Frank & Charli

by Frank Yandolino

  When Frank and Sanjaya were writing the book about his life and experience with American Idol, the cowriter would call every morning. We would do everything we could to wake Sanjaya up after staying up all night hanging out at comedy clubs, then texting on his phone and playing video games till the early morning before going to sleep, and waking up again early in the afternoon ready to work when the rest of the world was about to end their day. It was a lot of work; Sanjaya was high maintenance. It was Frank and the writer who wrote most of the book. He was never ready to write. He did not want to do it, since if he did he would have to put some effort into it, just like his music. Sanjaya would do as little as possible, just enough to fake it or get by. In one memorable part of the book he revealed that he could in a flash turn on as he called it his American Idol Smile, and that it worked every time. Funny, when I see President Obama flash his smile it is identical to the false American Idol Smile that Sanjaya would flash all the time.

  After the book was finished, when he gave a copy to his mother, she told him it was mediocre and made him feel very bad. She never gave him praise for anything.

  He went to Costa Rica with Frank who got him on the reality show I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! I thought he was great, he really should have won, but again something political happened and he did not make it to the end. I think Holly, another contestant on the show, really fell for him and the producers saw a great angle of Sanjaya and Holly. Sanjaya, however, couldn’t do it; he did not respond sexually, so that was it for him on the show.

  Again, Jill decided Sanjaya did not need a manager, that she would be the manager. It was a plot to get control of his money again, like she had done before Frank took over. She knew he would not let her near it, so she worked her poison on Sanjaya and forced him to leave Frank. I know Sanjaya was disappointed. Frank and he had a real connection, like a father and son, but nothing ever happened for him again. That was really sad because we put a lot of time and effort into Sanjaya, and he was so talented. He had his moment and that was the end. I must say after all we have done for Sanjaya, not only Frank generating a lot of money for him by recording and distributing a record, shooting TV commercials, writing a book, starring on a reality TV show, doing endorsements, shows and events, but also giving him my home and taking care of him, feeding him, doing his laundry, and treating him like a son, I was very surprised and hurt by Sanjaya just walking away without saying thanks or goodbye. I heard he was singing karaoke in a pizza place somewhere in Seattle. It will take years for him to figure out what he should do with his life, but first he must get rid of his sister and mother. That won’t be easy.

  After Sanjaya disappeared and Lena Pepitone fired me for the third time, I’d had enough of working on everyone else’s life and dreams. I decided to just do me all the time, like Hemingway, retire to my beloved boat and just fish and write this book, smoke cigars, and drink rum. That is all well and good, but it’s not working. My phone keeps ringing and I realize I have to keep answering it. It is what I do. I am still and always will be looking for my next ball. “Does anyone want to play?”

  CHAPTER 24

  Woodstock on Broadway

  In the summer of 2010, the Woodstock saga, of course, continued. Lang called me with an idea he has had to produce “Woodstock on Broadway.” Buried in the conversation was a subliminal “Don’t tell Artie yet until I get it off the ground.” Michael keeps telling Artie, “Don’t worry; you will be involved,” but no one believes it, not even Artie. They’re already arguing about who came up with the idea for Woodstock on Broadway.

  Michael invited me and Charli to stay with him at his home in Woodstock, along with selected guests who were involved in the original festival in some shape or form. The purpose of the visit was to contribute our thoughts on what Woodstock on Broadway should be. About a dozen of us sat around the living room, voicing our opinions one by one. No one had a clue what would or could work. I was the last to talk. A hush came over the room as I took my original glass vial filled with psychedelics from 1969 out of my pocket and placed it on the table.

  “We should all take a hit before we continue, to get us in the right frame of mind.” Everyone freaked out. I continued.

  “Since a baby was actually born at Woodstock ’69 and everyone and the media talked about it, I think a baby should be born at every performance, just like in ’69. We could go live to a hospital delivery room, and project the image on stage in the theater. It would be great press.”

  Needless to say, since then Michael never asked me to participate in Woodstock on Broadway again. Shit, it’s going on right now. Artie just called me to touch base. He brought up my book.

  “I hear you’re writing your book.”

  “I am.”

  This of course led to Artie’s favorite topic: Woodstock.

  “So,” he announced, “I’m working on my own Woodstock on Broadway.”

  “Oh, with Michael?” I asked. Sarcastically.

  “No, on my own. You’ll be involved. Don’t worry.”

  I am, I thought. I won’t be surprised if Woodstock on Broadway happens … and Charli and I have to buy our own tickets to see it. Finally, Artie used the words that I knew he would: “Cheech, don’t tell Michael.”

  The real Woodstock never happened. Its true spirit of peace and love, we are all one, was a myth that lasted for three days. So, it happened, sure; but it didn’t last. Today there is no Woodstock Nation. Its true message disappeared in smoke and mirrors. Those first three days of Woodstock ’69 were the first Berlin Wall, the first Tiananmen Square in China, the first Tahrir Square in Egypt. None of the original ’69 festival planners had any idea what was about to happen. A million united people showed up, with no violence, and generated the momentum. There is no doubt that they grabbed a big ball of opportunity.

  In my opinion, though, no one had a clear direction in mind where to run with the ball, and they all fell down before they got to the goal line. I have said many times to Michael and Artie to keep it going, but don’t forget what was started.

  The Woodstock Nation was supposed to be the birth of a new generation, a generation of Green Peace, Save the Whales, and No More War. It should have symbolized what was right and wrong with our world. The name Woodstock and its logo should have become the Good Housekeeping seal of approval for products and events worldwide. It was nothing like the Monterey Pop Music Festival in 1968, which was mainly a pop music festival. Instead, though, Woodstock only still exists today in name, several festivals later, and they’re still missing the boat now about big business and mixed messages.

  The film clip of Richie singing “Freedom” from the Woodstock stage should have been broadcast with every freedom protest across the world, from Serbia, China, Africa, Egypt, to Libya, to Wall Street and throughout Europe—wherever people need to be free to express and demonstrate their beliefs and make a stand against totalitarian governments and dictators. Even though we in the United States still have these rights they are slowly being stripped away by our own growing government, our increasing dependence on entitlements, and an overall moral breakdown as demonstrated in our TV shows, movies, music, and videos where anything goes. When I read what I have written here I wonder how I, one of the original Hippies, a pioneer of social and democratic reform and freedom, have changed.

  Just the other night I was on the phone with Artie; as I hung up, Charli came home. “Get ready,” she said, “we have to leave for dinner soon.”

  “Where are we going?”

  She sort of scolded me. “Did you forget?”

  “Forget what?”

  “About our dinner, with Michael.”

  I had not forgotten. Charli never told me we were to meet Michael, Anne Lang, his ex-wife, and his new wife, Tamara, along with several others, to celebrate his birthday at the Peking Duck House in Chinatown. When we get together, no matter how much time passes between meetings, it is like the three of us—Charli, Michael, and I—have seen each other every day.
We laugh and reminisce about the great times and experiences we have shared for over forty years.

  Charli brought us back as soon as we sat down.

  In Charli’s Words

  Sitting at the table I couldn’t help but say, “I guess we should have a duck for the table.”

  We laughed at the memory, traveling back in time to the Chateaus of France and England. At one point, Anne asked me about the mannequins in our apartment.

  “We don’t have them anymore.”

  One of Michael’s twin daughters, now in her thirties, who had joined us at the table, jumped up from her seat. “What do you mean you don’t have the mannequins anymore?”

  Shala was distraught, although seeing such a strong reaction made me smile. I realize those mannequins made a profound, lasting impression, and many people ask about them.

  Soon, though, the conversation came back to the present.

  Michael stopped eating, put down his fork, looked at me, and said, “Artie told me you’re writing a book.”

  “Yes, I am,” I proudly answered.

  “What’s it about?”

  “You, and everyone at this table.” They all choked on their duck. I told him more than I should have. The authorship of ideas tends to be confused when you are dealing with Michael and Artie. I could literally hear his wheels churning.

  “How do you like writing?” He fiddled with his fork, moving the food around his plate, never looking up. “Can you remember all the parts?”

  He seemed to be hoping I couldn’t. Waiting for my answer, he then looked at me with suspicion and began to reaffirm things, as if he could positively influence my memories. But I remember everything.

  I love Artie Kornfeld. I will always remember his big heart and funny humor that fights through his devastation from losing his wife and daughter to drugs. I personally don’t know how he lives with it. Every year, we talk about Linda and Jamie and losing my beautiful brother James. Every time I think of them, I cry.

  In 2019 it will be the fiftieth anniversary of Woodstock. I will be seventy-five years old. Nothing changes.

  I am very blessed and lucky to have lived at the same place and to have kept the same phone number for thirty-six years. This affords me the luxury of people from my past calling me, oftentimes years after we’ve last spoken, along with the many new people who call and say, “I got your phone number from so and so.”

  Just recently, I got such a call from an acquaintance who wanted my advice regarding an idea that had to do with the Mayan calendar that predicts the end of the world in December 2012. He introduced me to Joe Campo Jr., who is in the construction business running a company he took over from his father, Joe Senior. In the 1940s, Ray Kroc, then new owner of McDonald’s Hamburgers, hired Campo Construction to build his first 1,500 franchises. Later on Joe Jr. expanded the business and helped his father build shopping malls and private homes.

  Several years ago, he became one of the first builders of survival shelters. The concept they had was to raise capital and launch a new business to build survival sustainable living geodesic domes. I must say Joe’s concepts and designs, along with several proprietary-patented products, impressed me, so I agreed to join him and to explore the possibilities.

  I then had a thought. I believed there was a market to sell these domes, but I suggested that we expand our business to include what I knew was a bigger market, incorporating Joe’s inventions and patents to build sustainable grow rooms that would allow private growers and farmers to grow vegetables hydroponically and organically in our self-contained grow rooms.

  I am convinced because of the world’s current economy that our grow domes are a perfect product. This product is needed in America as well in Africa, South America, India, China, and other countries throughout the world that need to have better resources for growing their own food.

  It never ceases to amaze me how often grabbing one ball leads to another. In this instance, alongside our grow dome products, we developed what we came to call a healing wand tracking system. It was born out of the need for indoor marijuana growers; apparently the farmers lose a substantial amount of their plants because of mold, mildew, and spider mites. So, we offer a solution to that problem, which also works for fruits and vegetables. Our wand system travels above the plants, emitting an ultraviolet light and spraying a healing, non-hazardous natural oil solution that cures the sick plants. We copied this formula from the NASA space program. And this ball, too, led to yet another. After we developed the tracking wand I said to Joe, “Why don’t we design a handheld mini wand that can be used in the home, in nurseries and flower shops?” So we did. We built a prototype and just filed for a patent. Just like that, the Plant Doctor Healing Wand was born.

  I have decided I will keep going, keep looking for the next ball of opportunity, knowing, as I have said before, that I am extremely blessed. Eventually the phone rings with my next adventure. Today I signed an agreement to represent the Sanford H. Roth Collection, owned by Francesca Robinson Sanchez, the granddaughter of legendary actor Edward G. Robinson. Francesca’s is one of those stories of someone who knows someone who knows me. It seems she got my name and was aware of my past experience with Joe Franklin Productions, the public company I formed to package and distribute Joe’s vast collection of memorabilia. Francesca’s collection comprised several thousand items from the world famous photographer Sanford H. Roth: original photographs, negatives, notes, stories, film of the most famous stars, celebrities and artists, travel photos and other one-of-a-kind items. Some of the photos include Albert Einstein, Judy Garland, Marlon Brando, Sophia Loren, Matisse, Picasso, and hundreds of others, including James Dean.

  James Dean and Sanford, known as “Sandy,” became very close friends. Dean adopted Sandy as his father after living with Sandy and his wife Beulah. Sandy was in Dean’s Ford station wagon driving behind Dean in his new Porsche Spider on the way to the Salinas Road Races on September 30, 1955, when Dean died in a late-afternoon crash. It was Sandy who took the now famous post-accident photographs of Dean’s mangled Porsche with him in it.

  The Roth project and the Plant Doctor are both in the development phase. The ball is in my hand. The cookbook Charli mentioned is done, complete with photos, stories, and recipes based on the dinners Lena helped Marilyn Monroe prepare for her New York guests like Arthur Miller, Frank Sinatra, and Joe DiMaggio. As these balls are in play I have my eye on several others in the air.

  Some things keep going and the ball keeps bouncing. I am now in discussions to package several other famous photographers and nostalgia collections, including the Sanford Roth collection, and do what I did with Joe Franklin’s memorabilia in 1987 when we launched that public company. So I called Joe, who was thrilled to hear from me, and said he would be happy to make his collection available. Bert and I are having lunch with him next week.

  I just got an email from Michael Rubenstein, one of the producers of Tony award winning show Pippin. He wanted to talk to me about a new off-Broadway show that he was working on about Marilyn called “Naked Marilyn.” I grabbed the opportunity to get involved, as this topic was something that I have been covering for many years. When I wrote my original story twenty years ago about Marilyn, the concept was to launch the story on Broadway and later through a theatrical film. Meetings with agents and talent are underway.

  CHAPTER 25

  Charli, My Yellow Brick Road

  One thing I can say for sure about Charli is that our relationship grows stronger every day. It feels as if we were meant for each other. I can’t imagine being with someone else or that anyone else could put up with me like Charli does. Through all I’ve done, Charli has always encouraged me to be who I am and to do what I do, and I make sure to do the same for her. We share everything equally and spend a lot of time together; we kiss each other good night, every night, making sure never to go to bed angry at one another. Sometimes when she is not aware I look at her and smile, communicating without words and reflecting on a past
moment. When we walk down the street together we often hold hands. Just like Papa Pedone said, we’re like “two weeds bending in the wind.”

  My character is likened to the following metaphor most of the time. I share half of my English muffin, giving the person I’m sharing with half of the top half, and half of the bottom half. We both get exactly the same, not I get the top, you get the bottom. This is true if I care about you. Sharing with people I don’t care for, on the other hand, I take the whole top half or whatever half is bigger, and of course if I don’t like the person I may just offer them a bite or offer nothing at all, then declare the Brooklyn rule of “no a’kees.”

  Unlike myself, when people meet Charli, there is no split. They like her immediately; I have never met anyone who didn’t. She adds a balance to my character, which can separate a room as soon as I walk in. I can’t help it; my aura comes out. Maybe it has something to do with my long hair and beard, as Mrs. Benson of the Gurdjieff Institute warned me. In any case, people tend to react to my character right away; they judge the book by its cover. This is most evident when I enter a room full of people. Without Charli by my side the room seems to part like the Red Sea.

  People feel it and see it in various ways, sometimes as a threat, sometimes enviously and resentful of my confidence and freedom. As a matter of fact, though, that’s how I like it. I basically don’t trust people. When the room parts it’s easy for me to see who is who, the likes and the don’t likes. Charli understands me, welcomes and respects my character. She is my social alter ego, bridging the gap for me. That’s why I send her in first. When Charli is there with me, she brings both sides together.