Wolf Objects to Corny Old Opening

The wolf has just about had it with the fey narrator who tells the kiddies in the audience that Red Riding Hood is about to be pounced upon.



“Aw, stop it!” he shouts, throwing his hat onto the ground.



The wolf opens and closes his mouth during dialogue. The teeth change size.



This is, of course, from the famous Red Hot Riding Hood (1943), chock full of reaction takes and Red’s dance sequence by Preston Blair. None of the animators received credits in some of the early Avery cartoons at MGM.

This Cartoon Needs Teeth

The Columbia/Screen Gems cartoon studio just couldn’t get it together. By the time it was about to close in 1947, some of the animation was pretty good, but was undercut by lame writing and second-rate music.

An example is Cagey Bird, a 1946 release directed by Howard Swift, with animation credits going to Grant Simmons and Roy Jenkins. There’s a take by Flippy the canary I really like, and a couple of desperate escape scenes by the cat that are good. Here’s one toward the end of the cartoon. The cat keeps going higher and higher (managing to stay in mid-air through it all) to avoid a dog’s clamping teeth. Finally, he zips out of the scene. I really like the exaggerated size on the dog’s teeth.



Sid Marcus’ storyline is okay but it needs some punching up. It’s like a Warners cartoon with half the reactions and characters that couldn’t think of anything to say. When Bugs Bunny plays “Doctor Kilpatient” to try to “cure” Elmer Fudd, it’s funny because Bugs says and does funny stuff. The cat as the doctor in this cartoon just doesn’t say a lot and you keep waiting for a punch-line that doesn’t really come. Eddie Kilfeather’s music simply becomes loud and fast during the chase scenes. It has absolutely no subtlety.

Frank Graham plays the dog and I think possibly, maybe, Stan Freberg is voicing the cat. Their talents are wasted, as are Simmons’ and Jenkins’. Simmons soon beat it over to MGM to animate for Tex Avery, before a short stop at Lantz and then as co-head of his own studio with Ray Patterson and Robert Lawrence. Jenkins later ended up at Disney (I wonder if he worked at Swift-Chaplin first) before a stint with Lantz in the early-1960s.

Comedy and Cucamonga

On January 7, 1945, a call for passengers was heard for the first time: “Train leaving on Track Five for Anaheim, Azusa and Cucamonga!” It was Mel Blanc’s voice on the Jack Benny radio show. Benny milked the gag for a number of years.

It turns out there was soon a battle over Cucamonga. But we’ll get to that in just a moment. We’ll take a spur line and go off track for just a moment.

While Benny is the comedian connected with Azusa and Cuca-you-know-where, he wasn’t the first. Witness this United Press story from June 8, 1940, years before Benny and his cast ever entered a train station.

Pomona Gets For Joke
—By ALEXANDER KAHN
Hollywood—(UP)—One of the "eggs" comedian Bob Hope laid on a recent radio program—and even he admits there have been a few—came home to roost as a full-fledged chicken, with a traffic fine in its beak.
Hope got a speed ticket while breezing through Pomona, Calif., the other day. Busy at Paramount in "The Ghost Breakers," the comedian sent an attorney to make an appearance for him.
"Hope?" mused the judge. "Hope? Oh yes, that's the fellow who is always making cracks about Pomona on the radio. You tell Mr. Hope to come down here and pay his fine in person."
Now Hope is wishing—that someone would tell the good people of Pomona about the use of “locals” by comedians.
In every big city, it seems, there is always one sure-fire laugh for a comedian with a strictly local outlet. Some nearby city or town for some reason seems funny in every around in the profession, they all these towns locals."
Hope is going to appear at Pomona in a big benefit some day soon just to prove he has nothing against the town, and was just using Pomona as a “local.” If he keeps on, he may get Pomona into the big leaguers. Like Bismarck, N. D, which comedians agree is funny anywhere in the United States. Or Canarsie, which always gets a chuckle in New York, and Winnetka, the local for Chicago.
Other locals include: Woonsocket, good for a laugh every time in Providence, R. I.; Kennebunkport, which lays them in the aisles way down East; Manayunk, funny to Philadelphians, Hamtramck, a side-splitter in Detroit, and Nahant, which makes staid Bostonians titter.
In fact, Pomona, thanks to Hope, already is displacing Azusa and Cucamonga as Los Angeles laugh provokers.

It would appear the use of “locals” was an old vaudeville gimmick. Robert Lewis Taylor’s biography of W.C. Fields quotes The Great Man as telling a Paramount P.R. flak (presumably in the ‘30s) that Cucamonga was one of them. Fields loved the name. He used it in The Old Fashioned Game (1934). Louella Parsons’ column of March 25, 1938 reveals:

Bill struggled hard to get the studio to call his next movie, which goes into production April 4, "The First Gentleman of Cucamonga," because he liked that name, but Paramount politely but firmly told him no marquee was long enough to hold all those letters. Mary Carlisle and John Howard carry the romantic interest in a story which deals with Bill's adventures as a champagne salesman.

The great book W.C. Fields by Himself also contains a treatment for an unmade film about this same time where Fields played W.C. Whipsnade, who inherited a department store in Cucamonga. Incidentally, Fields and Paramount parted company within two months of Parsons’ column over a disagreement about the script for the Cucamonga film, which had undergone at least two other name changes.

So it was when the Benny writers came up with the Anaheim-Azusa-Cucamonga running gag, it was really a switch on an old one.

Still, the folks in the three cities didn’t care. They seem to have liked the publicity. In February 1946, Benny was elected honorary mayor of all three towns and given a key to the city of each in a formal ceremony (for some reason, Benny wore a sombrero in publicity pictures). This resulted in what I presume were some tongue-in-cheek comments from another comedian who was asked for reaction. It doesn’t seem to have gone past this column; there certainly was no radio feud over it and Benny never mentioned any of this over the air. The column appeared February 25, 1946.

Jack Benny vs. Lou Costello
By Virginia MacPherson
HOLLYWOOD, Feb. 24 (UP)—Today we have the fantastic story of how Jack Benny and Lou Costello, two world-famous funny men, are battling over who will be Mayor of the tiny California hamlet of Cucamonga.
The feud started a few months ago as a publicity stunt. Somewhere along the line it got out of hand. Now the citizens of Cucamonga—all 500 of ‘em—are caught in the middle. Mighty uncomfortable they are, too.
On one side they have Fiddler Benny insisting he’s already honorary Mayor. On the other they’ve got “Bad Boy” Costello, who says they promised to make him Hizzoner before Benny ever heard of the village.
Benny’s press agent got him named honorary Mayor of Cucamonga, Anaheim and Azusa, neighboring towns. He got a lot of publicity in the papers as the “first man ever to be honorary Mayor of three cities at once.”
Costello claims the good people of Cucamonga are getting gypped.
“One-third of a Mayor they’ve got,” he declares. “What kind of a deal is that? A fine little orange-growing community like Cucamonga deserves a whole Mayor.”

He asks: Has Benny offered to pin a badge on Rochester.
The unhappiest man in town is our father-in-law, John D. MacPherson. He’s the guy who encouraged Costello to put in his two-bits’ worth.
It started two months ago when we discovered the locale of the new Abbott and Costello movie was Cucamonga, our old home town. We mentioned this to Costello’s press agent and gave him our father-in-law’s name.
Like a flash he buzzed out to Cucamonga to start his campaign for Mayor. Our father-in-law was a little nonplused.
“We’ve already got Jack Benny,” he said.
Costello’s press [agent] again pointed out Benny had three towns to take care of and wouldn’t Cucamonga like a Mayor all its own? Our father-in-law said he guessed they would at that. That’s when all the trouble started.
Benny said the names of the towns fascinated him when he heard a guy at the Union Depot holler: “Trains leaving for Azusa, Anaheim and Cucamonga!”
So he worked it in on his next broadcast. It was good for a big laugh. The Service Club of Cucamonga sent him a case of California wines.
“That was darn good wine!” said Benny.
The people of Azusa, Anaheim and Cucamonga got so much fun hearing the names of their towns on the air they elected Benny honorary Mayor of all three.
But Costello says his movie will give the town just as much publicity. And he promises to remain loyal to Cucamonga. Even if the citizens of Los Angeles asked him to be honorary you-know-what he’d turn ‘em down.

Cucamonga’s success on the radio proved to be a problem elsewhere. Witness this wire story from April 23, 1954:

Cucamonga KO’d As Too Funny
BURBANK, Calif.—Jack Benny and his writers have made Cucamonga too humorous a word for utterance in any serious drama.
Case in point is “Serenade,” Warner Bros. feature starring Mario Lanza, Joan Fontaine, Sarita Montiel and Vincent Price.
The vineyard sequence, where Lanza as a California tractor operator learns he is to audition for a professional singing career, was shot at Cucamonga, center of the world’s largest vineyards.
Director Anthony Mann ordered the Cucamonga labels obliterated from all the grape crates.
“After what Benny’s done with Cucamonga,” said Mann, “the mere sight or mention of the name starts a laugh going and in this sequence we don’t want laughs.”

Some radio and TV critics griped about Cucamonga, saying a regional reference had no business being on a national radio show (Mad Man Muntz and the La Brea Tar Pits annoyed them as well). And not every one in “Cuc—” were happy with being a butt of a joke. Here “—amonga!” is a United Press International story from October 7, 1958.

Cucamonga Name Change Meets Strong Opposition
CUCAMONGA, Calif. (UPI) — Residents of this community asked themselves today, "what's in a name?"
And, the answer of some self- conscious citizens who have cringed at comedians' jibes at their community, was, "plenty."
For years, this area east of Los Angeles has been known by the Indian name of Cucamonga, meaning land of plenty waters, although it's quite dry here.
Now, Cucamongans are considering incorporation and part of the proposal is a resolution to change the community's name to something less funny.
Charles Smith, secretary of the Chamber of Commerce, was one of those who is sick, sick, sick of Jack Benny's references to the community.
"Cucamonga has been low man of the totem pole for 'Anaheim, Azusa and Cucamonga' when someone wants to make a joke about a city," Smith said.
"We're sick of it. Our name is no joke to us."
On the other side was Ted Vath, president of the Chamber of Commerce, who is proud of being a Cucamongan and is not afraid of letting the world know about it. "We think the name is worth fighting for," Vath said. "It gives us identity and we're going to hang on to it."
One of the names on the list of proposed monickers for the community is Arpege, the name of a perfume offered free of charge by the maker of the scent. To Smith, almost anything would be better than Cucamonga.
To Vath, the idea of changing the name to Arpege is downright odoriferous.

When the town finally incorporated, it took the name Rancho Cucamonga. And we assume the anti-Benny grump-amongas were a small minority. The area had declared Jack Benny Day on September 8, 1956. There was another Jack Benny Day on December 15, 1965 when Benny arrived in Azusa to receive proclamations of thanks from three towns; though Disneyland and the California Angels baseball team had moved Anaheim into the Big Time. He returned again in 1969, donating his time to emcee a benefit show for the district’s disaster assistance programme when the area was hit with floods and scores were left homeless. Jack Benny is honoured in Rancho Cucamonga with a statue. (Thanks to reader Bob Davidson for his picture of the plaque with the statue).

Incidentally, one of Jack’s other routines gently jabbed a different small town. We’ll have their reaction next Sunday.

The MGM Cartoons That Never Were

They aspired to be the next Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera. Instead their teaming is a very obscure footnote in ‘60s animation history.

They’re Phil Duncan and Herb Vigran.

The combination was certainly unusual. Duncan was an ex-Disney animator who had also worked for commercial studios. Vigran wasn’t an animator at all. He made his moolah voicing television spots after his radio acting jobs dried up (his continued to do bit parts on TV comedies and dramas). His animation experience mainly consisted of providing voices for John Sutherland Productions’ industrial cartoons in the early ‘50s. However, the two hooked up, and they approached MGM in 1965 about making animated cartoons.

At this point, Metro was doing pretty well in the animation business. It had announced a new animation/visual arts subsidiary in late December 1964 under Les Goldman and Chuck Jones. The operation was, in essence, Walter Bien’s SIB Productions, which had financially collapsed after making seven Tom and Jerrys for MGM; Metro took over its staff and offices. Apparently, the Goldman/Jones cartoons cost $35,000 each to make; at least, Jones was citing that figure while criticising others for cheapening out and making limited animation at $10,000 a cartoon.

But it appears Metro was quite interested in cutting Jones’ cost. And that’s where Duncan and Vigran enter the picture.

They formed a company to find a buyer for cartoons using a “die-cut adhesive” method instead of the traditional drawn and inked system. The “Duncan Process” was supposedly patented but, unfortunately, I have not been able to find a patent for it on-line. Duncan and Vigran went to MGM, proposed making cartoons with the new method, and worked out a deal for a pilot cartoon called “The Invisible Mouse” at a cost of $10,000. MGM would supply storyboards, character drawings and other artistic materials free of charge to Duncan-Vigran.

A carbon copy of the proposed contract between the two companies ended up in the hands of late animation writer/historian Earl Kress. You can read all ten pages below.



You can see the agreement is dated September 17th. On September 9th, Daily Variety reported (UPI later picked up the story):

MGM-TV and CBS have set two animated pilots for series planned in 1966. Cartoons, titled "Goldielox And The Three Yanhs" and 'The Invisible Mouse" go into production this month at MGM's animation-visual arts division, with producer Les Goldman supervising and Chuck Jones directing.
Division has recently embarked on a large expansion program, including new releases of the "Tom & Jerry" cartoons and an animated short based on Norton Juster's book, "The Dot And The Line."

MGM gave up on the idea of releasing new Tom and Jerry shorts in 1969. That year, Jones, in the middle of a two-year contract, busied himself with Pogo and Horton TV specials, the feature The Phantom Tollbooth and main titles for The Strange Case Of...!#*%? before jumping to a job with the ABC TV network the following year.

What became of Duncan and Vigran’s company, and the projects mentioned in the Variety story, are mysteries (at least for now). Vigran died in 1986, Duncan passed away in 1988.

Three Weeks For a Cow

Horace Horsecollar is taking Clarabelle Cow to a barn dance, featuring all kinds of public domain tunes, in the 1930 short The Shindig. His motorcycle (with a rag tied around the front tire because of a flat) barely gets him to the Cow residence.



There’s a funny gag when it turns out the door bell at Clarabelle’s place is actually her cowbell, and the rope pulling it is her tail. The Disney story people top it by having Clarabelle get caught by the camera reading Eleanor Glyn’s sex novel “Three Weeks,” and hiding it in embarrassment. Karl Cohen’s book “Forbidden Animation” quotes a New York Times report that the cartoon was banned in Ohio for that reason.



The rest of the cartoon is blah—dancing, cycle animation, the inevitable wiener dog and obese pig, several razzberries by an obxious kid (but no outhouse or spitoon jokes).

Booby Traps Brushwork

Snafu tries to escape from some booby traps (from the cartoon of the same name). Some admirable brushwork here.



Multiple eyes, and feet outlines, too.



This cartoon has close-up dialogue where you can see Snafu’s molars, a nice little hop/walk cycle, the “Endearing Young Charms” joke that Friz Freleng later used (Warren Foster at work?) and a booby trap made up of a woman’s...well, I suspect Bob Clampett sniggered at that one.

An Actor Playing Comedy, Arnold Stang

Which name doesn’t belong on this list—Frank Sinatra, James Dean, Leif Garrett, Arnold Stang?

Okay, this is a trick question. They all belong on the list. They were all teen idols.

Yes, it’s true Stang was no Aaron Carter. Or Aaron Burr for that matter (look it up). But it seems he got wild support from young people for his role of Gerard on The Henry Morgan Show on radio. It’s where Stang first made his name, before going on to aggressively berate Milton Berle on TV.

Gerard was a wonderful character, and I’m sure he was a stand-in for part of Morgan’s own personality. He didn’t have much respect for anything.

Here’s a great piece from Swing, a magazine published by WBH radio in Kansas City back in the days when radio stations wanted to entertain listeners instead of endlessly self-promote. You can ignore Stang’s age reference in this piece from the June 1951 issue. He lied about his age for years and was born in 1918, not 1922. It helped him get kid parts when he was younger.

When you’re finished reading this, you can find more Stang posts on the blog HERE, HERE, and HERE. Sorry, no Leif Garrett posts, even though he was made for dancing, I once heard. (Now, if Arnold Stang sang that when he had his RCA record contract, it’d be a scream).

EVERYBODY LOVES GERARD
Arnold Stang steals the show from stellar comedians; and his eventual triumph as a top-rank comic in his own right is predicted.
by JAY ARROW
HE HAS fan clubs in Detroit, Hollywood, Chicago and New York — but millions of Americans never heard of him. Bobbysoxers chase him in the streets, but in his own words, "I look like a scared chipmunk who forgot to come out of the rain."
He is the world's greatest exponent of "Brooklynese" — and a native son of Chelsea, Massachusetts. Famous as being one of the best, if not the top, comedy stooge in the business, he hates being considered a stooge. Because he is often funnier than the stars he works with, he sometimes finds it tough to get a job.
That's Arnold Stang — better known to Henry Morgan fans as "Gerard", whose cracked-voice "Hi-ya!" is a signal for mirth from coast to coast. Television fans are also getting to know Stang through his frequent guest shots on the Milton Berle show. Stang, who commands higher pay than many stars, was until recently relatively unknown. Yet he's appeared with all the yuk masters — Jack Benny, Bob Hope, Fred Allen, Kay Kyser, Eddie Cantor, Groucho Marx, Ed Gardner and the late Al Jolson.

There are two kinds of comics, according to Stang. Those that can pay him, and those that can't. There are two other kinds, those who will risk hiring him, and those who won't. Stang is a show stealer. Not deliberately, perhaps, but too many top comics have complained, "This boy is too funny." One frankly told Stang's agent he wouldn't hire him for that reason.
Like the platypus, Stang seems born to be laughed at. Nature endowed him with a ridiculous appearance, and added the "insult" of a comical voice. Stang improved on Nature by using a bow tie and horn-rimmed glasses as his trade mark. Added to his solemn face and stunted toothpick figure, these help him resemble nothing so much as a starved baby owl.
Stang was very much upset when the director of "Sailor, Beware", which hit Broadway in 1944, refused to allow him to wear glasses in the featured role he was playing. Before the show opened, Stang went to the Brooklyn Navy Yard to play in a benefit. Having a late supper with the C. O., Stang demanded, "Are sailors allowed to wear glasses?"
"Over three hundred of them at this base do," acknowledged the Commander.
"Put that in writing", Stang ordered. He bore the Commander's note triumphantly to the director of "Sailor, Beware". When the show opened, Stang was wearing glasses.
The glasses he wears have empty rims. His prize pair are the specs Harold Lloyd used in making his famous silent, "The Freshman". Lloyd gave them to him when a deal was pending for Stang to play Lloyd's old part in a remake of the film. Though the movie was never made, Stang kept his treasured gift. The veteran Lloyd's glasses have symbolic importance to the little comic, because Lloyd was his ideal from the start of his career, and unquestionably influenced Stang's concept of comedy.
Apart from Harold Lloyd's artistry, one of the great comedian's attributes which appeals strongly to Stang was his ability to parlay laughs into a million dollars. "I asked myself", Stang recalls, "how did all those other actors get rich — Lloyd, Chaplin, Hope and so on? You know how? Each built up a popular character in the public mind, a character everybody can identify — a simple little guy, very appealing, who gets kicked in the teeth, but who always comes out on top because he doesn't know when he's licked!"
In "Gerard", Stang has perfected his theatrical alter ego. He is a little guy against the whole world. His greatest defense against society is his refusal to be impressed by anything or anybody. If Henry Morgan boasts of having shaken the President's hand, Gerard answers, "Big deal". If someone explains something that is obviously over his head, Gerard mutters darkly, "Whassamatta, y'a wise guy?" If another character reacts with surprise at something he has said, Gerard explodes, "I tell him yes; he tells me no!" And in those eight words, his scratchy voice ranges up and down the entire musical scale.

STANG considers himself first an foremost an actor playing comedy. He emphasizes that his approach to comedy is through characterization, not gags. For that reason he likes to sit in on the writing of all shows in which he is scheduled to appear; so that his role, as written, will be consistent with the character, Gerard.

Although Stang's appearance by itself can provoke belly laughs, the secret of his success is his voice. He uses it as Heifetz uses a violin. Stang is a master of mimicry, speech rhythm, intonation, pronunciation and voice curve.
Stang's Brooklynese is considerably toned down from the Kings County English. "Nobody could understand it otherwise," he explains. "Furthermore, it isn't a Brooklyn dialect. You can hear exactly the same kind of speech in Jersey City, Chicago and a dozen other cities. The dialect really represents the slovenly speech of the average tenament district."
Stang didn't know he was a born comedian until he tried out for a serious role in a school play. "I walked on stage", he recalls, "burning with an artist's desire to emote. Inside of two seconds, I was just burning. I didn't even get a chance to open my mouth, and the faculty dramatic coach was laughing. I ignored him and read the role with real intensity. By the time I finished, the coach and everybody else was rolling in the aisles. So that's how I got the lead. The comedy lead, that is, in another play."
Realizing that comedy was his forte, Stang decided to try for an audition on Horn and Hardart's "Children's Hour." He won a nod simply by sending a postcard to the New York radio station airing the show. Money he had saved for his mother's anniversary gift bought him a ticket from Chelsea, Mass., to New York. The year was 1934; Stang was twelve.
At the audition he felt extremely nervous, probably because the audience was composed of hostile mothers and their equally hostile progeny. He delivered a soliloquy in dialect, and won laughter in all the wrong places. He left the station discouraged, sure he'd lost out. But he received word to report back for comedy roles.
Stang stayed on the "Children's Hour" for three years. He was paid ten dollars a week, less his agent's 10 per cent. For this net take of nine he was required to rehearse Fridays and Saturdays, and broadcast on Sundays. But the show gave him an opportunity to branch out as a radio type on other programs. Any director with a script calling for a horrible brat with a Satanic sense of humor put a call in for Stang. He was "That Brewster Boy", and Seymour in "Rise of the Goldbergs". There was only one voice like his in all radio.
Stang soon found himself tapped for Broadway. After "Sailor Beware", he was cast as a little guy from the Bronx in "All in Favor". After that he was featured in "Same Time Next Week", a first-class flop which proved expensive to the show's angel, Milton Berle. For a long while afterward Berle complained, "It cost me $25,000 just to get to know Arnold."
Stang recalls that on opening night of the Berle show, the prop phone in the stage set booth didn't ring on cue for an important bit of exposition. After stalling desperately, Stang ad libbed, "I think Til call So-and-So." Finding himself without a nickel, he dialed anyhow. Whereupon the ear-piece fell apart. Struggling with it, Stang managed to stammer his necessary lines into the mouthpiece. During which the phone bell suddenly rang shrilly. Shaken, Stang hung up, and the earpiece promptly fell apart again.
"It's a wonder Berle didn't lose $50,000", Stang sighs.

WHEN the little comedian's stage work won him a movie contract, in true Gerard fashion he refused to be impressed by Hollywood. On the first day, a pompous producer took him in hand and taught him technique for a solid half-hour while everyone on the set waited. "I mean it was solid", Stang recalls. "He didn't even give me a chance to say yes, no, or even what. Just kept telling me to look through the camera at this, look through the camera at that, and sounding off nonstop like a very big wheel".
Finally he ran out of breath and snapped, "Well, is it all clear now?"
It was the first chance Stang had had to open his mouth. So he said, "Wait till I get my glasses, and you can explain it again. I couldn't see a thing". The producer didn't talk to him again for three weeks.
Stang worked with Rosalind Russell in "My Sister Eileen", and Bob Hope in "They Got Me Covered". While appearing in "Seven Days Leave" with Victor Mature and Lucille Ball, he and Mature toured the local cafes as a team. He would step out from behind the shadow of Mature, who bulked approximately one hundred pounds heavier than Stang. The act was introduced, understandably, as "Mature and Immature".
During the war, Stang toured Army camps with the Kay Kyser show as a replacement for Ish Kabibble. The unit flew around the country in beat up Army planes, whose engines had a disconcerting habit of catching fire. "As Gerard would say", Stang recalls with a shudder, " 'Oooo, I'm dyin'!" The little comic, who doesn't smoke, kept his grateful father supplied with cigarettes during the tour.

In 1949, Stang married an ex-girl-reporter from the Brooklyn Eagle, JoAnne Taggart, who had once interviewed him four years before. JoAnne had switched to publicity when they met again. She acquired Stang as a client, and he took her as his wife. They were married between rehearsals for the Henry Morgan show, with Stang insisting on time out because he "had to have it". Morgan only found out why during the broadcast, and the news almost broke up the show.
Recently JoAnne visited her doctor for a "rabbit" pregnancy test. She phoned Stang at their apartment to tell him that they were going to have a "little rabbit". Stang chatted casually with her, hung up, then went in to take a shower. It was while standing under the water that his eyes suddenly glazed and he fainted. When he came to, he had a tremendous bump over one eye, plus a severe headache, and had to go to bed.
"Probably the longest double-take on record", he muses with a pardonable touch of professional pride.
Stang's greatest source of annoyance is the fact that every time he switches his allegiance to a new comedy star, he wins a fresh burst of enthusiasm as a talented "newcomer". Until recently nobody ever seemed to know his real name . . . or care. Arnold Stang is a relative unknown compared to his creation, Gerard. And few radio or television fans identify Gerard with any of Stang's other comedy characters in his sixteen-year career.
Still, Stang gets comfort from the fact that his fame is beginning to take root. There is a definite boom of Stang fan clubs, to whom he is a figure as heroic as Sinatra to his coterie. Little-girl squeals of adoration follow Stang's appearance on any stage, and teen-agers trail him for blocks after the show, begging him to part with tie, handkerchief or shorts.
Stang's eventual triumph as a top-rank comic is taken for granted by most of show business. Not willing to trust to luck, he continually perfects his talents as "an actor playing comedy". For the time being, he is content to let the stars twinkle in their firmament — as long as they remember to reward him handsomely for his help in keeping them there.