Andrew and I had been ensconced in the fire-hazard hills above the City of Angels for about a week and fortune had smiled down upon us like it thought we were somebody else. I’d shared a chat and a giggle with a half-naked woman, we’d eaten at The Sizzler and my apartment in Oshawa began to seem like a badly decorated, foul-smelling dream. By the time The Fifth Estate arrived, Nicholls & Vickers had become as Hollywood as a high colonic gift certificate.
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“My pants are down around my ankles and I’m bent over my desk. What do you want?”
This colorful interrogative was bellowed over the phone to our agent by a Fox executive in Business Affairs.
Perhaps I should back this story up a smidge:
It’s Tuesday night and I have just been diagnosed with a severe case of bronchitis. Shit!!!! Not what I need right now. Tired and hacking up a lung or two the doc has just put me on some mighty powerful antibiotics. I take them for five days but they remain in my system for two weeks. I’m in London staying at my mom’s and seeing to a customer and their installation so I have no time to whinge. (….and Dr. T., if you’re reading this I was forced to go to a walk-in clinic by my sister which is why this is the first you’re hearing about this.) So, now that diatribe is over, on to the column….short and sweet.
Stan Freberg passed away on Tuesday, April 7th, 2015 in Santa Monica, California. He was 88. Despite his incredible success in the recording world (albeit in the 1950’s), radio, television and advertising (Freberg is in the Advertising Hall of Fame after all), somehow, Stan wasn’t hip enough for the TMZ generation. They’d rather report on yet another lame Kardashian/Jenner photo op, so Stan’s passing didn’t even merit a mention on their popular website or TV show, although his obituary did make the New York Times.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 