I Was A Teenage Angel

When I was in high school, I became an angel.  I was not the kind of angel with wings, halo, and harp.  Instead, I became a Broadway angel, the kind that bankrolls Broadway plays.

Actually, it was an off-Broadway play.

A high school classmate invited a bunch of his friends to a play reading in his parents’ living room.  The playwright, the director, and the producer of a play were there seeking financial backers.  I was thrilled to be in the same room as real theater people. 

The play was called “Angels of Anadarko”.  As portions of the script were being read aloud, I was swept up in the story about an immigrant family that moves to Anadarko, Oklahoma.  The family struggles to learn American ways while dreaming of striking it rich.

Shares in “Angels of Anadarko” were one hundred dollars each.  Ten of us high school students chipped in ten dollars each, and bought one share.  We became angels.

I went to see the play after it opened off-Broadway.  Although I only owned one-tenth of a share, I considered the play to be my own personal achievement. 

On stage was a modest Oklahoma house with a modest exploratory oil well in the front yard.  We watched the immigrant family struggling with American ways --- mainly, they struggled to learn the rules of baseball.  We watched the family dreaming of striking it rich --- sure enough, the oil well started gushing during the second act of the play.

I left the theater bursting with pride.

Then I read the review in The Village Voice:

I can imagine no useful purpose in an extensive analysis of "Angels of Anadarko", which is among the worst plays --- in production --- that I have had the misfortune to see in a legitimate off-Broadway theater.  Certainly no useful purpose was served by its being produced.  My personal feeling is that no one has the right to inflict this kind of incompetent trash on an audience in the professional theater, and it makes me angry.

The review made me angry.  But maybe I should have been proud instead.  Not only had my ten dollars helped finance a play, it had helped create the worst theater review in New York history.

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You can read the complete issue of that Village Voice online (October 18, 1962).  To rub salt in my wounds, the week that Angels of Anadarko opened was also the week that Edward Albee's "Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf?" opened.

http://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=1299&dat=19621018&id=lUtPAAAAIBAJ&sjid=1I8DAAAAIBAJ&pg=4084,4439512

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

Hair Vs. Lauren Bacall

I was visiting my parents just outside of New York City, and I invited a friend from Seattle to come visit as well.  My brother and sister-in-law and their children were also visiting, but my parents found a way to squeeze in Nick, my friend from Seattle.

I picked Nick up at the airport, and brought him to my parents’ house.  As a joke, I introduced my sister-in-law, saying she lives out West in Cleveland.  

Nick, who grew up 2,500 miles west of Cleveland, was incredulous.  He asked my sister-in-law if Cleveland was really in the West, and she replied: “Cleveland sure ain’t in the East.”  I think she was speaking for herself, not merely going along with my joke.

Nick had two requests for his visit to New York City: he wanted to see a Broadway play, and he hoped to see a guy named George Feldman, the only other person he knew in the area besides me.  I told Nick I would get us tickets to a play.  However, since there were ten million people in the New York City area, it would be impossible to see George Feldman --- Nick did have his address or phone number.

Our first jaunt into New York City was to see an underground movie. 

Underground movies were low-budget artsy movies --- a new concept in America.  The film we saw was Chafed Elbows, which mixed some 35mm photos developed in a Walgreen’s drugstore with live scenes thrown in.  The film, whose main character was a man who once had a hysterectomy, was totally in bad taste.  It was produced by Robert Downey, Sr., whose wife played all of the 12 female roles in the film.

Nick and I were suitably astonished by Chafed Elbows.  Nick, however, was disappointed that we did not watch this underground movie while underground; it was shown in a small theater at street level.

We walked out of the theater, and heard a voice call: “Hey, Nick!”  It was George Feldman.  The odds were ten million to one that we would bump into him on a New York sidewalk, but bump into him we did.

Our second jaunt into the City was to see a Broadway play. 

I was torn about which play to see.  The City was plastered with posters for a play called Hair, which billed itself as "America’s First Tribal Love-Rock Musical".  I had no idea what a tribal love-rock musical was.  So, I got tickets to Cactus Flower because it starred Lauren Bacall, the husky-voiced actress who appeared opposite Humphrey Bogart in many movies.

It was a thrill to see Lauren Bacall live on stage.  But as the play dragged on, I got the impression that everyone in the theater was there to see Lauren Bacall live on stage.  The play was pretty forgettable.

Eventually I would get to see Hair, and realize that I should have purchased tickets to that show instead of a piece of theatrical fluff like Cactus Flower.

Hair addressed contemporary issues.  Claude is one of the main characters, who wears tie-dye clothes and sports long hair.  He spends most of the show agonizing over getting drafted.  At the end of the play, Claude appears on stage, hard to recognize because he now wears a military uniform and his hair is short.  He declares, “Like it or not, they got me.”

The cast of Hair then sings a song with the poignant lyrics: “Inside something there is a rush of greatness.  Who knows what stands in front of us.”

Within a few short years after Nick’s visit to New York City, both Nick and I would be wearing military uniforms and our hair would be short.  Like it or not, they got us. 

We were in the Army, at one point stationed at the same fort, waiting to see what stands in front of us.  Waiting to let the sunshine in.

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The last six minutes of Hair (the film, not the play)...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhNrqc6yvTU

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

If The Viet Cong Invaded Hershey, Pennsylvania

It was the morning of the third day of being inducted into the United States Army.  I knew that this was the day I would lose my moustache.

We would be marched to the post barber shop where all our hair would be cut off and our faces shaved clean.  The Army was going to destroy my moustache.

I decided I would beat the Army to it.  On that third morning, I shaved off my own moustache.  The post barber still cut off all my hair.  After the barber, we were marched to the post photographer, who took photos for our Army IDs.

I missed my moustache, and yearned to get it back.  I found a set of Army regulations and looked up facial hair.  The regulations said that a soldier can have facial hair only if he has facial hair on the photo of his ID.

How could I get around this Catch-22?  I looked at my ID with my clean-shaven photo.  I noticed that the birth date on my ID was off by one day. 

I took a risk and started growing a moustache.  As soon as I thought the moustache was long enough to show up on a photo, I went to post headquarters and demanded a new ID with my correct birth date.  A new ID meant a new photo, and now my newly-grown moustache was on my ID. 

I was safe.  Or was I? 

The Army made us watch a Scary Training Film about Communists.  It was in black-and-white, poorly acted, and reminded me of a junior high science film.  

Communists took over a town in the middle of the night.  The next morning, people were thrown in jail without trial, and lots of other bad things happened.  The Communists were easy to identify: they had uniforms, they carried rifles, and every last one of them sported a moustache.

My moustache was legitimate because it was on my Army ID, but it put me under suspicion.  Nevertheless, I continued to wear a moustache.

A friend of mine told me about the time he applied for non-combat status.  Then it became clear why the Army had shown us a film about Communists taking over a town

My friend did not want to go to Vietnam and kill people.  He wanted to become a medic and go to Vietnam and heal people.  He went before a board led by the adjutant general, where he was grilled about his beliefs, culminating in the Big Question.

My friend was from Hershey, Pennsylvania.  So, the Big  Question the board asked him was: “What would you do if the Viet Cong invaded Hershey, Pennsylvania?” 

He did not really answer the question; he just said that Hershey was in no danger of invasion.  They granted him non-combat status anyway, and he served as a medic in Vietnam.

After his time in the Army, my friend went back to Hershey. 

I always wondered if the Scary Training Film and the Big Question had an impact on him.  I wondered if he spent any time watching out for boats coming up the Susquehanna River --- boats filled with Asian-looking men, in uniform, carrying rifles, every last one of them sporting a moustache.

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Here is another Scary Armed Forces Information Film: "How To Spot A Communist" (one minute long):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SkYl_AH-qyk

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com