But there were the older kids, too. One kid, about nine years old going on nineteen, said, “What would you do if I reached up there and pulled that phony beard right off your face?”
Santa replied, “If you even touch Santa’s beard, you might not live long enough to grow a beard yourself.”
Being heard during the cocktail hour, Santa received bags of mail not only from children but from adults as well. One lovely lady wrote, “Dear Santa, my husband and I listen to you every evening. The more martinis we have, the more we love Santa.” It was a merry Christmas, but Santa was canceled on December 26, so he and Mrs. Claus decided to go to California as soon as the school year ended.
• • •
While we were in Florida, Dorothy Jo and I did some modeling for Nelson Morris, a New York photographer who came down to Palm Beach to shoot photos for a gasoline company. Hers was the face that launched a thousand ships—presumably with cargoes of gasoline. I was a smiling gas station attendant. For years in Florida, our faces peeked out at you from ads on road maps.
During one of our photo sessions, I told Nelson that we were heading west, and he kindly suggested that I meet a colleague of his in Hollywood who might have some work for me as a model until I could land employment in radio. He gave me his colleague’s card, for which I thanked him (more on that later).
Dorothy Jo and I arrived in Hollywood on August 13, 1950. I had no job, no agent, no contacts of any kind. We were candidates ripe for starving. I remember we were up on Los Feliz where it turns left and comes down to Franklin, on the eastern edge of Griffith Park. We looked out over the city, and it was a blanket of smog. Dorothy Jo turned to me and said, “Barker, what have you gotten me into?” But in a very short time, she came to love Hollywood, and she loved it until the day she died. How could we not love Hollywood? It has been so good to us.
Upon our arrival in the entertainment capital of the world, the first item on the agenda was an apartment, which Dorothy Jo promptly found on Las Palmas, just south of Hollywood Boulevard, and only two blocks from the offices of Ralph Edwards Productions, where I would sign a contract six years later.
It was a large two-story apartment house with Mediterranean-type architecture built around an attractive courtyard. We had a first-floor one-bedroom apartment with a dining area. The appliances were furnished and Dorothy Jo wasted no time buying furniture. Within a few days, Dorothy Jo, who loved to entertain, was ready to have a party. All we needed were guests, and it wasn’t too long before we had those, too.
Our apartment was only a half block north of Sunset Boulevard, a short stroll for us to see the famous Hollywood Christmas parade in December of 1950. We thought it was very exciting to wave to the stars as they rode by. Dorothy Jo and I had the pleasure of riding in the Hollywood Christmas parade together several times during the ensuing years. In 2007, I was grand marshal of the Hollywood Christmas parade, and was joined in the grand marshal’s antique limousine by my brother, Kent, and his lovely wife, Beth. My heart ached as I waved to the folks at the corner of Sunset and Las Palmas, where Dorothy Jo and I had stood and waved to the stars more than a half century ago.
Once we were ensconced in our Hollywood digs, I went to visit the photographer whose card I had been given back in Florida. His studio was a short drive from our apartment on Vine Street south of Sunset Boulevard. Unfortunately, he had no work for me, but he suggested that I go see a friend of his who might be able to use me. In fact, he picked up the phone and called his friend, who agreed to see me immediately. I drove down Vine to Santa Monica Boulevard, where the friend who might be able to use me was located. I was ushered right into this fellow’s office by a woman of sixty or more who wore too much makeup.
His office was reasonably well furnished: dark wood, very masculine. The man was wearing a good-looking white shirt, a nice tie, and no coat. He had a good tan and his hair was carefully combed. I remember the whole scene vividly, because although it took him about ten minutes to say so in carefully couched language, the guy who might be able to use me offered me an opportunity to work in pornographic movies.
I laughed all the way home. I couldn’t wait to tell Dorothy Jo. I rushed in and said, “Honey, I have been offered a role in a pornographic movie.”
Dorothy Jo said, “Did you take it?”
• • •
In 1950, there was an FM radio station on Sunset Boulevard, not too far from our apartment, that was intended to become the mother station for an FM network. I decided to try to get a job as a salesman at this FM station. I wanted to sell some sort of audience participation show and host it myself. I made an appointment with the sales manager, a Scot named Worthy Murchison, who was destined to become a good and very amusing friend. Worthy and I talked for ten or fifteen minutes, which was all it took for him to determine that I had never sold anything, but our conversation had been fun. Worthy had a dry sense of humor that I thoroughly appreciated, and although I was in his offices under false pretenses, he seemed to enjoy our conversation, too.
He said, “I am about to go out to the Cracker Barrel Market in the San Fernando Valley and pitch a show to originate in the market. You go with me and help me sell it. If we do, you can host it.”
I said, “Let’s go!”
We went, and we struck out. But in addition to being sales manager of a radio station, Worthy managed an apartment house, and on the way back to Hollywood, we stopped at an appliance store for something Worthy needed for the apartment house. It was Rick’s Appliances on Ledge, east of Lankershim Boulevard in North Hollywood.
Roy Rick was a big, broad-shouldered, good-looking guy who had hitchhiked out to Los Angeles from Iowa with only eight dollars in his pocket. He had a series of jobs and ended up cutting meat in a supermarket, where he had a chance to meet lots of housewives. Perhaps it’s better said that lots of housewives had a chance to meet Rick. Rick (people seldom called him Roy) decided that he should take advantage of his popularity in that part of the San Fernando Valley, and he decided that an appliance store in North Hollywood would be a good way to do it.
That’s the store Worthy and I walked into in August of 1950. Worthy, Rick, and I talked long enough for Rick to learn that I had just arrived in Hollywood and was seeking employment as the host of an audience participation radio show. Suddenly Rick said, “Bob, I like the cut of your jib. I want you to do a show for me.”
As I was wondering what a jib was, Rick went on to say the auditorium of the Department of Water and Power office on nearby Lankershim Boulevard was available to him free of charge. Rick said that the water and power company would provide a home economist and all supplies required for a cooking class. They would also provide a freezer demonstration, a washer and dryer demonstration, or a demonstration of any other appliance—so long as it plugged in.
All of this would be free, Rick said, if we could fill the auditorium with women who could be considered prospective purchasers of appliances powered by electricity.
“What do you think, Bob?” Rick asked.
I said, “That’s great, but what about the cost of radio time and my salary?”
“I’m a Hotpoint appliance dealer and a Zenith television dealer, and I sell lots of both. They’ll split the tab if you can bring in the women.”
“I’ll bring them if I have to drive by and pick them up,” I said. And I did.
I should say we did. Dorothy Jo and I sat down that night and put together some ideas that were time-tested winners in Missouri and/or Florida, and I was back at Rick’s Appliances the next day. Rick had the show sold to Hotpoint and Zenith before I got home—well, almost. The deal was signed, sealed, and delivered very quickly. Worthy Murchison was a part of it, in that he represented the radio station KWIK in Burbank and we bought the time from him. Worthy was a busy young man: KWIK, an FM radio network, and an apartment house. When did he sleep?
Dorothy Jo and I had arrived in Hollywood in August, and we did our first show for Rick in September. The show was very s
uccessful. Women were coming from the far corners of the San Fernando Valley to attend. Rick was seeing lots of new faces in his store, too. We were all happy.
But the best was yet to come. The folks with Bekins Furniture sales division heard about the show and paid us a visit. As a result, I did a few television commercials for them. It was my first appearance on television, and Dorothy Jo and I didn’t even own a television as yet. The show was a unique method of selling appliances, and it wasn’t long before all the manufacturers were sending representatives out to North Hollywood to scout the action.
One of these scouts was Hal Klapper, a young executive with Westinghouse. Westinghouse had a talent show on the local NBC television station called Your Big Moment. Some of the people with Westinghouse weren’t happy with the emcee, and Hal convinced them that I was the man they needed. Your Big Moment was my first television show as the host. I remember my opening was: “Welcome to Your Big Moment, the show that gives you—if you have the talent—your big moment on television.” We had some really talented people—and a few who were not—on the show. Hal Klapper and his wife and Dorothy Jo and I became close friends, too.
Incidentally, the Department of Water and Power Building where I emceed my first show in California is only three blocks from where the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences complex now stands. In 2004, I was inducted into the Television Hall of Fame right there in the academy theater, and my bust is mounted on a pedestal in the academy courtyard. Dorothy Jo and I made the right decision when we aimed our yellow Studebaker west.
• • •
I was excited and very pleased to learn that Morris Tallon, an executive of the Southern California Edison Company, was in the audience for our show one day. Better still, I stole a glance at him from time to time, and he was laughing and applauding. I figured that had to be a good sign, and I was right. A couple of days later, I met with Mr. Tallon in his office in downtown Los Angeles. He was not a man to waste time with small talk. He promptly said, “Bob, you are doing one show a week out there in North Hollywood. How would you like to do six shows a week for Edison, all over Southern California?”
“I would like that,” I replied.
And with those words, we launched a relationship of almost eight years for Dorothy Jo and me with the Southern California Edison Company. We did two shows a day, three days a week, in towns and cities from the beach to San Bernardino in the east, and from South Los Angeles to Lancaster in the north. Talk about experience—I got it, hours and hours of it. And no matter how much talent you have for doing audience participation, there is no substitute for experience.
Our shows for Roy Rick in the Department of Water and Power auditorium and in the Southern California Edison Electric Living Centers were immensely successful because they were unique in character. To the best of my knowledge, no utility had ever used a radio show to attract women to an appliance demonstration, and an audience participation show was the perfect vehicle.
To open the festivities, Dorothy Jo went out onstage, introduced herself, and expertly established a party atmosphere that prevailed throughout the day. An Edison home economist conducted an appliance demonstration that was informative and fun, and then out I came to select contestants to start the radio show. I chose some contestants before we began taping, but not all. I wanted folks in the audience to know they still had a chance to participate right up until sign-off.
One of the staples of our radio show was a contest in which half a dozen ladies discussed such subjects as “my huband’s worst fault,” “my own worst mistake,” “how to get a man,” et cetera. Of course, the audience would choose the winner. Sometimes Dorothy Jo wrote a commercial to the tune of a well-known song, and I would have fun auditioning ladies by having them sing the scales. Eventually I chose a quartet and they sang our commercial.
Maybe I would go on a search for the lady who had been married the longest, the oldest lady, or the lady with the most children. The most middle-aged lady was sure to shock the winner. At that time, the average age of a woman in the United States was seventy-two, so you were middle-aged at thirty-six. Some women couldn’t handle that.
One time I was looking for women who collected things and an elderly lady raised her hand.
“Madam, what do you collect?” I asked.
She said, “Sonny, I’ve been married four times, and it was quite a collection!”
How could a show with that kind of material possibly miss?
• • •
Although things were progressing splendidly, there was an uncertainty lurking in the background of all of our radio activity. I was still in the naval reserve, and the Korean War had broken out by this time. There was some speculation (actually, I considered it a strong possibility) that I would be called up for duty. All naval aviators were automatically in the naval reserve for a number of years. I was checked out in the Corsair, a propeller-driven plane, and they were using it at that time in Korea. I remember thinking that the navy might call me up to get more training in the newer jets, or they might want me to come and fly Corsair missions. Either way, I considered it a distinct possibility, and I remember thinking that if I did go back into the service, I might just stay in the navy because I did not feel like coming back out to Hollywood and starting all over again. But apparently my destiny was sealed because once again the war ended without my help, and I never piloted another airplane in my life.
Dorothy Jo and I also developed and sold our own local television show during this period. This show was on KHJ on Vine Street. I met Jerry Mertens, who was with an advertising agency, and Jerry had a client, an independent druggist who was not fond of the large drug chains. This client had a product he wanted to market and promote. He believed he had the solution to teenagers’ complexion problems. The product was called Teen Tone. He wanted a television show that would attract teenagers, who would hopefully buy jars and jars of Teen Tone.
Dorothy Jo and I created a talent show and we focused on high school students. We called it Talent in High. We took talent from all the high schools in the area. Believe me, there were some talented young people available. We had singers and dancers and musicians of all kinds, and the show was very successful. Nevertheless, Talent in High ended after thirteen weeks. It was not because people did not like the show. The problem was marketing the product Teen Tone. There was no place to buy it because the creator refused to do business with drug chains. He insisted on selling it to independent drugstores, so it was almost impossible to find Teen Tone even if you wanted to buy it. I think I still have a jar or two. Maybe I should try eBay.
• • •
As I look back on this time, I recall how happy Dorothy Jo and I were. We were making friends and exploring Southern California, and it was an exciting time in radio and television. Hollywood, as always, was the epicenter of the action. The country was also still in the throes of post–World War II jubilant spirits and solid economic prosperity, and nowhere was that more evident than in Southern California.
One time shortly after we arrived in Hollywood, we were invited to a party on Hollywood Boulevard in an apartment not far from Hollywood and Vine. We were delighted to receive an invitation to a bona fide Hollywood party, one that was not far from us. It was one of those classic grand old apartment buildings built around a courtyard. It was a nice old apartment, and it was a big party. There were a lot of people there of every description, and the party got loud, and then louder, and then still louder. The apartment manager came out and complained about the noise, but the complaint was ignored. In fact, the party got even more raucous, and the manager called the police. The manager came and told the fellow who lived in the apartment, the host, that he had called the police, but the manager added, “You go ahead and make as much noise as you want. Have as big a party as you want because tomorrow you are gone. You are out of here.”
Then the police arrived. Dorothy Jo and I did not want to discuss the party with the police if we could avoid it, and neit
her did a lot of other people. They started disappearing in all directions. Dorothy Jo and I chose to step out onto a fire escape, and it just so happens that we were joined out there by a midget. He was a very nice fellow and funny, and we enjoyed talking with him while we waited for the police to leave. I remember Dorothy Jo and I looked at each other, and it occurred to me that we really were a part of the Hollywood scene now—we were at a party on Hollywood Boulevard, hiding from the police with a midget on a fire escape.
Our life became even more Hollywood only a few years later. Dorothy Jo and I were living on Laurel Avenue in an apartment just above Sunset Boulevard when I signed to do Truth. I had received the call from Ralph, but I had not started the show yet. It was December 1956. I walked down to the cleaners near our apartment. I used to talk to the lady who managed the place. I said, “I have some news for you. I am going to host Truth or Consequences.” It was already a famous show that had been on for years on radio and television. I told her that it was coming back, and I was going to host it. “This will be my first national show,” I told her with pride.
And this lady looked at me and said, “Yes, now it is all up to you. You got your break. Now it is all up to you.”
And I thought, “You know, she is right. It is all up to me,” but I knew that I had Dorothy Jo in my corner. She was always there for me until October 19, 1981.
Earlier that year, we learned that Dorothy Jo was terminally ill with inoperable lung cancer, and we had a lot of talks. One time she said, “Do not be afraid of being alone. You will find great comfort and tranquility in solitude.” And she was absolutely right. I have found great comfort and happiness alone. I miss her tremendously, but I have found some peace in solitude. I enjoy being alone and reading or being with my dog and rabbits or writing or working in my office or whatever. She created a home for me, a home of comfort and security, with our animals and the things we loved in life, and I still live in that home. I have a routine in which I take great comfort.
Priceless Memories Page 15