Crane (26 page)

Our green partnership had immediately declared its independence by scraping together the few thousand dollars we needed to bankroll the afternoon. We wanted no parental patronage. We paid for the hotel; the talent—Dave Diamond’s brother, Bryan, looking like a young Paul Simon, on guitar; the cake—a beautiful sheet from Anderson’s Bakery on State Street; and the catering—healthy salmon and chicken, veggies, salad, and delicious champagne served by the hotel’s culinary staff. Our wedding was our first coproduction, held two days before my thirty-second birthday and four days before the fifth anniversary of my dad’s murder. (As revolutionary as Kari and I thought our mating was, we did succumb to the lure of the traditional June wedding.) The good time continued as Kari and I honeymooned, though we called it vacationing, in the Canadian Rockies in Alberta. Chris and Desly joined us in progress as we all hiked, took photographs, and shared laughter. We liked the mountains and in the future would backpack in Yosemite and ski downhill and cross-country at Mammoth and Mount Pinos. It was a good start.

When I first met Kari I read some nice short stories she had written. In addition to her fine arts and landscaping design skills, Kari could turn
a phrase. She was a genuine woman of the arts, and that added literary dimension was just another reason I loved her. We collaborated to make a short film in 1984 called
She’ll Never Make It to the Olympics.
There was no dialogue. Just a gardener, me, clipping away at a hedge while a woman, Kari, gets into the pool on the other side of the hedge to do some laps. We were never in the same shot, so we filmed each other. After establishing the woman swimming, we see a shark fin coming up behind her in the pool, though the gardener doesn’t see this. He looks over after a beat to see an empty pool, though the woman’s towel and lemonade remain on a table. Assuming the swimmer has temporarily left the poolside area, the gardener drinks the lemonade and then goes back to clipping the hedge. The whole film was only a couple of minutes. We were delighted because we made it for a hundred bucks. We literally cut the film in the camera. Kari had storyboarded it, so we knew exactly what we wanted and how to shoot it. We added the sound of the pool and the clippers in postproduction, along with the credits. We got it booked on some paid cable outlets and made a few hundred dollars, but the main point for me was just doing it. We planned it, we executed it, we got it shown. To me, that made it a rousing success.

Now, I had first heard the word
feminism
during my run at university life in the early ’70s. I had grown up around strong women who took control of everyday life because they had no choice. They didn’t have to announce their roles on a placard or in a book. Theirs was a situation that just was. But with Vietnam protests came equal rights protests as well, and I was all for it. I had just never lived with a protester until Kari. I soon met many of her feminist artist friends, attended feminist art shows at places like the Women’s Building in downtown L.A., and stopped thinking John Lennon’s quote—“Women should be obscene and not heard”—was funny.

Art and landscaping were still male-dominated worlds, but Kari was enjoying success in both endeavors. Diane had also been a surviving artist in a male art world, but although I always saw her as brave and admirable, I never affixed the tag “feminist” to her. As with my mom and grandmother, it was implied, if not stated—they just got on with it. But American society was going through a tumultuous upheaval in the early ’80s, and the key word was
serious.
The women I met through Kari were largely doubtful that men could contribute anything of value to society. Many of them were utterly humorless. I noticed looks of tired skepticism
on their faces whenever I was included in their gatherings. Men were in the way for them.

One afternoon the telephone rang at our apartment and I picked up. A grave female voice asked for Kari. I said, “Just a moment. Who’s calling?” The solemn voice on the line snapped, “That’s none of your damned business.” I was so taken aback by the woman’s rudeness that I couldn’t even muster a comeback. I set the phone down. Fuming, I stomped into Kari’s workroom and exclaimed, “I don’t know who the hell this is but somebody wants to talk to you.” Kari’s expression said to me, “Now, you know how I feel when a man treats me badly.” I had been swept into a wave of social sobriety. Luckily, I think my maternal grandmother’s
Scandinavian heritage helped a portion of my DNA prep for these frigid elements of life.

Kari always breathed a small sigh of relief when I received a check in the mail for a job, but unfortunately a large, black embossed bunny appeared on the upper corner of the envelope above the Chicago return address. While Kari appreciated the fact that Christie Hefner had signed the check for $2,500 that would pay our bills, ranking high on the feminist movement’s archenemy list was my “real boss,” Hugh Hefner. The problem for Kari wasn’t Hef per se, but the objectification of women. But I also felt Kari had some jealousy and self-worth issues that arose in the presence of those air-brushed heads (and other parts) of the Playmates. It was all just entertainment to me, prose and photography. Kari enjoyed reading interviews in
People, Architectural Digest,
or
Art in America,
just not in
Playboy
or
Oui.
I often reasoned with her that the men’s magazines allowed for a freer, wider-ranging interview; the results were more likely to be out of the ordinary and unexpected. I didn’t have the same latitude in
Disney’s Adventures
magazine, where I published a bland John Candy interview.

Kari put up with my situation because she loved me and it was how I earned my living, but it was not ideal. She tried to accept it, but my working for
Playboy
was like a little splinter she just couldn’t get out. When her friends asked what Comrade Bob did for a living, I’m sure
Playboy
was never mentioned because her oh, so serious friends would disapprove. Kari was always encouraging me to do something else. She was trying to light a fire under my ass to challenge me to be a “serious writer” because writing for
Playboy
and its ilk could not be taken seriously. One day during the first years of our marriage, a conversation that began genially, placidly, rapidly ran off the rails. Kari was becoming unhappy with the direction her project (me) was taking.

She started delicately. “Why do you have to write for
Playboy?
”

“They pay well and they’re one of the only magazines that actually print Q&As. You know how much I admire the format. They’re the purest form of interview,” I explained.

“But those magazines are embarrassing. Why can’t you try somewhere else?”

“I am. In addition to the monthly men’s stuff, I’ve sent out query letters to a dozen magazines and the
L.A. Times, L.A. Reader, L.A. Weekly, TV Guide.
” My defense rested.

“But nothing is happening. I’m working everyday, sometimes seven days a week, and you’re just sitting around,” Kari said with hints of anger, frustration, and resentment in her voice. “Why can’t you write for
People?
” She was amping it up.

“Oh, yeah, that’s the answer.” The volume in my voice was rising, too. “You sound like my mother,” I said, knowing full well how much women like to be compared to their mothers-in-law.

“Yeah, well, she doesn’t have to live with you,” Kari volleyed.

“Kari, look, every magazine is a club.
People
is not only a club but one with a restricted membership. It’s a very tough nut to crack, and to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I’d even want to.”

“Because you’re doing so well?”

I looked around for some sandbags to crawl behind. The shrapnel was coming. “Freelance writing is not the easiest profession in the world,” I countered.

“And being a female in the landscaping business is?”

I could visualize Kari’s friends circling the wagons around her, with the telephone woman bugling the battle cry. “It may appear as if I’m not doing enough for your satisfaction, but I am trying,” I said sincerely.

“I have clients waiting for me everyday,” she said. “I don’t have time to sit around and wait.” Kari’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not trying hard enough. I think you’re lazy.” She waited a beat for the final fusillade. “You’re a failure.”

That word cut right to the bone. I explained to her that a failure doesn’t try. I was trying. What had precipitated this combat was a series of setbacks for me at magazines like
Los Angeles
—I couldn’t crack the editorial team and place any articles or interviews. As rejection letters piled up, I kept returning to
Playboy
because I had a solid relationship with John Rezek, the subjects for my interviews were pleasurable, the work was fun, and the money was good. Not to mention millions of people read the damned magazine. I was in a groove that I had carved out for myself, and it was tough to just give it up. Kari hurling the word
failure
at me was meant to be a wake-up, a shake-up, but it hurt like hell because I
was
trying, and I applaud anybody who tries. No matter how bad a project turns out or even if it doesn’t come to fruition at all, I feel you can’t fault someone who is trying. That person will always have my respect. I always rate the worst Netflix rentals at least one star because the damn thing got made. Knowing Hollywood as I do, I know that in itself is an amazing
achievement, and I celebrate that. In today’s world, every child receives a trophy, but I believe in winning and losing. Sometimes you win; sometimes you lose. But that word
failure
still hurts like hell.

My easygoing personality accentuated Kari’s black-and-white view of the world. Her parents had divorced when she was in high school, and she often had to act as mother to her two younger sisters when their actual mother did not. Generally, men seemed to let her down, starting with her father and moving through relationships with high school boyfriends and later with a ten-year-older art professor. Kari wanted to control our marriage the way she controlled the rest of her landscape, and yet my writing for
Playboy
was way out of her control. I was at risk of becoming just another of Kari’s disappointing knuckle-draggers, but I was not about to let that happen.

When Kari would ask, “Why can’t you fix the sink?” I would respond to her in my best HAL 9000 voice from
2001: A Space Odyssey:
“I’m sorry, Kari, your project will go 100 percent failure in thirty seconds,” and I would make light of the situation, though that voice could infuriate her if I kept the bit up too long. Like my dad, I took a “don’t make waves” position. I pointed out that I enthusiastically mowed the pathetic lawn of the rental house. I could caulk and paint. Make coffee. Clean toilets. Vacuum. Not to mention what seemed like the most challenging job of all—provoking a smile or laughter out of my sometimes humorless mate. I would follow Kari into her makeshift work area and joke about a rejection I had just received from a magazine. My telling of the lame reason behind the spurn would make us both laugh. She herself was not used to rejection. She either took on a design job or she didn’t. On rare occasions, property owners might change their minds and opt not to install her landscaping plan, but she got paid for the plan nonetheless. In contrast, I could do an untold amount of research, pitches, and sending of samples—a process that could take weeks—and yet still be turned down and not make a dime for my efforts. Kari couldn’t comprehend doing work for nothing.

These occasional rumbles notwithstanding, I felt a texture in my life that I had never felt before. I was growing up, finally shedding my youth, and being adult with a living, breathing female as my wife, and we were mostly happy.

26

The first time I met and interviewed John Candy for
Playboy
he told me he was a
Hogan’s Heroes
fan. He was fourteen when
Hogan’s
debuted, the prime demographic. John was a fan of my dad, and I was a fan of
SCTV,
which I had discovered thanks to my dad. Since that first meeting in Edmonton on the set of
SCTV
I had met with and interviewed John in Toronto, New York, and Los Angeles. I used the material like a fine, creative chef, not wanting to waste any of the wonderful product. As a result, one interview might be sliced and diced into several paychecks by going out in different portions to those who dined on celebrity interviews. The filet mignon went to
Playboy,
but other tasty morsels might be served up to
USA Today, Oui, Video Review, Los Angeles
magazine, the
L.A. Daily News,
or even
Disney’s Adventures.

Only once did I find myself in the stew pot: when I sold an interview with Candy to
Playboy
’s chief rival,
Penthouse.
I was paid $2,000 for a week’s work, which I thought was a small fortune, considering I had made barely that much for my share of the Jack Nicholson book, which took three years. Unfortunately, shortly after the
Penthouse
piece appeared I got a call from John Rezek. He made it abundantly clear that even freelancing for
Penthouse
was a poison carrot for a writer who wanted to keep his career at Bunny Headquarters. I tried to justify my treason by explaining that Candy had made three appearances in short succession in
Playboy
in various formats, including a pictorial in which he was made up as Boy George for the
Playboy
music issue. I went on to say there was a scene in his new film,
Splash,
where he was reading a
Penthouse
magazine, as if that justified everything. There was a long, uncomfortable silence on the Chicago end of that line. I pleaded that the interview was a one-off and promised I would never write for or even read a
Penthouse
again—which I haven’t. Such was the rivalry between the two magazines, even though I was strictly freelance and unsigned to any exclusivity deal by Mr. Hefner.
There could be no divided loyalties. The choice was an easy one for me, and I was grateful to Rezek for welcoming me back into the hutch.