Thursday, December 12, 2013

Be A Real Frutti, Not A Flat-Footed-Floogie!

December 12, 2013
   I lost a day somewhere, or gained one. Thought today was the 13th. Yesterday was a blur. Had lunch with Marshall Trimble and our temporary town manager Rodney Glassman at the Adobe in the Biltmore. Sat outside, beautiful day. Afterwards motored over to the Dan The Man's studio for a full afternoon of layout and graphics for our joint project "The 66 Kid." In addition to layout and spreads we worked on cover comps building from these noodles:

   Afterwards, drove further down into the Beast for a storytelling affair at a converted church at Third Street and I-10. Told the story of George Warren in about four minutes flat (we were supposed to keep our stories to five minutes and the guy in front of me went for seven).

   That's the seven minute guy with his arms folded. It was an intelligent audience and I hate to admit it, but I think some of them actually believed me. Ran off the stage, grabbed a chicken kabob in the lobby and a glass of wine and drove home. it's an hour run. Got home at 7:30. Long day.

   Got up this morning and worked on three different versions of cover ideas. This is one of them.

Daily Whipout: "The Baddest Boy In The Whole Damn Land—The 66 Kid"

   Before I drove down to Dan's I grabbed my morgue file on Route 66 and in that stack of photos, postcards, newspaper articles and old magazines was a July 1956 magazine (with the title ripped off, which is what newsstand sellers used to do when they had to prove a magazine didn't sell, they would cut off the title and send it back to the publisher to prove they hadn't sold it. Those quaint days are long gone and today we get a "report" on how many have been sold and we have to take it on faith, which is ridiculous, but, I digress). The magazine is "Rock And Roll Songs", according to the publishers page, which is printed out of Derby Connecticut. Great old photos of fifties singers—Patti Page putting on horn rimmed glasses!—but in the back are letters to the editor that all read alike, like this:

   "I fell out when I glimmed your latest mag. I think your inkings are frantic. Rock and Roll is the craziest, and I'm hip. I copped the word 'frampton' for cool or crazy. I hope you dig my little ink phrase—'cause I'm trying to get on to the hip ways."
—Doug "Dugger" Miller, Detroit, Michigan

   "We 'warm-charms' down here think R 'n' R is the mostest! Instead of speakin' of such persons as cool cats, we hippers say 'warm ducks.' When some deal is the most, we call it 'real frutti.' A smart girl is a 'keen-Irene.' One who can't be-bop is a 'FLAT-FOOT- FLOOGIE."
—Buddy Pappas, Fort Worth, Texas

   "Skin Me, My Man: dig my jive, if you can. I've got correction bit to hit you with. It's about that daffy-nition for a more square square (that's from nowhere). A cube should be a 'square in 3-D.' Now we're hip—so don't slip on down to 'fool's paradise.' Instead get with this cool advice."
—Michael Weisser, New Haven, Connecticut

   And lest you think Michael "Whizzer" Weisser is some long-gone-daddy, here is the photo of him they ran with the letter:

Hep Cats Writin' to Father Bear!

"Later, Alligator!"
—Old Fifties Saying that sounds surprisingly sedate compared to these other crazy expostulations