My musical side had an unexpected renaissance in the new millennium, too.
I was sorting cassette tapes in my office one day, and I came across an unmarked one. I put it into the player and was surprised to hear Karen singing a song titled “It Always Sounds Good.” It was a rough demo and obviously a tune that she was writing. The lyrics were about a spouse considering a relationship with a former lover. That really piqued my curiosity. Since she had kept her vocal talents secret, I wondered if her lyrics were about a hidden affair as well. We’d always had a great marriage—honest, passionate, and full of laughter—so I approached her with the evidence (the tape).
Karen admitted that she was writing the song and that it was autobiographical. She also pointed out that the hero of her little ditty didn’t succumb to temptation as the song’s title, “It Always Sounds Good”, suggests. Her logic put my paranoia to bed.
We embarked on a musical career as a singing duo, with me playing guitar, one of my lifelong passions. It was fun and exciting, especially since we had been married for fifteen years. Every longtime relationship occasionally needs a boost, and this was a perfect one for us. I began writing songs for us to perform, too. One of my better efforts was a humorous story song titled “Pretzel on the Rug.” It was based on an unusual, albeit traumatic, experience I had at the White House. Let me digress ...
I was in Washington, D.C., doing publicity for a project, and was introduced to a woman who worked at the White House in public relations. She said that President Bill Clinton was a big fan of My Three Sons, and she arranged for a private tour of the West Wing when it was officially closed, Sunday evening.
Karen and I and the kids showed up as planned, and a guide escorted us on a walking tour of the White House kitchen, the Rose Garden, the Press Room, even the basement where the foundation for the first mansion still exists; the masonry footings still show the black burn marks after the British torched the place in 1814.
We arrived at the Oval Office at ten in the evening, far past Spencer and Hailey’s bedtimes. I came prepared, though, with a pocket full of pretzels hoping to keep the kids fueled up. Our guide gently swung open the office’s curved door, revealing the president’s private sanctuary. The Oval Office was the coolest stop on the tour. Spencer, who was seven at the time, was disinterested. He was worn out and starting to whine, so I slipped him a big pretzel to keep him occupied.
We stood in the doorway, behind a blue velvet rope, gazing at the inner sanctum of the most powerful man on earth. There was so much history that you could feel: Nixon plotting Watergate, Roosevelt plotting World War II, Clinton plotting his next (fill in the blank). I glanced down at Spencer to see if he was taking in this special moment just as he bit down on his pretzel.
To my horror, a large curled section, the part hanging from his mouth, snapped off and took flight like a Scud missile. Its trajectory sent it flying straight into the Oval Office, where it landed on the plush yellow carpet. It was about three feet into the room, within my reach, but my mind raced with concerns: Should I reach over the velvet rope and pick it up? No, I better not because our guide said to stay behind the velvet rope. Do not enter the room, under any circumstances.
I furtively glanced around; nobody noticed what had happened. Even Spencer was oblivious; he was more interested in licking the salt off his fingers. Once again my attention was drawn back to the offending pretzel on the rug. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. It’s like nothing else existed in the room except for that brown, curvy piece of junk food. A little voice in my head spoke up: “It is just a pretzel, no big deal. Forget about it!”
Our guide closed the curved door and that, mercifully, ended my moral crisis ... or so I thought.
We continued our tour, walking down the hall for a peek into the Chief of Staff’s office, and Spencer’s whining began again. Without thinking, I whipped another pretzel out of my pocket. Before I could hand it to my son, two secret service agents grabbed me like I was Squeaky Fromme back for another assassination attempt. They literally pinned me to the wall and pried the crusty hunk of fried dough from my hand like it was a revolver.
“Did you throw a pretzel in the Oval Office?” one of the agents sneered.
I was dumbstruck and sputtered, “I ... Huh? ... Well ... it ... uh ...”
“Did you?!” the other agent demanded. He was more determined to extract a confession than his partner.
I considered telling them the truth, which would have put the blame on my son. Then an Orwellian fear stopped me. This kind of incident might go on a permanent record somewhere. I decided to take the rap instead of exposing the true culprit, Spencer. He could be haunted by such an episode for the rest of his life knowing how wacky the government can be.
I whimpered, “It was an accident. It broke off and flew into the room. I didn’t want to reach over ...”
The first agent waved the pretzel in my face and growled, “You’re not allowed to bring snack food in here. This isn’t the city zoo, you’re at the White House!”
I nodded with shame, accepting my traitorous act and emptying my pockets of pretzels.
The agents still weren’t satisfied and gave me a quick pat-down, making sure I didn’t have a few Fig Newtons stashed in my underwear. They finally concluded that I was clean and shooed me away with disapproving scowls.
Later that night, after the tour, the family and I deduced that the Oval Office must be full of high-tech sensors that can detect foreign objects left in the room, things like listening devices or tiny explosives. We were impressed. It was very James Bond. Here are the lyrics to the song I wrote about the experience:
Pretzel on the Rug
Nobody touch it
It might explode
How it got here
Nobody knows
We’re the secret service
Today we found a bug
In the Oval Office
There’s a pretzel on the rug
Maybe it’s a camera
With a microphone and lens
To catch our private conversations
And our sneaky little plans
Probably planted
By a third world thug
In the Oval Office
There’s a pretzel on the rug
Don’t take chances
Always fear the worst
The last man standing
Is the one who shoots first
Assassins and rivals
Are usually hid
Behind the face
Of a junk food eating kid
Call the bomb squad
Get that danger loving man
Bring the robot
With its ever-steady hand
Lift it lightly
It might be a deadly drug
In the Oval Office
There’s a pretzel on the rug
Don’t take chances
Always fear the worst
The last man standing
Is the one who shoots first
Assassins and rivals
Are usually hid
Behind the face
Of a junk food eating kid
So they took it to the lab
Here’s what they found
Flour and salt
Cooked golden brown
Made by Nabisco
A snack that we all dug
In the Oval Office
There was a pretzel on the rug
There is a strange coda to this story. A few years after our visit, President George W. Bush actually choked on a pretzel. The incident made headlines because he nearly keeled over and died. I couldn’t help wondering if a second hunk of Spencer’s pretzel flew into the room and eluded the secret service’s high-tech sensors. President Bush might have accidentally found that piece of junk food under a sofa, popped it in his mouth, and gagged. It’s just a thought.
CHAPTER 48
A My Three Sons Movie?
There is one question that fans ask most frequently: “Will the
re ever be a movie based on My Three Sons?” I don’t think so, not with the remaining original cast members, anyway. Too many key people have passed on. There’s always the possibility that it might get an “update,” remade as a feature film. The show is certainly a brand name, something that studios are fixated on these days.
An updated version of MTS almost got made in 2002 when Michael Douglas was interested in producing it. I first learned about the project by reading an article in the Dailey Variety. It said that Douglas was developing a script and that he planned to star in the film playing Steve Douglas, the MacMurray role. Not a bad idea.
Michael Douglas was skilled in comedy and drama, just like MacMurray was. In fact, I saw a few more interesting parallels. Both actors had become huge film stars playing romantic cads in steamy potboilers (MacMurray in Double Indemnity and The Apartment and Douglas in Basic Instinct and Fatal Attraction). Both men were in their forties when they starred in their respective classic films. When MacMurray hit his fifties, and his days as a romantic lead were waning, he opted to play Steve Douglas, the eternally wholesome father. My guess is that Douglas, also now in his fifties, was at a similar crossroads regarding age and screen opportunities. MTS would have been a perfect vehicle for Douglas to find a new career niche. It’s all speculation on my part.
About a year after I read the article, I finally found out what happened with the project while guest-starring on the series, Will & Grace. Michael Douglas was also in the episode (playing a gay detective and nominated for an Emmy), so I got it straight from the source.
All through the Will & Grace rehearsals, I waited for the right opportunity to quiz Michael about his version of MTS. I was a bit hesitant, though. I wasn’t even sure if he knew that I was an original cast member. He gave no indication that he remembered me from the series. I wasn’t even sure if he knew that we’d met twenty-five years earlier on his TV show, The Streets of San Francisco.
A quiet moment finally presented itself. I sat next to him and said, “Hey, Michael, I heard you were planning to do My Three Sons as a movie. You knew that I was on that series, right?”
He quickly replied, “Sure, sure I knew that!”
I wasn’t so sure that was the truth. It seemed kind of strange for him to not mention it, particularly since I was somebody intimately connected with the show. Maybe he thought I might ask for a job. In any case, I posed the next obvious question. “So, are you going to do it?”
“Well ... probably not.” He sighed. “We’re still trying to get the script right.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“It’s been hard finding the right tone. We want to be true to the show’s original feeling, which was pretty “La-la-land in Pleasantville,” because we don’t want to put off the old fans. Then, again, younger audiences today expect kids to have realistic problems, and those are pretty rough: drugs, pregnancies, school violence. The writers haven’t found a way to bring those two worlds together yet. It looks like it’s not going to happen.”
Damn. I probably would have hit him up for a job, too.
All in all, though, Douglas’s comments were savvy as hell. I think he made the right choice about not updating My Three Sons and letting it remain a warm, fuzzy TV memory.
CHAPTER 49
Embracing Ernie
As I grew older, I began to accept, even love, Ernie. I had amassed a good body of work post- MTS, and that put the little bugger in perspective: Ernie was just a role I had played, not the only role I had played. In my mind, I was the child actor who escaped the dubious has-been label. Of course, that’s not how the producers of Dickie Roberts, Former Child Star saw me. They were rounding up the usual suspects (Jerry Mathers, Ron Pallilo, Todd Bridges, Gary Coleman, Willie Aames, etc.) to be in the film and poke fun at our pasts. I was also asked to participate and balked at the offer.
The theme of that movie focused on Dickie Roberts, a fictitious child star, who is now an adult has-been. The media loves to promote that myth, even if it’s a big stretch of the truth. Ex–child stars implode in public once in a while, but it’s far from the norm. The vast majority of professional kid actors go on to lead normal adult lives. It does make for juicy sound bites on TMZ, though, when someone hits the wall.
I had to think long and hard about associating myself with the film, even though it was only a cameo at the end. Thoughts swirled in my head: I’ve done some great work lately, in most of the best shows on TV. Do I really want to be part of a film that’s going to make fun of who I am? Aren’t I trying to escape the past and not reinforce the old image?
Then, another voice in my head spoke up: Who am I kidding? No matter how many Oscars may be in my future, Ernie Douglas will be etched somewhere on my tombstone. If you can’t fight them, join them.
Filming took place at Paramount Studios, one of my favorite playgrounds as a kid. I was part of a chorus of child actors singing at the end of the movie. The saving grace was the song we sang, Child Stars on Your Television. It was a witty lament about the pain of being haunted by our famous alter egos. My solo verse went like this: “Don’t ever say: Didn’t you use to be ? Or I’ll put your head through a vintage TV!” I could relate.
After the film came out, I continued working in hit shows like The Drew Carey Show, Crossing Jordan, and Strong Medicine (another recurring role as a doctor). It didn’t hamper my new image one bit. In fact, had I not done Dickie Roberts, I would never have connected with Adam Sandler, the film’s producer. A chance meeting with him eventually led to a choice role in one of his future films.
I was on the Sony Pictures lot doing an episode of The Guardian and decided to kill a little free time by walking over to the Happy Madison offices (Sandler’s company). As always, I was in search of past employers and future work. Unfortunately, the place was deserted; everybody had gone to lunch, so I left. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I walked back outside just as a golf cart skidded to a stop in front of the offices, and Sandler hopped out of the driver’s seat. He was in gym clothes and dripping with sweat, like he’d just come from a workout. For those of you who haven’t been keeping track, Sandler has had more hit films than any other star in Hollywood over the past twenty years. He not only makes his own successful films, his company produces hits for other stars, too. The man is an industry titan and one of the most well-loved people in a town full of scoundrels.
He was hurrying to his offices as our eyes met. I said, “Hi, Adam. I was in Dickie Roberts, the film you produced. You might remember me. I used to play Ernie Douglas on ...”
“My Three Sons!” Sandler blurted out. “That was one of my favorite shows! Every night it was on, our whole family would gather in the living room and watch the show together!”
Sandler went on to recite the plots of his favorite episodes and saying how cool it was to meet me. It was pretty goddamn cool to meet him, too. What a genuinely nice guy.
Before parting ways, I thought I’d throw out a pitch for a job. I said, “I really appreciate being in Dickie Roberts, but I’d like to be in one of your films.”
“Sure! Sure! I’ll put you in one of my films, no problem!” Sandler replied.
Over the next four years, I auditioned for every Sandler movie that he was about to make. It wasn’t my agent getting me through the door, either. It was Sandler telling his casting director to bring me in. He was holding true to his word.
I didn’t book any of those jobs, probably because I wasn’t the right type for the role. Regardless, I was blown away that such an industry mogul, a man with a thousand details a day to attend to, would remember our short conversation. What a guy. He eventually kept his promise.
CHAPTER 50
More Top Secret Projects
My next job audition was for a secret project, a Disney animated short film that was going to be released in movie theaters. I was told that all information about the movie was classified but top people at the studio were involved. My interest was piqued.
&nb
sp; I went to the audition and waited in a big room with all the other balding, academic types. A casting assistant finally led me into the office to read for the film’s director, Forest Whitaker. There are a few modern actors whose work I really admire: Jack Nicholson, Meryl Streep, Johnny Depp, Robert Duvall, and Forest Whitaker. He is the type of actor I aspire to be: versatile, passionate, and committed to his craft.
Whitaker divulged that Disney hired him to make a live-action introduction to an animated short film, The Legend of John Henry. The animated part of the project was already completed. He described it as a “labor of love” by a group of prominent studio artists headed by Roy Disney.
I read for the part of a teacher lecturing his class about John Henry, the mythological black railroad worker who could tunnel faster than a machine. After I got the role, I learned why the project was swirling in secrecy and controversy.
The Importance of Being Ernie: Page 21