Driven

These were the days like any other days - when Mother told me, "She was so tired of me being 'on her hands' all the time!" I don't remember trying to stand on her hands at all; I was about four at the time - I was told to go outside because, "I was driving her to Drink." (See Map.)

I had a little metal car with pedals that cut into my insteps if I were not wearing substantial footwear - so if I'm driving her to Drink, I'll wear good shoes and hope this place (Drink) will have some root beer for me. I was flattered to think she thought I could drive that well.

I waited, seated in my car, for an interminable length of time, until the seat (also metal) became so hot I had to get out. All planned future drives produced the same result - I figured I was destined to be in the 'hot seat' from then on.

New destinations arose every day, i.e. she said I was "driving her to the Brink," which sounded like a scenic overlook. Speaking of scenery, I was so fond of Pooh's One Hundred Acre Wood but our environment was okay, too - except for a lot of cactus, rattlesnakes, horny-toads, tarantulas, scorpions - but also some olive trees, pepper trees and a nice pool shaded by some eucalyptus trees - but I digress.

The next drive was to Despair and to the Point-of-No-Return (in later years, it became the Pint-of-No-Return; I shouldn't have driven her to Drink so often.) No Return and Despair seemed like long journeys, so I grabbed a handful of graham crackers and waited. But the hot seat in my little car caused a hasty retreat, so I ate the crackers and waited some more.

I didn't have to wait long because Mother said I was "driving her insane" - I hoped she wouldn't become too out of control because a policeman might pull us over and I didn't have a license.

The next trips were equally scary - Mother said I was "driving her crazy" and "over the edge." I figured Over the Edge was near Up a Tree, another favorite, but since she said I was driving her crazy (I thought I was a very good driver), I thought we shouldn't go there.

Next thing you know, I was "driving her wild" - I think she meant "wildly" - and I was "driving her to Wrack and Ruin," which I guessed must be next to yet another location, "Wit's End," - which sounded like a lovely place for vacationing.

Well - she finally got a grip and announced a final destination - Mother said I was "driving her to An Early Grave," and I thought:

SOUNDS GOOD TO ME!

A Letter to Tony Curtis

A Letter to Tony Curtis

or “Gonoph with the Wind.”

By E. Camp

How do I detest thee Bernie? Let me count the reasons why: a mutual interest in cars, prompted by a chance meeting and conversation with my husband (I rue the day) revealed the fact that my husband was an automobile designer and artist. After commissioning him to do a rendering of your really big Rolls, you wanted him (I’ll call him Arthur Camp) to design an automobile in “honor” of your Father, to be christened the “Schwartz Solar.” A full rendering of the design still exists.

Suddenly shifting gears you envisioned a grander auto, evoking the elegant classic designs of the past you thought was more your cup of Coke, designed in your honor. Arthur immediately began designing the car – in a space provided in your office at 20^th Century Fox, where you were filming “The Great Race.” You also gave Arthur a list of fourteen items you wanted in or on the car. The first being perfumed air to be piped into and around the interior; well-engineered seating, which would provide easy in and out access – and in your wonderful manner of speech you said, “So the ‘Broads’ could get their asses in and out with dignity.” There were twelve more equally eyebrow-raising ideas.

An uneasy moment didn’t slow Arthur from putting pencil to paper and producing a car of rare quality of design, entirely worthy of the right kind of recognition. Even though the design was conceived in a chaotic environment, and in an atmosphere of non-professionalism – which included daily visits and intrusions by your very needy brother Bobby (who tried Arthur’s patience to the outer limits) and your well-intentioned Mother bearing jars of soup to someone she thought was in need of substantial nourishment because Arthur looked “Peaked.” Piqued would have been more apt; boy, was she right!

Arthur was also producing the de rigueur scale model, well on its way to completion. The trouble was… there were no funds forthcoming because Bernie, you were dickering on the phone regarding your interest in another vehicle. Is that where some of the “green” went? At the same time stating you were a “serious aficionado” of automobiles.

Arthur was pleased (for two minutes) when you sent him shuffling to the Gadbois Management Co. (on Arthur’s way to the hospital to see his new son) for the munificent sum of $200 to be tendered. By now, the words “Classic” and “Elegant” were somewhat tarnished, replaced by the realization your initials are “B.S.” after all.

By now, I had developed an Inspector Dreyfus nervous tic triggered by the mention of your name – I just keep right on tic-ing to this day!

Arthur’s other profession was teaching, which was “pauperazzi” time in the summer. He was bringing home leftover catering food from your office to get by. After he realized you were blowing smoke up his pencil sharpener, he had to accept a job “yonda” at Hearst Castle, where there were no “faddas,” just tourists and no FODDER from you. He also rented some space so he could finish work on the scale model. One day while he was guiding tourists in and around works of art at the castle, the landlady’s little girl cum “Rosemary’s Baby” entered his living quarters and cut-up portions of the model car. No word from you at this point just a telegram; an “in” joke saying, “You can come back now Arthur we finished Spartacus.”

Arthur broke out in a reaction rash to the new setback and returned to Los Angeles where he contacted you, to bring you up to “speed” (where you already were, I think.) Arthur finished the model, dealing at the same time with the foreclosure on our home. Still – no funds – but you sent him to an auto dealer in Beverly Hills named Harry Feiner who said the blueprint and renderings were in Detroit. You told Arthur “Harry wanted a piece of the action.” What action? The designs were sitting there in Mr. Feiner’s office.

I now was compiling by own “Swindler’s List” Bernie. Many additions now to that list. I know Arthur took the completed model to 20^th Century Fox. I don’t recall your reaction… the cutting room floor looms large? A name was chosen for the car, “Excaliber” I renamed it the “Fallacy” or better yet the “Phallacy”. Who stole my husband’s designs and sold them? Bernie? You?

Shame on you Bernie for mistreating a fellow artist like that – or is that just a part you’re playing now? If you don’t like what I’ve written Bernie, well so’s your old FADDA.

And now, a BIG Postscript: My husband’s design can now be found online; just Google “Stutz Blackhawk” By the way...Elvis owned the first one. This is a good place to start... Stutz Blackhawk

Thanks (not) for the ride, Bernie you S.O.B.