:
I was performing on stage in the front room of the world famous Sunset Strip stand up club the Comedy Store one Sunday night. Just killing in front of a packed house. Hundreds of adoring fans were there hanging off my every joke. Laughing until tears, sometime of blood, ran down their faces. I told you I was killing. Okay so maybe it was a Sunday open mic night and I got on stage because my number got randomly picked out of a bucket. And maybe the audience was made up of dozens of with German Tourists who got in for free and may have thought I was Jay Leno (or Richard Benjamin.) The way I remember it I was doing well. Even the normally jealous other wanna be joke machines at the back of the room who were waiting for their turns to shine were eating up all my well tread material. I did the bit about “Love Handles” and how nobody loved them. Then my routine about my mom wanting me to be more like my brother, who as it turned out works in gay porn. For the record neither of my brothers do gay porn-- Professionally. Closing with my “All You Can Eat Buffet” montage. They loved me! Best three minutes of my life up to that point.
Backstage after the show in my lavish dressing room, which is just the hall by the bathroom, I greeted a swarm of well wishers. Among them a sweaty, smarmy looking guy with a lopsided goatee who approached me as if I owed him money. I could smell the second hand smoke seeping out of the top of his balding head from 3 feet away. As he pressed himself way too close to me, he was in my hula hoop (a three foot perimeter of personal space I like to keep everyone except my wife and kids out of.) He said in a gruff throat cancer coated voice “You were really funny.”
Coming from this guy who looked to be a mix of date rapist and used car salesman (Pintos mostly) the praise sounded less like a compliment and more like a threat. “Thanks” I replied as he pressed closer. “No. You were REALLY FUNNY.” His eyes narrowing as he fumbled inside his jacket for something. Okay, I thought. How did I piss this guy off? I have been know to do this onstage. Like the beach gig where I called Sweatpants the “Lowest rung on the evolutionary ladder of pants” in front of a crowd of sweatpants wearing locals. Thank god I could run faster than the fatties.
This guy was on me. I wouldn't shake him. Again I said, “Thanks” adding “It was a good crowd.” Trying to make for the exit. But even that didn't placate the aggressive dude. “Listen I have to go now but thanks...” I tried to escape when the freaky fan grabbed my arm with one hand while pulling something from the deepest recesses of his his tattered suit jacket. Oh my God! I thought. He's pulling out his gun! He's going to kill me!
Thankfully instead of a black market handgun aimed at my throat, he thrust a crumpled business card into my sweaty palm. On first look it was hard to read in the dim light but as I focused on it it feature one giant word bold and three times the size any other print on the card all in bold in a deep pink font. The word was HUSTLER. Hustler? It looked like one of those fake novelty cards I used to buy at Spencer Gifts in the 1970s. Like the one that read F.B.I.-Female Body Inspector. Hustler? Really? I actually asked, “Is this a joke card?” That did not go over so well with my aggressive visitor. My new pal growled pinning me against the wall. “No!” hen he asked a question that would forever change my life. “Do you wanna write comedy for Larry Flynt?”
Larry Flynt? The famous porno guy? The man in the gold wheel chair who made a fortune in publishing by showing us the inside workings of a woman's vagina? The first amendment crusader who was expertly played by Woody Harrelson in the feature film “The People Vs Larry Flynt.” Although I hadn't seen his magazine in decade I was familiar with it. As a younger man who had yet to discover the pleasures of a real woman I knew his work very well.
At age 13 or 14 Hustler offered me my first glimpse at a naked woman. Not just naked but REALLY NAKED. I found a copy of his magazine in a rain puddle one Saturday morning at the drive in movie theater across from my grandparents house. In the 1970's before recycling became required, my grandfather and I would pick up tin cans there and sell them for scrap every weekend. As I plucked the drenched and tattered publication from it's watery grave I marveled at the graphic nature of the photography. I had seen a Playboy but this was different, What was that between the woman’s legs? It was very pink. And sweaty. It was a life changing experience for a young man just entering puberty. But my time with this new found treasure was cut short.
Moments after finding my first Hustler my grandfather snatched it away yelling, “You're too young to look at those types of ladies!” Types? What types? Naked? Ladies with giant fake nails wearing knee socks? Ladies lying naked outside by swimming pools and old cars in broad daylight? I may have been too young but grandpa wasn't. Several months later I re-discovered my treasure in his tool shed. Grandpa has lovingly dried the issue and stashed it in a private drawer. On my second encounter I realized this was something special and quickly stole it from my grand dad and stashed it in my home. As time went on I saw many more issues. In a way the images within helped me become a man. They made profound impression. But that was decades ago.
As I stood backstage daydreaming of my youth My aggressive new friend, , who's name I found out was Mark Cromer, asked me again? “So you wanna write comedy for Larry Flynt or not!?” What the hell could that possibly mean? I answered in a shaky and uncertain voice. “Um...Sure.”
As a reader living outside of Hollywood (Or "Show Business") you may or may not know that all actors, writers and people in show business in general are whores. I don't mean in the sexual sense. But when it comes to work we are pretty much willing to damn near anything to “Make it.” The answer is always yes. Because it's always easy to say no when you show up and see the goat and giant jar of Vaseline. But did I, a small time wanna be actor and comic. A guy who had never been inside a strip club wanna work for the world's most notorious pornographer? Me? Really? “Um, sure.”
I really have never been to a strip club and only see 1 porno movie in a theater. Not even the whole movie. Most people don't get to the credits. My high school buddies and I got thrown out for laughing to hard not wrestling our Pee Wee Hermans.
Now the real story is less interesting. There was the above mentioned guy. His name was Mark Cromer and he was the Features Editor at Hustler. And yes, he was every bit as charming and lovely as I described. He did come see me perform at The Comedy Store where he did ask if I wanted the gig, but that was not our first meeting. Months before, during an audition for an add I answered in Backstage West looking for a “Sarcastic comedian to host a Howard Stern-esk project” Mark and I first shook hands. That led to me starring in an epic “Comedy Video” about titled “A Foul Wind.” Again, actors are whores. Hat and my daughter had just been born so I needed the money. The straight to video production should not be confused with the Christopher Guest film “A Mighty Wind” that came out around the same time, “A Foul Wind” was a moronic ode to flatulence complete with topless ladies, men in ski masks and Ron Jeremy at an all you can eat buffet. Please don't try to find a copy.
During the third day or so of production I discovered Mark and his producer partner were associated with the porn business. A multi-million dollar sex based industry that I knew very little about. Sure I had seen a few adult videos in my life. Hell, I already told you how in the mid 1980s some high school buds and I snuck into a porno movie theater in Fall River, Mass (Cinema One) but porn was not my thing.
That became very apparent to the crew on the third day of shooting when a bubble headed blonde names Katie Jordan came in to be part of the interview segment of “A Foul Wind.” As she started to get naked and ramble on about how her husband didn't mind her boyfriend I sat there confused. Then Mark jokes that I was there for her “Facial.” Try to be funny I joked, “Yes and I do nails too.” Everyone in the room looked at me like I had sprouted a third nipple in the center of my forehead. Mark scowled, “You know what a facial is right?” He was of course referring to the sex act “The facial” where a man finishes on a woman's face. I just mumbled, “Um...Sure.” Welcome to porn.
Almost a year after making the video I had been going from canceled sitcom to canceled sitcom working as a stand in and bit part actor. If you didn't catch my performances as “Photographer #1” on “Bob Patterson” or “Mel” on “The Fighting Fitzgeralds” you really missed out. One day out of nowhere Mark Cromer popped up at the Comedy Store. At first I thought “Oh no. He's here. They must be doing a sequel to “A Foul Wind!” But instead he came to offer me “The opportunity of a lifetime.” His words. Not mine.
You can see why I exaggerated the Hollywood version of the story. Because as I was about to learn, when it comes to everything associated with Hustler Magazine and the adult industry, fantasy is far better than the truth.
Every Picture Tells A Story: Little Richard. Written 12/6/13
Little Richard invented Rock & Roll. Or not. Depends on who you ask. If you ask him, he did. The musical innovator is best known for his flamboyant over the top fashion, live performances , larger than life personality and crazy piano playing. His most famous songs include "Tutti Frutti" and "Good Golly Miss Molly." At the time this was written Little Richard had just celebrated his 81rst birthday.
"I'm too beautiful to take any more pictures!!" And just like that Little Richard dashed out of his Westbury Music Fair dressing room, running down the hall past the line of us waiting (for over an hour) to meet him. a line which included Bob Costas and the guy who played the painter on "Murphy Brown" (R.I.P. Robert Pastorelli) and me. Richard screamed his trademark "Whooo..." as his sequin covered self disappeared out the back door into the Long Island night. That was it. It was over. No Little Richard photo op for me. Or so I thought. 3 months later I learned Richard was going to play the Warwick Musical Theater in Warwick, Rhode Island. A second shot I thought. But this time--I had a plan. Make sure I was within the first 3 people in line to meet him after the show. But first I had to get through the show. A carbon copy of a show I had seen just 90 days earlier. With one painful difference. A country song. I don't remember the name of it. I do remember Little Richard loved it.
"What a beautiful song. Let's play it again." And he did. Again. And again. And Again. He played the same damn country song four times in a row. It was an unbearable "Groundhog Day" moment. He would have played it a 5th time if the audience hadn't screamed a collective "NO!!" when Little Richard asked "Wanna hear it again." Thankfully he finally moved on after throwing in his trademark "Shut Up!" After the show we lined up, making sure I was third in line and waited. And waited. We were informed by one of his people that "Richard just needs to take a shower and change then he will be ready to meet everyone." So we waited some more. Finally, after nearly an hour, the dressing room door flung open and Richard emerged yelling.. "I'm ready!! Whoooo." But the weird thing was he didn't look freshly showered. As a matter of fact he was sweaty and still dressed in the exact same outfit he had worn on stage. As to what he had done for the past hour while we waited? That remains a mystery. I could tell by the pained expression on the faces of my friends, the theater staffer that things were off.
Showtime. Group one. Boom. Meet. Greet. Photo. Out. Group two. Same. Here we go. Group 3. As my friend Howard Leon and I moved in for our photo op Richard shouted "I'm too beautiful for any more pictures." "Oh no you don't!" I thought. I wrapped my arm around Little Richard and held him with all my might. Like a rodeo cowboy trying the beat the best time on a bucking bronco I would not let go. "Just one more Richard. One more." He looked at me, plastered on a smile and the flashes went off. "That's it. I'm Too Beautiful!! Whoooo.." And he was off. Pushing his way past the other waiting VIPS out the door, down the ramp of the star trailer and into a waiting car. You could hear the tires screech as Little Richard once again vanished into the night. But at least this time, I got the photo op. "Shut up!"
"I'm too beautiful to take any more pictures!!" And just like that Little Richard dashed out of his Westbury Music Fair dressing room, running down the hall past the line of us waiting (for over an hour) to meet him. a line which included Bob Costas and the guy who played the painter on "Murphy Brown" (R.I.P. Robert Pastorelli) and me. Richard screamed his trademark "Whooo..." as his sequin covered self disappeared out the back door into the Long Island night. That was it. It was over. No Little Richard photo op for me. Or so I thought. 3 months later I learned Richard was going to play the Warwick Musical Theater in Warwick, Rhode Island. A second shot I thought. But this time--I had a plan. Make sure I was within the first 3 people in line to meet him after the show. But first I had to get through the show. A carbon copy of a show I had seen just 90 days earlier. With one painful difference. A country song. I don't remember the name of it. I do remember Little Richard loved it.
"What a beautiful song. Let's play it again." And he did. Again. And again. And Again. He played the same damn country song four times in a row. It was an unbearable "Groundhog Day" moment. He would have played it a 5th time if the audience hadn't screamed a collective "NO!!" when Little Richard asked "Wanna hear it again." Thankfully he finally moved on after throwing in his trademark "Shut Up!" After the show we lined up, making sure I was third in line and waited. And waited. We were informed by one of his people that "Richard just needs to take a shower and change then he will be ready to meet everyone." So we waited some more. Finally, after nearly an hour, the dressing room door flung open and Richard emerged yelling.. "I'm ready!! Whoooo." But the weird thing was he didn't look freshly showered. As a matter of fact he was sweaty and still dressed in the exact same outfit he had worn on stage. As to what he had done for the past hour while we waited? That remains a mystery. I could tell by the pained expression on the faces of my friends, the theater staffer that things were off.
Showtime. Group one. Boom. Meet. Greet. Photo. Out. Group two. Same. Here we go. Group 3. As my friend Howard Leon and I moved in for our photo op Richard shouted "I'm too beautiful for any more pictures." "Oh no you don't!" I thought. I wrapped my arm around Little Richard and held him with all my might. Like a rodeo cowboy trying the beat the best time on a bucking bronco I would not let go. "Just one more Richard. One more." He looked at me, plastered on a smile and the flashes went off. "That's it. I'm Too Beautiful!! Whoooo.." And he was off. Pushing his way past the other waiting VIPS out the door, down the ramp of the star trailer and into a waiting car. You could hear the tires screech as Little Richard once again vanished into the night. But at least this time, I got the photo op. "Shut up!"
Every Picture Tells A Story: Eddie Money. Written 12/5/13
Eddie Money is a New York City Police officer turned rock and roll singer. He is best known for a string of massive FM hits including "Two Tickets To Paradise", "Baby Hold On", "Take Me Home Tonight", "I Wanna Go Back", "No Control", "I Think I'm in Love" and "Walk On Water." Money continues to tour around the world and in 2012 he played himself in a Geico Insurance Commercial.
They called it a "Work Study" job. Basically it was a way for the college to get cheap labor to do the jobs no one really wanted to do. My gig at Emerson College for 2 of the four years was as switchboard operator. Why that gig? It allowed me to earn a few bucks, which I think went right to tuition, while perfecting my accent free deep speaking voice. Plus it was located in my dorm. Which provided a close by place for my freshman year girlfriend and I to have sex when our roommates were around. And oasis on the first floor that we later learned was far from soundproof. When not messing around I would field and direct thousands of calls on the board's 50 or so lines. A year into the gig they moved the switchboard into the basement into a tiny corner office just off the dingy mail room. No romance in that dank cellar, but the change in location provided me with a new opportunity.
Jim Hardin, a work study student in the mail room, hipped me to the fact that the college switchboard could be programmed to call the same number over and over again with lightning speed. "So what?" I asked "Good for prank calling someone to death?" Jim just shook his head and said two magic words--"Radio Contests!" He told me I could set up the board to dial into to local stations contest lines and win everything from Lps to t-shirts and concert tickets. I loved music so it took me no time to agree to my new favorite waste of time. I was not allowed to have a radio in my office because I had to hear what people were calling in for. But the mail room had a radio blaring at full blast. Whenever one of the local radio stations, usually the rock station WBCN or alternative station WFNX, announced it was time to call in to win something Jim would scream out "Call..." an then insert the stations call letters.
It worked like a charm. We won everything and anything again and again. Tickets to see a bunch of comics at Symphony Hall. Check. The latest Human League LP. Got it. Free Brueggers Bagels. Yum. The only catch was a person could only win once a month from each station. No problem. I assembled a list of friends names and we would all split the ill gotten gains. On one day, no different from any other Jim yelled out. "Call WBCN... Call BCN!" I pressed the WBCN preset and the 50 lines of the switchboard lit up like a Christmas tree. Each calling in. I heard the DJ as he answered every call.. "You're number 1. Try again." "You're number 7 try again." "You're number 9. Try again." Then, as always, we hit pay dirt. "You're caller number 16. You're The Grand Prize Winner!" the excited DJ yelled. "Great! Um...What did I win?" I honestly had no idea what I was calling in for. "You win 2 tickets and two backstage passes to see Eddie Money at Hampton Beach Casino in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire!!" You could hear the total lack of excitement in my voice. But before I could fully say "Oh.. Um no thanks..." The DJ shouted "Plus you get a limo ride to take you to the show." "Limo ride? Wait did you say Limo Ride?!" I asked suddenly pumped. "Yeah you get to see and meet Eddie Money at Hampton Beach Casino in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire." The DJ prattled on. I interrupted "Wait. Just to be clear.. You said there is a free limo ride involved?" Yes. Yes there was. All due respect to Eddie Money, I just wasn't that big of a fan at the time. I was more into English Punk & New Wave. But a free limo ride?
Three days later my best college pal Chris Stearns and I put on our best rock and roll finery (Yes, I know, blazers? Really?) and jumped into the free limo ride supplied by WBCN. It was long, black and full of booze. On the almost 2 hour drive from the heart of Boston's back bay to New Hampshire we drank out asses off. I remember there was a VCR and we watched something. Maybe Kubrick. I also remember on the way we decided we needed cigarettes. Not that either of smoked wth any kind or regularity. I had pointed out that Eddie Money smoked on the cover of all of his albums. And if we were going to take a picture with him we should be holding a cigarette too.
Once we arrived at Hampton Beach Casino we were treated like royalty. "Oh you're the Grand Prize Winners." "Right this way Grand Prize Winner." We were placed at a table right in front fo the stage and feed more free drinks and some food. After the opening band (who I forget) played we were whisked backstage to meet the man himself--Eddie Money. There he stood. Smoking! Couldn't believe my luck. "Eddie!! Eddie!!" I yelled a drunken mess. "Can I ask you a question?" "Sure." Eddie Money said through tight lips. As wasted as I was I could tell he was pissed. "How come you smoke on every album cover?" I asked. Eddie replied, "I didn't smoke on the new album cover." "Oh. I didn't buy that album. Nobody did." Said the Grand Prize Winner.
Then and there a cheery female publicist stepped in. "Why don't we get a photo?" I struggled to get the yet unopened pack of cigarettes from my inner pocket. "Wait.. Wait. I need a cigarette in the photo." Hence the unlit smoke in the picture. And the angry glare on Money's face. Chris took one with him as well. Then instead of saying "Thank you Mr. Money. It was a honor." The ossified version of young me asked one last question, "Eddie. Eddie! How come you used to play big venues like the Providence Civic Center but now you're playing crappy clubs? What happened Eddie?!"
"Get them out of here!!" Money screamed as we were suddenly whisked out of the backstage area and dumped into the club. Smiles had turned to dirty looks and suddenly the "Grand Prize winners" weren't so welcome anymore. Our stage front seats were now off limits to us. Our free drinks dried up. "Forget this shit." I slurred as we stumbled for the exit, knocking a trash can down a flight of stairs and earning some well deserved looks of disgust as we fled outside and back into our limo. We didn't even see the show. The rest of the night we drove around New Hampshire sticking our hand out the window pretending to be Eddie Money. Guys screamed out "Eddie!" On girl even tried to get in the car. "Oh my God is that Eddie Money? Let me in I'll totally do ya."
The following week WBCN was giving away tickets and passes to see The Cure live. A band I loved in 1988. Maybe Karma was at work that day. Getting back at me for being such a jackass to Eddie Money. Or maybe my fingers were just slow. Sadly, I was only caller 15 and 17 that week. Losing out on being the "Grand Prize Winner" and meeting Robert Smith. That honor would come a decade plus later. It wasn't until my 44th birthday that I finally saw Eddie Money live in concert and damned if he wasn't great.
They called it a "Work Study" job. Basically it was a way for the college to get cheap labor to do the jobs no one really wanted to do. My gig at Emerson College for 2 of the four years was as switchboard operator. Why that gig? It allowed me to earn a few bucks, which I think went right to tuition, while perfecting my accent free deep speaking voice. Plus it was located in my dorm. Which provided a close by place for my freshman year girlfriend and I to have sex when our roommates were around. And oasis on the first floor that we later learned was far from soundproof. When not messing around I would field and direct thousands of calls on the board's 50 or so lines. A year into the gig they moved the switchboard into the basement into a tiny corner office just off the dingy mail room. No romance in that dank cellar, but the change in location provided me with a new opportunity.
Jim Hardin, a work study student in the mail room, hipped me to the fact that the college switchboard could be programmed to call the same number over and over again with lightning speed. "So what?" I asked "Good for prank calling someone to death?" Jim just shook his head and said two magic words--"Radio Contests!" He told me I could set up the board to dial into to local stations contest lines and win everything from Lps to t-shirts and concert tickets. I loved music so it took me no time to agree to my new favorite waste of time. I was not allowed to have a radio in my office because I had to hear what people were calling in for. But the mail room had a radio blaring at full blast. Whenever one of the local radio stations, usually the rock station WBCN or alternative station WFNX, announced it was time to call in to win something Jim would scream out "Call..." an then insert the stations call letters.
It worked like a charm. We won everything and anything again and again. Tickets to see a bunch of comics at Symphony Hall. Check. The latest Human League LP. Got it. Free Brueggers Bagels. Yum. The only catch was a person could only win once a month from each station. No problem. I assembled a list of friends names and we would all split the ill gotten gains. On one day, no different from any other Jim yelled out. "Call WBCN... Call BCN!" I pressed the WBCN preset and the 50 lines of the switchboard lit up like a Christmas tree. Each calling in. I heard the DJ as he answered every call.. "You're number 1. Try again." "You're number 7 try again." "You're number 9. Try again." Then, as always, we hit pay dirt. "You're caller number 16. You're The Grand Prize Winner!" the excited DJ yelled. "Great! Um...What did I win?" I honestly had no idea what I was calling in for. "You win 2 tickets and two backstage passes to see Eddie Money at Hampton Beach Casino in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire!!" You could hear the total lack of excitement in my voice. But before I could fully say "Oh.. Um no thanks..." The DJ shouted "Plus you get a limo ride to take you to the show." "Limo ride? Wait did you say Limo Ride?!" I asked suddenly pumped. "Yeah you get to see and meet Eddie Money at Hampton Beach Casino in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire." The DJ prattled on. I interrupted "Wait. Just to be clear.. You said there is a free limo ride involved?" Yes. Yes there was. All due respect to Eddie Money, I just wasn't that big of a fan at the time. I was more into English Punk & New Wave. But a free limo ride?
Three days later my best college pal Chris Stearns and I put on our best rock and roll finery (Yes, I know, blazers? Really?) and jumped into the free limo ride supplied by WBCN. It was long, black and full of booze. On the almost 2 hour drive from the heart of Boston's back bay to New Hampshire we drank out asses off. I remember there was a VCR and we watched something. Maybe Kubrick. I also remember on the way we decided we needed cigarettes. Not that either of smoked wth any kind or regularity. I had pointed out that Eddie Money smoked on the cover of all of his albums. And if we were going to take a picture with him we should be holding a cigarette too.
Once we arrived at Hampton Beach Casino we were treated like royalty. "Oh you're the Grand Prize Winners." "Right this way Grand Prize Winner." We were placed at a table right in front fo the stage and feed more free drinks and some food. After the opening band (who I forget) played we were whisked backstage to meet the man himself--Eddie Money. There he stood. Smoking! Couldn't believe my luck. "Eddie!! Eddie!!" I yelled a drunken mess. "Can I ask you a question?" "Sure." Eddie Money said through tight lips. As wasted as I was I could tell he was pissed. "How come you smoke on every album cover?" I asked. Eddie replied, "I didn't smoke on the new album cover." "Oh. I didn't buy that album. Nobody did." Said the Grand Prize Winner.
Then and there a cheery female publicist stepped in. "Why don't we get a photo?" I struggled to get the yet unopened pack of cigarettes from my inner pocket. "Wait.. Wait. I need a cigarette in the photo." Hence the unlit smoke in the picture. And the angry glare on Money's face. Chris took one with him as well. Then instead of saying "Thank you Mr. Money. It was a honor." The ossified version of young me asked one last question, "Eddie. Eddie! How come you used to play big venues like the Providence Civic Center but now you're playing crappy clubs? What happened Eddie?!"
"Get them out of here!!" Money screamed as we were suddenly whisked out of the backstage area and dumped into the club. Smiles had turned to dirty looks and suddenly the "Grand Prize winners" weren't so welcome anymore. Our stage front seats were now off limits to us. Our free drinks dried up. "Forget this shit." I slurred as we stumbled for the exit, knocking a trash can down a flight of stairs and earning some well deserved looks of disgust as we fled outside and back into our limo. We didn't even see the show. The rest of the night we drove around New Hampshire sticking our hand out the window pretending to be Eddie Money. Guys screamed out "Eddie!" On girl even tried to get in the car. "Oh my God is that Eddie Money? Let me in I'll totally do ya."
The following week WBCN was giving away tickets and passes to see The Cure live. A band I loved in 1988. Maybe Karma was at work that day. Getting back at me for being such a jackass to Eddie Money. Or maybe my fingers were just slow. Sadly, I was only caller 15 and 17 that week. Losing out on being the "Grand Prize Winner" and meeting Robert Smith. That honor would come a decade plus later. It wasn't until my 44th birthday that I finally saw Eddie Money live in concert and damned if he wasn't great.
"An Unlikely Hustler": Title Page & Intro. Written 12/4/13
Title Page: An Unlikely Hustler
My Time In Larry Flynt's Filth Factory
By Keith Valcourt
Dedication:
To my wife Marivi, who saves my life every day and taught me that quitting doesn't mean losing.
To my children Audrey and Nigel who remind me what matters, inspire me to be better and whom I hope will never read this book.
My parents who taught me I could be anything I wanted. And not be something I didn't want to be.
Doctor Ted Stein who wrote the right prescription.
Finally, to all those who “Got Out.”
Intro: “Everyday I Write The Book”
It was early in January 2012 when I met my friend Victoria Hurley for coffee in Beverly Hills. In the shadow of the Flynt Building. For those unfamiliar with the iconic Death Star like structure at the corner of Wilshire Blvd and La Cienega it is the home to legendary pornographer turned (alleged) first amendment rights crusader Larry Flynt and his flagship publication Hustler Magazine. The futuristic structure also houses Flynt's sister publications “Barely Legal” and “Taboo” as well as his adult video division, clothing & retail outlets, sex toys line and various other ventures. It is epicenter of Flynt's empire. A place I referred to as “The Filth Factory.” A place where unappreciated creative types and broken men toiled away to help make it's pasty owner a rich rich man. A place where dreams come to die and souls come to either be corrupted or crushed into a thin paste suitable for use as a sexual lubricant.
It is also known as my former place of full time employment. A place I entered (often sadly) for six plus years full time and and over 2 years afterwords as a freelance writer. A place that lured you in with the promise of easy money only to drain you of any joy and morals. Cash for soul. Aka the “Adult industry.” Porn's ground zero.
As Victoria and I talked about the common frustrations of working for “The Magazine” over hot caffeinated beverages my friend's mood got unusually serious. “I have to ask you a question,” she said with her green eyes narrowing. “And you don't have to tell me the truth.” Okay. I'm a far too honest person and tend to always tell the truth. I call it lack of a filter. A gift/curse that has provided me with the ability to make many people laugh while also pissing off many more. This lack of tact came in handy during my years as a stand up comic. And served me well in my time at Hustler. “Are you writing a tell all book about working at Hustler Magazine ?!” The question made me genuinely laugh out loud. Seems someone had called the magazine to warn the Flynts about my penning a searing “Tell All.” Victoria who was then working as Larry's personal publicist had received the call. The caller wanted to speak to Mr or Mrs Flynt to warn them about my nefarious novel in progress. Frustrated that they couldn't real Larry directly, the caller spilled the beans to Victoria.
Sorry folks, even though you think of Larry Flynt as a man of the people. There is no way in hell you can just call him up to chat. No matter what inside knowledge you claim to have. The building is barraged on a daily basis with calls from a variety of nut jobs looking to sell Larry a million dollar idea, or “real” naked photos of starlets, or to beg him to help them get out of jail. Or in many cases warn him about some impending doom. In this case a non-existing book from a former employee who left on his own accord to deal with stress related health issues. An ex-staffer who was happily still writing sections for the magazine on a freelance basis every month.
As to who was making the call to warn them of my non-existent writings I had have several theories. It was either a bitter ex employee (two of thousands come to mind specifically) hell bent on revenge. Or it was another former co-worker who had designs on running the place. Plans, that sadly eventually came true and served as the final death nail to me writing anything for Hustler. Or a “Bloated Trekkie” who chose pot over productivity yet still blamed me and others for his firing.
I thought about Victoria's question for a long while. Why would I want to write about the time I spent at Hustler? At the time I was still recovering from the bad experience trying to put as much space between me and the place that had bothered me so much it brought on myriad of health issues to my normally healthy body. What? Really? A book? Why on earth would I do that? The six plus years I worked full time and subsequent 2 years I contributed to the magazine were filled with pain, shame and a whole lot of misadventures. In retrospect many of them were laugh out loud funny. Really funny. I saw and did things that no one would believe outside of a Judd Apatow film. Plus there were the hundreds of interviews I got to do with rock stars, comics, actors, directors and adult industry oddballs that people would love to read. The greats” near great” and “In greats.” But a book? Huh.
Nah, that could never happen. First off Larry Flynt's ego would never allow anyone to pull back the curtain and show the great OZ for what he really is. A broken down man who's sole motivation is money (and pussy.) A detached millionaire who would have never given a shit about freedom of speech if it didn't benefit his bottom line. And if I wrote a book it would be about me and my stories. Not Larry. A man I only met maybe once a month for the sizx years there. If I even thought about setting my stories experiences to the page he would surely sick his stable of over payed lawyers on me or anyone foolish enough to publish them. So a book? It will never happen and the book will never be published. I laughed and told Victoria, “No book from me. That's just crazy.”
But if that is true, “Who are you and why are you reading this?” Wait. Did my kids find my notes and publish this without me knowing? Audrey! Nigel! You better not be going through daddy's stuff! You don't need to know where dad spent most of his days between Jul 26th 2004 and May 17th 2012. All you need to know is a worked in a building. Writing jokes. Okay, sure they were dick jokes. Most in the lowest recesses of bad taste. And there were all those parody ads, But hey the money I made bought you nice stuff and helped you get a good private (Catholic even) education right? Which explains by now you're chosen career paths. By now Audrey you are a best selling author who spends her free time as a supermodel brain surgeon. And Nigel is the star of the hit sitcom “The cutest thing in the world.”
But wait the published year is 2014. Which means my kids are still that, kids. Then how did this tome (a really fancy and pretentious word for book) come to be. Someone else must have written it. Not my wife. She'd just a soon forget all the ramblings and over told stories about my almost 8 years at Hustler. Truth be told her short term memory isn't so good and sometimes she even forgets I worked anywhere. Not her fault. I do spend a lot of time hanging around the house. So if you, a total stranger, is reading my porn memoir it must mean that some book (a more blue collar word for tome) company had enough balls to go up against the perceived power of Larry Flynt and his lawyers. I say perceived (see my chapter “Cleveland Rocks” ) Or maybe, just maybe, the man in the gold wheelchair isn't the only person with first amendment right of freedom of speech.
This is my story. Which I have the right to tell it in all it's explicit glory. I lived through all the joy, pain, drama and unbelievable experiences that reside within it. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent. Because, honestly, besides my kids, no one in this volume (yet another word for book and tome) are innocent. These are things I saw. And did. God help me.
My Time In Larry Flynt's Filth Factory
By Keith Valcourt
Dedication:
To my wife Marivi, who saves my life every day and taught me that quitting doesn't mean losing.
To my children Audrey and Nigel who remind me what matters, inspire me to be better and whom I hope will never read this book.
My parents who taught me I could be anything I wanted. And not be something I didn't want to be.
Doctor Ted Stein who wrote the right prescription.
Finally, to all those who “Got Out.”
Intro: “Everyday I Write The Book”
It was early in January 2012 when I met my friend Victoria Hurley for coffee in Beverly Hills. In the shadow of the Flynt Building. For those unfamiliar with the iconic Death Star like structure at the corner of Wilshire Blvd and La Cienega it is the home to legendary pornographer turned (alleged) first amendment rights crusader Larry Flynt and his flagship publication Hustler Magazine. The futuristic structure also houses Flynt's sister publications “Barely Legal” and “Taboo” as well as his adult video division, clothing & retail outlets, sex toys line and various other ventures. It is epicenter of Flynt's empire. A place I referred to as “The Filth Factory.” A place where unappreciated creative types and broken men toiled away to help make it's pasty owner a rich rich man. A place where dreams come to die and souls come to either be corrupted or crushed into a thin paste suitable for use as a sexual lubricant.
It is also known as my former place of full time employment. A place I entered (often sadly) for six plus years full time and and over 2 years afterwords as a freelance writer. A place that lured you in with the promise of easy money only to drain you of any joy and morals. Cash for soul. Aka the “Adult industry.” Porn's ground zero.
As Victoria and I talked about the common frustrations of working for “The Magazine” over hot caffeinated beverages my friend's mood got unusually serious. “I have to ask you a question,” she said with her green eyes narrowing. “And you don't have to tell me the truth.” Okay. I'm a far too honest person and tend to always tell the truth. I call it lack of a filter. A gift/curse that has provided me with the ability to make many people laugh while also pissing off many more. This lack of tact came in handy during my years as a stand up comic. And served me well in my time at Hustler. “Are you writing a tell all book about working at Hustler Magazine ?!” The question made me genuinely laugh out loud. Seems someone had called the magazine to warn the Flynts about my penning a searing “Tell All.” Victoria who was then working as Larry's personal publicist had received the call. The caller wanted to speak to Mr or Mrs Flynt to warn them about my nefarious novel in progress. Frustrated that they couldn't real Larry directly, the caller spilled the beans to Victoria.
Sorry folks, even though you think of Larry Flynt as a man of the people. There is no way in hell you can just call him up to chat. No matter what inside knowledge you claim to have. The building is barraged on a daily basis with calls from a variety of nut jobs looking to sell Larry a million dollar idea, or “real” naked photos of starlets, or to beg him to help them get out of jail. Or in many cases warn him about some impending doom. In this case a non-existing book from a former employee who left on his own accord to deal with stress related health issues. An ex-staffer who was happily still writing sections for the magazine on a freelance basis every month.
As to who was making the call to warn them of my non-existent writings I had have several theories. It was either a bitter ex employee (two of thousands come to mind specifically) hell bent on revenge. Or it was another former co-worker who had designs on running the place. Plans, that sadly eventually came true and served as the final death nail to me writing anything for Hustler. Or a “Bloated Trekkie” who chose pot over productivity yet still blamed me and others for his firing.
I thought about Victoria's question for a long while. Why would I want to write about the time I spent at Hustler? At the time I was still recovering from the bad experience trying to put as much space between me and the place that had bothered me so much it brought on myriad of health issues to my normally healthy body. What? Really? A book? Why on earth would I do that? The six plus years I worked full time and subsequent 2 years I contributed to the magazine were filled with pain, shame and a whole lot of misadventures. In retrospect many of them were laugh out loud funny. Really funny. I saw and did things that no one would believe outside of a Judd Apatow film. Plus there were the hundreds of interviews I got to do with rock stars, comics, actors, directors and adult industry oddballs that people would love to read. The greats” near great” and “In greats.” But a book? Huh.
Nah, that could never happen. First off Larry Flynt's ego would never allow anyone to pull back the curtain and show the great OZ for what he really is. A broken down man who's sole motivation is money (and pussy.) A detached millionaire who would have never given a shit about freedom of speech if it didn't benefit his bottom line. And if I wrote a book it would be about me and my stories. Not Larry. A man I only met maybe once a month for the sizx years there. If I even thought about setting my stories experiences to the page he would surely sick his stable of over payed lawyers on me or anyone foolish enough to publish them. So a book? It will never happen and the book will never be published. I laughed and told Victoria, “No book from me. That's just crazy.”
But if that is true, “Who are you and why are you reading this?” Wait. Did my kids find my notes and publish this without me knowing? Audrey! Nigel! You better not be going through daddy's stuff! You don't need to know where dad spent most of his days between Jul 26th 2004 and May 17th 2012. All you need to know is a worked in a building. Writing jokes. Okay, sure they were dick jokes. Most in the lowest recesses of bad taste. And there were all those parody ads, But hey the money I made bought you nice stuff and helped you get a good private (Catholic even) education right? Which explains by now you're chosen career paths. By now Audrey you are a best selling author who spends her free time as a supermodel brain surgeon. And Nigel is the star of the hit sitcom “The cutest thing in the world.”
But wait the published year is 2014. Which means my kids are still that, kids. Then how did this tome (a really fancy and pretentious word for book) come to be. Someone else must have written it. Not my wife. She'd just a soon forget all the ramblings and over told stories about my almost 8 years at Hustler. Truth be told her short term memory isn't so good and sometimes she even forgets I worked anywhere. Not her fault. I do spend a lot of time hanging around the house. So if you, a total stranger, is reading my porn memoir it must mean that some book (a more blue collar word for tome) company had enough balls to go up against the perceived power of Larry Flynt and his lawyers. I say perceived (see my chapter “Cleveland Rocks” ) Or maybe, just maybe, the man in the gold wheelchair isn't the only person with first amendment right of freedom of speech.
This is my story. Which I have the right to tell it in all it's explicit glory. I lived through all the joy, pain, drama and unbelievable experiences that reside within it. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent. Because, honestly, besides my kids, no one in this volume (yet another word for book and tome) are innocent. These are things I saw. And did. God help me.
Every Picture Tells A Story--Sammy Davis Jr. Written 12/3/13
Sammy Davis Jr was a ground breaking entertainment who did it all. The singer, dancer, actor, impressionist and instrumentalist was a tour de force. He broke down racial barriers and shattered perceptions. As part of The Rat Pack, Sammy teemed up with Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Joey Bishop and Peter Lawford for a series of legendary live shows at The Sands Hotel in Las Vegas. The group also starred in the films "Oceans 11", "Robin & The 7 Hoods" and "Sergeants 3." Sammy Davis continued to perform in concerts and movies until his untimely death from lung cancer (Davis was a lifelong smoker) on May 16th 1990, less than a year after this photo was taken.
I discovered the music of Sammy Davis Jr in the late 1980s. No small feat considering the fact that my favorite bands at the time included Human League and Duran Duran. But alongside New Wave and Synth Pop I always appreciated entertainers who could hold an audience at attention with raw talent.
It started with James Brown, I loved James Brown. College for me was the height of discovering music in used record stores. On LP, that's vinyl to all you youngsters. Albums. I would hang in stores digging through bins for hours. Discovering bands like "Talk Talk" and "The Neighborhoods." One of my favorite sections was the "Personality" bin. A dusty alcove saved for old TV stars singing. It was there I found 2 Sammy Albums "The Shelter Of Your Arms" and "Live At The Coconut Grove" each priced under 2 bucks. Why not? I had heard of Sammy and how was a super nova live. Of course the owner of the store, a snide "Cooler Than Thou" Ramones wanna-be named Stu looked down at me as I approached the register. "Sammy Davis Jr? Really?" He said taking my money in disgust. Remember, this was 1988. Sammy and The Rat Pack were not the epitome of cool they had been, or would be again in during the resurgence that would come a decade and a half later. Back in the dorm, turntable in full spin, I discovered the magic of the man. His phrasing, his powerful voice and seeming joy for singing. Later I bought more of his albums and even found a used copy of "Yes I Can" Sammy's amazing autobiography.
Flash forward 2 years later to the summer of 1989. I was a fresh faced college graduate already working full time in the music business at Capitol-EMI Music. How did someone going to college for an acting degree end up in the business? I attribute that to passion taking the wheel. I had been doing college radio at Emerson, eventually working my way up to music director. Along the way I started to interview rock bands for the station. One random night in Providence, R.I. I was chatting and drinking(Open bar + college kid + drinking) with the band Flesh For Lulu who were know for the hit "I Go Crazy" from the "Some Kind Of Wonderful" Soundtrack. At some point in the festivities a couple of Capitol Records guys asked if I wanted to work at the label. as a college rep "Um yeah!" I slurred. The rest is history. So in 1989 I was working at Capitol and heard that Sammy Davis Jr was playing at the Warwick Musical Theater in West Warwick, Rhode Island. Having grown up in the "Ocean State" I was very familiar with the summer venue. I bought two tickets. Only problem? No one anted to go with me. "Why the hell would you go to that?" was a common refrain. I asked dozens of people to go. All said no. Years later no less than 20 folks who turned me down commented on how great the photo was and how they "Wished they had met Sammy." I took some joy in saying, "Um you could have.. You turned me down." Finally, a woman I barely knew, Lisa Goren who was the rock cassette buyer at Tower Records said, "I'd like to go. I'll pay for my ticket."
I told one of my mentors/bosses Tony Chalmers I was going to the show and he asked if I wanted to go backstage? "Sure!" I said. "Then you have to being a bunch of country tapes and CDs to the guy there.. Larry Bonoff. Tell him you know me." Tony had taught me the secret to success in showbiz was about relationships. On the surface Larry was a scary biker cowboy with a groveling voice and a beard that looked like it was made of barbed wire. His parents had Buster and Barbara had run the theater for decades. What I didn't know at the time was that Larry was a kind hearted teddy bear with whom I would share many good times and moments of friendship with for years to come. "You need tickets? The show is sold out." he growled. "No. We have tickets. Just hoping we could go backstage and meet Sammy." I said. Suddenly his mood changed and he broke into a huge smile. "No problem! Here's some passes. Someone will meet you at your seats and escort you backstage after the show."
What a show! It was an awe inspiring, 2 and a half hour explosion of Sammy's genius. He sang, danced his ass off, did dozens of impressions, played the drums, blew out songs on the trumpet and made us laugh. Aside from James Brown it was the greatest show I had ever seen. Ever! After my friend Lisa and I were escorted backstage and up a makeshift wooden ramp into "The Star Trailer" which was nothing more that your average trailer park single wide. We waited our turn and there magically in front of us, appeared a tiny vision that had just tore up the stage. Sammy approached me with a suspicious glint in his eye. "Where's your folks man?" Sammy starred at me expecting me top be at the show with my parents. "No Sammy, I love you, "Live at Town Hall 1956" and "Live At The Coconut Grove" are amazing albums!" He looked at me for a second and then is an almost cartoon like Sammy Davis Jr voice he said, "I love it when you young cats come and dig my groove. And I mean that man." My jaw dropped. I stood there staring not knowing what to do. Not only was this Sammy Davis Jr... This was SAMMY DAVIS JR. The man, the myth, the legend being exactly who and how I dreamed he would be. Thankfully the photographer did. She put us together and snapped the shot. The I was whisked out of the star trailer into the night. The ride back to Boston my friend Lisa Goren was full of "Did that really just happen?" and "Oh My God!" Photos developed the next day proved it did. Although not my first ever big name photo up (that was Eddie Money) this moment started my real obsession with photo ops. It also led to a lifelong friendship with Warwick Musical Theater staffers Larry Bonoff, Cheryl Schadone and photographer Suzee Dittleman which led to hundreds of other photo ops.
I discovered the music of Sammy Davis Jr in the late 1980s. No small feat considering the fact that my favorite bands at the time included Human League and Duran Duran. But alongside New Wave and Synth Pop I always appreciated entertainers who could hold an audience at attention with raw talent.
It started with James Brown, I loved James Brown. College for me was the height of discovering music in used record stores. On LP, that's vinyl to all you youngsters. Albums. I would hang in stores digging through bins for hours. Discovering bands like "Talk Talk" and "The Neighborhoods." One of my favorite sections was the "Personality" bin. A dusty alcove saved for old TV stars singing. It was there I found 2 Sammy Albums "The Shelter Of Your Arms" and "Live At The Coconut Grove" each priced under 2 bucks. Why not? I had heard of Sammy and how was a super nova live. Of course the owner of the store, a snide "Cooler Than Thou" Ramones wanna-be named Stu looked down at me as I approached the register. "Sammy Davis Jr? Really?" He said taking my money in disgust. Remember, this was 1988. Sammy and The Rat Pack were not the epitome of cool they had been, or would be again in during the resurgence that would come a decade and a half later. Back in the dorm, turntable in full spin, I discovered the magic of the man. His phrasing, his powerful voice and seeming joy for singing. Later I bought more of his albums and even found a used copy of "Yes I Can" Sammy's amazing autobiography.
Flash forward 2 years later to the summer of 1989. I was a fresh faced college graduate already working full time in the music business at Capitol-EMI Music. How did someone going to college for an acting degree end up in the business? I attribute that to passion taking the wheel. I had been doing college radio at Emerson, eventually working my way up to music director. Along the way I started to interview rock bands for the station. One random night in Providence, R.I. I was chatting and drinking(Open bar + college kid + drinking) with the band Flesh For Lulu who were know for the hit "I Go Crazy" from the "Some Kind Of Wonderful" Soundtrack. At some point in the festivities a couple of Capitol Records guys asked if I wanted to work at the label. as a college rep "Um yeah!" I slurred. The rest is history. So in 1989 I was working at Capitol and heard that Sammy Davis Jr was playing at the Warwick Musical Theater in West Warwick, Rhode Island. Having grown up in the "Ocean State" I was very familiar with the summer venue. I bought two tickets. Only problem? No one anted to go with me. "Why the hell would you go to that?" was a common refrain. I asked dozens of people to go. All said no. Years later no less than 20 folks who turned me down commented on how great the photo was and how they "Wished they had met Sammy." I took some joy in saying, "Um you could have.. You turned me down." Finally, a woman I barely knew, Lisa Goren who was the rock cassette buyer at Tower Records said, "I'd like to go. I'll pay for my ticket."
I told one of my mentors/bosses Tony Chalmers I was going to the show and he asked if I wanted to go backstage? "Sure!" I said. "Then you have to being a bunch of country tapes and CDs to the guy there.. Larry Bonoff. Tell him you know me." Tony had taught me the secret to success in showbiz was about relationships. On the surface Larry was a scary biker cowboy with a groveling voice and a beard that looked like it was made of barbed wire. His parents had Buster and Barbara had run the theater for decades. What I didn't know at the time was that Larry was a kind hearted teddy bear with whom I would share many good times and moments of friendship with for years to come. "You need tickets? The show is sold out." he growled. "No. We have tickets. Just hoping we could go backstage and meet Sammy." I said. Suddenly his mood changed and he broke into a huge smile. "No problem! Here's some passes. Someone will meet you at your seats and escort you backstage after the show."
What a show! It was an awe inspiring, 2 and a half hour explosion of Sammy's genius. He sang, danced his ass off, did dozens of impressions, played the drums, blew out songs on the trumpet and made us laugh. Aside from James Brown it was the greatest show I had ever seen. Ever! After my friend Lisa and I were escorted backstage and up a makeshift wooden ramp into "The Star Trailer" which was nothing more that your average trailer park single wide. We waited our turn and there magically in front of us, appeared a tiny vision that had just tore up the stage. Sammy approached me with a suspicious glint in his eye. "Where's your folks man?" Sammy starred at me expecting me top be at the show with my parents. "No Sammy, I love you, "Live at Town Hall 1956" and "Live At The Coconut Grove" are amazing albums!" He looked at me for a second and then is an almost cartoon like Sammy Davis Jr voice he said, "I love it when you young cats come and dig my groove. And I mean that man." My jaw dropped. I stood there staring not knowing what to do. Not only was this Sammy Davis Jr... This was SAMMY DAVIS JR. The man, the myth, the legend being exactly who and how I dreamed he would be. Thankfully the photographer did. She put us together and snapped the shot. The I was whisked out of the star trailer into the night. The ride back to Boston my friend Lisa Goren was full of "Did that really just happen?" and "Oh My God!" Photos developed the next day proved it did. Although not my first ever big name photo up (that was Eddie Money) this moment started my real obsession with photo ops. It also led to a lifelong friendship with Warwick Musical Theater staffers Larry Bonoff, Cheryl Schadone and photographer Suzee Dittleman which led to hundreds of other photo ops.