As I got to know Dianne better, I was able to learn about some of the modus operandi employed by pseudomentalists. Using the phrase “pseudomentalists” leads one to believe that I think that there are legitimate mentalists. I don’t, because I’ve never seen one—and I’ve talked to dozens.
One afternoon, while the big show was on, Dianne started to tell me about the “science” of numerology. I think even Vincent Lopez would have loved Dianne, because even though she knew that she was involved in a gaffed act, she believed in numerology. Her legitimate name was spelled with two n’s, making a total of six letters. Being somewhat of a Bible student, she became interested in Ester, and I’m pretty sure that in the Bible it’s spelled E-s-t-h-e-r. She decided to bill herself as Lady Ester because her husband’s name was Cy. She came to the conclusion that having five letters in Ester and two in Cy would bring the total to the lucky number seven. Being the seventh child in the family, she believed, through some mystical way, anything with the number seven would bring her good fortune. Dianne’s life with Cy was certainly not a happy one. It was obvious to me, even as a youngster, that all the numerology in the world would not bring Dianne happiness. And yet, she was a “go-fer” for all of the prediction gaffs.
As an example, when we’d get to a town, if she heard that there was a great tea-leaf reader or a mitt camp (palmistry operation) in town, she’d spring for loot to get a little advance knowledge of the future. I remember one morning in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, she went into town to have her tea leaves read. About ten minutes before she did her afternoon performance, she told me that this woman—the tea-leaf reader—was the most remarkable clairvoyant she had ever met Later that afternoon, after her performance, she saw me on the lot and called me over. I guess by this time I had become—at the age of thirteen—her father confessor. She was very unhappy and discouraged. When I questioned her, she told me that a woman in her audience bought four scopes that afternoon to have four questions answered. The woman, of course, did not recognize Lady Ester as a patron of the shop. The great clairvoyant tea-leaf reader was in the tip, looking for assistance from that mental marvel, Lady Ester!
Say, let me save you a trip to the archives in the public library. Don’t bother to look up the facts about that “tragic accident” that occurred at a railroad crossing near the high school in Ashtabula, Ohio. It’s not recorded. You know why? It never happened. That was just the talker’s introductory pitch for Lady Ester.
And, wherever she is now, if she happens to read this book, I have only the fondest memories of the lovely lady. And if she’s no longer with us on this plane, I have no doubt that she’ll possibly get a chance to peek at the book. She’s possibly a spirit entity acting as a spirit guide to some medium that I’ve interviewed in the past, or will in the near future. So again, Lady Ester, whether you’re still with us in this incarnation or preparing for a new incarnation, I’m indebted to you for much knowledge and many, many pleasant memories.
In September, the great kick was over. I had found out three things: one, that I was hooked on show business; two, that psychic phenomena and the occult world in general were things I wanted to learn a lot more about; and last but not least, that selling is the greatest form of self-expression in the world—at least to me.
Soon I was making small loot with a door-to-door pitch pushing household items. Then I dropped the classroom to edge up into the business scene. Before I was seventeen I had promoted my way into the managership of a Wurlitzer piano store. With six feet already to my credit, no one doubted that I was in my early twenties.
Then I got another bug-bite: wanderlust; and I started to move East. To the Big Town, to Broadway. I became an usher in the New York Paramount, and followed that with an assistant-managership at the Winter Garden Theatre. By now, the glamour of the stage really had me going. I decided to put to test my long hours of tenor banjo practice. I hit the road with a fairly successful group and soon had an eighteen-piece crew swinging, with me up front. The band never achieved an international reputation, but I can make this one slippery claim to fame: I once followed Rudy Vallee into a major ballroom. Tired of the split-week bit, I went into the vaudeville hoofings.
During one dead season I grabbed off the management of a pair of Siamese Twins. Later I did a small magic gaff, which turned into a pseudo-mind reading act. When a couple of pretty good partners got married. I decided to get the tenor banjo out of the mothballs, form a group and go on the road again. A few months of one nighters, and I brought the boys back to New York for the taxi dance hall tour. However, by this time I really had passed the twenty mark, and so had the century. Things were bad, really bad, all over. Onetime tycoons were working in stores that had no customers, former clerks were pushing apples on the streets for nickels, street peddlers had starved the year before. They were bad, bad days. But I was one of the lucky ones—I was young. Also, I hadn’t even begun to take advantage of my greatest talent. It was then I found my field. I began to sell.
It wasn’t easy. I got by. Looking back, I still get a kick out of how some guys kept themselves in action. Take the Chinese Corn Punk Pitch. This involved going down to Paddy’s Market on Ninth Avenue and buying several cakes of yellow laundry soap for pennies. Then you went to the nearest Chinese Laundry and conned the proprietor out of his last week’s Chinese newspaper. Now you headed for your pad, to slice the bars of soap into 1 1/2” cubes. You cut the newsprint up into pieces of the right size and wrapped up the numerous little blocks of soap. A final touch of red ribbon for color, and off you went with your new product—Chinese Corn Punk.
Attracting a tip, you explained the wondrous benefits of this imported, oil-pressed Chinese Corn Punk. Extolling the great relief from pain it gave to all those who suffered from foot problems, you challenged anyone to try it on his or her corn. So great is the power of suggestion that not once did any customers ever deny immediate relief came to them from the magical remedy. Having made the turn, and blown the tip, you had a little loot to keep you in action for a few days.
Or course, there were times when you couldn’t even spring for a couple of bars of soap. Times when you were really tap city, and had to dream up a gaff that didn’t require capital. Then you turned to the Envelope Pitch. You didn’t like it, but you were hungry, and what could you do?
First you found a hotel with a writing room. Picking up envelopes, you moved on to the nearest cafeteria, where you appropriated a couple of dozen paper napkins. Now the second were inserted into the first, and the envelopes were sealed. The napkins were to give the envelopes a little “body.” Then you hit Forty-Second Street, and started to build your tip.
“Now, what am I talking about, friends. Step closer; I don’t want to raise my voice. That’s it. A little closer.”
As the crowd bellied in, you would usually notice a woman on the edge of the group. This was good. It gave you a chance to hook the men.
“Gather in, friends. Ah, ladies, good evening. I’m afraid that what I have tonight is strictly for the men, but thank you for stopping by. Now, friends, when I say for the men, that’s what I mean. That is, if you’re among the lucky purchasers of the evening.”
By now you had dropped to a near whisper, causing the tip to huddle about you. This you re-enforced.
“Friends,—I can’t attract unnecessary attention,—just gather in. What I have here is something every red-blooded American male wants to own—needs to own, given the opportunity…and this is the opportunity. I can’t relate all of the remarkable details of these…pictures of…but I don’t have to tell what they are; you all look like adult men. Believe me, when you see them, ten pounds of ice won’t cool you off. The strongest, straightest pix you’ve ever seen in these United States. Now, let’s move before we’re joined by the law. I’ve only a few packages for an absurd one dollar, a buck, a skin…things are a little rough and I’m trying to raise some quick cash; otherwise they would go for the regular fin a throw. Important thing. Don’t stand around. Take them
home to your bedroom, pull down the shades, plug up the keyhole, and in the faint glimmer of a single lamp—look at the hottest photographs you’ve ever seen. Gentlemen, we’ll have to hurry. One, sir. A dollar a copy. Three there. Buy and move on. One, there. Four there. All different. Right, sir. Two left. You, sir? Thank you. Thank you, gentlemen. Now go home and look at what you have had the good fortune to acquire, and I know you’ll say to yourself—tonight, in Times Square, I met a young man and he did me—good.”
Once I arrived in New York completely tap city, with just enough loot to pick up some very low line juice squeezers and a few “demo” oranges. On my first morning, it started raining. One day blown. I ate two, out of four, cans of beans. Two days. I ate another can of beans. It tasted pretty much like the other two. Three days. I ate the last can of beans and didn’t taste it at all. Today, I’m still not a big bean man.
Finally, the rain stopped and the sun came put cautiously, like it was afraid someone would hit it in the eye. Down to my customers I went. I’d hardly gotten past assuring the small tip that I wasn’t trying to sell them anything when John Law appeared. We took a little stroll. Half an hour later I was standing before the judge, hearing him say:
“You get off this time, but don’t come back.”
Grabbing my merchandise, I made a quick exit. Twenty minutes later I was working again. A couple of nothing sales and there was another cop. Off we went, to the courtroom, and—believe it or don’t—there was the same judge. I thought for a moment that I’d really had it, but with a frown he told me to get out of his courtroom and not to come back, unless I wanted thirty days in the local sneezer.
Now, being pinched by the mendicant squad was nothing new, but I decided I should be a little more cautious. This time in and out of court rooms was costing me too much of the long green. So, figuring it was a strictly down day, I stashed my tripes and kiester where you paid on the go-out instead of the come-in, and then went out to seek a solution to my monetary problems. An hour’s concentration produced nothing but a tired head and an empty stomach, and so I decided to touch a pedestrian for a buck for something to eat. It was the only way for me to get it, since I was now completely tapped out.
An easy looking mark moved by and I hit him for a single, but this was just not my day. He was a detective. Off I went again to the courthouse. Naturally, I don’ have to spell it out for you. My case came up and there was my good old “if-I-see-you-again-you-get-thirty-days” friend on the bench.
Let’s face it, neighbors; I had no choice. I gave him a square count. What did I have to lose?
“Yes,” I admitted, “I have been here twice before, today. But I obeyed your instructions. You told me not to peddle merchandise without a license. I didn’t have gelt for the reader. In fact I was, and am, stoney broke. Also, I didn’t want to disobey the court. So, when I got really hungry, I panhandled.”
The judge looked at me for a long time. Obviously he was deciding whether to give me thirty rough ones, or send me to Bellevue. Finally, he spoke:
“Young man, I admire honesty. Maybe you guessed that and took a calculated risk. But that’s all right, because I admire intelligence, too. I’m going to give you one more break, but, mind you, it’s the last one. Get out of this court, and stay out. Understand me, this time I really mean it. Don’t let me see you here again. Good luck.”
And with that friendly warning, he leaned down from the bench and shook my hand, calling for the next case as he did.
Before I knew it I was out on the street, breathing the free, fresh air again; I became conscious of my hand. Opening it, I looked down at a folded dollar bill. The judge’s contribution to one man’s better times. I had been fortunate enough to run into, not a dispenser of law, but a judge of justice. Justice is what you get when you mix equal parts head and heart.
That’s the story about the day I was arrested three times. But amazingly, that wasn’t the end of the bit. Almost twenty-five years afterwards, a quarter of a century later, a guest walked into my studio to do a show. We got to talking and I found out that his father was the judge. When you think that in this city alone there are more than eight million people, it kind of makes you wonder. The circle often completes itself, even if it takes twenty-five years.
Going from one action to another, including fan magazine photographer and manager of one of the biggest camera stores in the country, I finally decided to set up my own operation out in New Jersey.
Soon I had 25,000 feet of floor space inside, and room for a thousand automobiles outside. The Long John Auction was under way, and so was I. You name it, I had it. Genuine (well, almost genuine) wall hangings from a Buddhist monastery. Watches, comforters, electric kitchen equipment, and on and on and on. If you didn’t see it when you came in, it would be there when you walked out. The turnover was tremendous, the action was strong, and I was getting publicity. One mag did an exposé of the highway auction operations, singling me out as an honest practitioner. An Argosy article called me “the man who can sell anything.” Luckily, Robert A. Monroe, then vice-president of the Mutual Network, saw the story and filed my name away in his mind. Later, driving toward his home at Croton-on-Hudson, he saw a tremendous crowd of parked cars. Getting closer, he saw a sign 41 feet long and 32 feet high. Simply and modestly it said, “LONG JOHN.”
Hearing my pitch gave him the idea that I should be on radio. Shortly, that’s where I was, thanks to him. Accompanied by a very talented guy named Charlie Holmes, I did a half-hour network bit in the late afternoon. What can I tell you except that the Charlie and John Show was evidently predestined to need the services of Frank. Oh, sure—you know Frank. Frank Campbell, the mortician? Let me let you in on the inside. Man, was it a deadly show! Then didn’t even bother to embalm it. They just let it die. There were no services.
Then I got lucky again. Robert Leder took over as Vice President and General Manager of Radio Station WOR. He, and Robert Smith, Vice President in Charge of Programming, decided to give me another crack at the action. Generously aided by William McCormick, then Sales Manager of WOR but today Vice President and General Manager of WNAC-TV and WNAC, as well as the Yankee Network in New England, I was in again. This time with a slight twist. I interviewed people for three, four or five straight days to get the real story. You might say that I originated interviews in “breadth.” Then a better idea came along, in the very popular “Music from Studio X,” and LJ was tapped out radio-wise.
The all-night session was being very capably handled, in those days, by top radio personality Jean Shepherd. His unfortunate mention of a product for which no commercial time had been bought made it necessary for management to make a change, and I had the privilege to be offered the midnight-to-five spot. Naturally, with Shep’s talent and following you don’t stay away very long, and soon he was swinging with his own show again.
My present all-night, every-night show began about six years ago, and has grown ever since. Today, we have a file of more than fifty “panelists” who appear on the program from time to time. From this larger group about twenty come on fairly frequently. Six or eight of these are what I call my “regular guys,” although one or two are women.
Two or three “panelists” appear with the guest on each program. Many are specialists chosen for a particular show because of specific talents, education or interests. Several are very skilled in the art of extracting the inside story from a guest. Some are razor wits; others have a hammer-like humor. A few are so versatile they can appear on almost any show.
Although the program originally became famous because of the weird and offbeat people I had on, today the program covers every possible subject—bar none: The following list will show you the kind of action we have going during a given thirty-day period. It might be any time in a recent year; actually it is the schedule of the month of August, 1960:
1. European Society (also special report on execution at Sing Sing prison)
2. Modern Philosophy
3. The Fas
test Gun Alive
4. Crafts and Hobbies
5. Yoga and the Far East
6. History of Submarines
7. Hillbilly Humor
8. Dangers of the Middle East
9. The American Consumer
10. India and World Affairs
11. Extra Sensory Perception
12. Woman’s Place in the World
13. A Pastor and Witchcraft and Murder
14. American Politics
15. “One World” Philosophy
16. Houdini
17. Parapsychology
18. Literature
19. Notorious Trials
20. Weather Control with Thought
21. United Nations and Communism
22. Art of Pipe Organ Building
23. Worlds of Rome and Paris
24. Art Films—Voodoo
25. Spiritualism Colony—Exposed
26. Corporation Monsters
27. Sacco-Vanzetti Debate
28. Problem of Narcotics
29. The Civil War
30. Folk Music and Folklore
I should mention the three people around the show who help get it on the air. First is David Field. A degree in geology earns him the nickname—“Rocks.” He takes care of all my recording equipment, and in general is my technical assistant. Then there is Anna Marie Goetz, who invented a combination crossword puzzle and anagram called the Long John Nebel Files. She is responsible for my answering those letters I manage to answer, and for keeping the office in some sort of order.
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