Here's another installment from my memoirs of growing up in Woodland Hills, California in the 60s. The full explanation of this folly is here. More as I write them.
I know this is a very un-60s thing to say but I never rebelled against my parents.
Yes, there was the issue of smoking and drinking but
they were the ones who smoked and drank. I was never embarrassed by my folks, appalled by their value system, or at odds with their religious beliefs. I hated that my father made me mow the lawn and pull weeds with him every Saturday morning but that’s not like being forced to practice Scientology.
Cliff & Marilyn Levine were in their mid 30s in 1964. But they could have been in their 40s or 80s, it made no difference. They were “
adults”. And as a teenager you swing back and forth between thinking they know everything and nothing. Generally I gave them the benefit of the doubt. They were hands-on parents who clearly loved us, cared about our wellbeing, and in my case, tolerated a weird kid who wanted to be a baseball announcer, screaming disc jockey, NY Times theatre caricaturist, Rob Petrie, TONIGHT SHOW host, Broadway playwright, or Looney Tunes animator.
My brother Corey is four years younger. He was 10 in 1964 and much more your regular kid. He wanted to
be a ballplayer, not the guy describing his at-bat and reminding you that “
an ice cold glass of Blatz beer sure would go good right about now.” We fought as most brothers did, usually over vital issues like who had to sit in the back of the Impala. But neither of us ever sent the other to the Emergency Room so I guess we really did love each other. Blood is thicker than blood.
My parents socialized with other couples, went out Saturday nights, played weekly card games (she was heavily into something called “pan”) and in general were far more youthful and active than parents I saw on TV. My dad never wore a tie around the house, my mother never put on a dress to bake a meat loaf. Every night my father would come home from work and they’d have a cocktail together at the kitchen table. Nick & Nora Charles go suburban. We always ate dinner together as a family. We never said grace but every meal did end with mom saying, “So what crap is on tonight?”
Our parents had us early. Prior to me, my mother was one of the first TV models. They’d break away from Ben Hunter’s “Mid-day Movie” on Channel 11 and there was my mom pointing out fine china settings, which you could order by calling the number on your screen. I like to think my mother blazed the trail for Vanna White.
My father was a radio station time salesman. He sold air. More specially, air time. He worked for KRKD, a station that played Sinatra during the day, followed by horse racing results, religion in the evening, and Polynesian music all night.
It was owned by the Angelus Temple, founded by flamboyant preacher Aimee Semple McPherson in the 1920’s. L.A. just seems to attract these nut cases. As proof of
her healing abilities she had a wheel chair and crutches museum in her church. Ms. McPherson is best known for faking her own abduction in 1926, banging some married employee in some motel while her loyal parishioners kept day-night vigils. She finally stumbled out of the desert a few months later saying she was kidnapped, whisked off to Mexico to be tortured and held for ransom. Only problem was she was last seen at Venice Beach wearing just a bathing suit and she emerged fully dressed, even wearing a wrist watch given to her by her mother. At least Frank Sinatra Jr. really
was abducted.
When the station wasn’t praising Jesus Christ or Sea biscuit it billed itself as “
the Album Station”, playing middle-of-the-road artists like Frank, Tony, Sammy, Steve & Eydie, and of course Pat Suzuki. As a result, when the station received promo copies of 45 r.p.m. singles they would just toss them into a box and dad would bring them home for me. It was great. In only two years I had amassed the largest collection of stiffs in the entire world!! Friends would come over after school and we would listen to them in horror and amusement. One of these friends was Mike Monarch. He went on a few years later to record some songs himself. But they weren’t stiffs. Mike Monarch became the lead guitarist of Steppenwolf. I’d like to think that sitting in my room, absorbing Neil Sedaka singing “Alice in Wonderland” inspir
ed him to go off and do “Goddamn the Pusher Man”.
I look back at my relationship with my parents with great fondness. I can honestly say I’m in therapy for
other reasons. Key parental memories of 1964: Coming home from school and playing gin rummy with my mom. Going to Dodger games with my dad.
Getting to those games was an adventure. Since dad worked in town and I didn’t drive, I would just take a city bus from Ventura Blvd. all the way through the valley to the corner of Hollywood & Vine. It took about 90 minutes. There I would wait for fifteen minutes or so until dad drove up and off we’d go. The amazing thing was – you could do that in 1964. It was actually
safe. A 14 year boy could stand at Hollywood & Vine without being mugged by a crack head, checked out by two drag queens, flashed by some pervert, peed on, propositioned by a 50 year old hooker, or asked directions to the Frederick’s of Hollywood Museum of Bras by some tourist.
My favorite photo of my parents was taken in 1964. It was my dad’s 20th high school reunion. They look so vibrant, so happy, so clearly in love with each other. It’s hard to rebel against people you hope to become.
Labor Day marks the unofficial end of summer. In the entertainment business it means this:
