Play On Words

[tomcerb]

What’s New at tommyerb.com (A Quick Tour) If you've visited tommyerb.com before, you'll notice things look — and work — a little differently now.... https://tommyerb.com/whats-new-at-tommyerb-com-a-quick-tour/

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1960 World Series With Papa This one's from the archives — a story I first wrote a few years back, and it's always been one of my favorites to tell.... https://tommyerb.com/1960-world-series-with-papa/

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The Play Catalog Is Now Live After years of writing, I finally sat down and did the unglamorous work: gathering every script I've written into one organized, browsable catalog.... https://tommyerb.com/the-play-catalog-is-now-live/

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Rehearsals Are Going Great: Meet the Cast of Don’t Talk to the Actors Rehearsals are in full swing for Don't Talk to the Actors, and this cast is bringing it.... https://tommyerb.com/rehearsals-are-going-great-meet-the-cast-of-dont-talk-to-the-actors/

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How a Watercolor Book Became a Television Series It started with a book of watercolor portraits. Newport artist William Heydt had spent years painting the faces of everyday Newport, Rhode Island — the fishermen, the chefs, the bartenders, the shopkeepers, the blue-collar workers who made the city run.... https://tommyerb.com/how-a-watercolor-book-became-a-television-series/

[tomcerb]

What’s Being Cast Right Now — A Southwest Florida Auditions Roundup Getting cast starts with knowing where to look. Here's what's currently open — or opening soon — across our Southwest Florida theater community.... https://tommyerb.com/whats-being-cast-right-now-a-southwest-florida-auditions-roundup/

[tomcerb]

The True Story Behind Building Paradise Every city has an origin story. Most of them have been told a hundred times. Venice, Florida's story has never been told on stage.... https://tommyerb.com/the-true-story-behind-building-paradise/

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The Stage Is Set After six decades in the performing arts - acting, directing, producing, and writing — I finally have a home online that tells the full story.... https://tommyerb.com/the-stage-is-set/

[tomcerb]

THE GREEK ARISTOCRAT

It was a Friday night in mid-January 1963, and I was finishing my paper route collections for the week. At eight years old, I'd just come off a banner collection at the end of the year—over a hundred dollars in tips. Life, for once, was good.

Looking through my collection journal, I noticed one final collection to be made. A customer I'd never collected from before: Niko K. The address was one I knew well—that very long dirt driveway leading to the Greek Revival house. My predecessor Dan had told me this customer paid in advance for a year. I'd been delivering papers to this house for months, leaving them on the porch, but I'd never knocked on the door. Never met the person inside.

Tonight, that was about to change.

I tossed my collection journal into my basket and headed down the dark driveway toward the dimly lit front door. I was uneasy, I'll admit. The porch door opened with that horror movie creak that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. When I stepped up to the entrance, I saw a beautifully hand-carved door with swirls and columns—nothing like I'd ever seen before.

I pushed the doorbell button. Inside, an exhausted bell rang. No response. I tried again.

This time, the inside of the house lit up like Fort Knox—like there was a spotlight on me. I saw the sheer curtains part slightly, then close. The sound of the door being unlocked. The door opened a few inches.

This was something I'd just seen on Alfred Hitchcock. It was very freaky.

A deep, raspy, yet oddly comforting voice said, "Please come in."

The door opened into the most opulent foyer I had ever seen. Deep dark tile floors sparkled like glitter, reflecting light from a gigantic chandelier with what looked like thousands of crystals. I was so awestruck I didn't notice the person who'd spoken wasn't visible. Then that voice again—less raspy now, more comforting—instructed me to come into the parlor.

The parlor. I believe this was the first time I'd heard any room called a parlor. To my right was an exquisite living space with ancient and expensive furniture—too formal to be a parlor. To my left, an old billiard table with leather-webbed pockets. That was the parlor.

When I entered the room, an enormous marble fireplace dominated one wall—large enough to almost walk into—with a grand portrait of a very regal man hanging above it. Could have been a king as far as I was concerned. Small antique tables lined the perimeter, covered with ancient objects. It was like walking into the den of royalty, or the very rich.

Then he appeared. An elderly gentleman in white linen pants and loafers with no socks. A white t-shirt beneath a V-neck Argyle sweater. His hair was white as snow and perfectly combed. He wore large black glasses and had a deep tan—unusual for January in Virginia.

"Please take your coat off and have a seat," he said.

I wasn't sure I wanted to do that. I explained I was there to collect the newspaper subscription fee.

"You can call me Niko," he interrupted. "I am your last customer for the night, right?"

I nodded.

"Take a break. Warm up before your ride home. I will pay you, and you can be on your way."

I placed his newspaper on the table and removed my coat. A fire roared in the massive fireplace. I walked over to warm my hands, and that's when I noticed the photographs on the mantle.

One showed this man with President Kennedy, Jackie Kennedy, and another man I recognized from newspapers—Aristotle Onassis.

"Is this you with President Kennedy, Jackie, and Aristotle Onassis?" I asked.

Before he could answer, I noticed larger pictures on the walls—him and Onassis standing in front of oil tankers, yachts anchored somewhere on the other side of the world.

"Yes," he said calmly. "Aristotle is my cousin. My mother is his mother's sister, and I have worked for him most of my adult life. That is President Kennedy and his wife Jacqueline when they visited us on the Greek Island of Scorpios. Please come and sit with me. How much do I owe you?"

I was eight years old, standing in the parlor of Aristotle Onassis's cousin, looking at photographs of him with JFK and Jackie Kennedy.

I explained it was sixty-nine cents a week. He laughed. "I am sure you know I pay in advance. Put me down for another year."

He laid a hundred-dollar bill on the table.

"I am not sure I have enough to break that," I said.

He laughed again. "Keep it as a token of my appreciation for the professional business-like manner in which you have handled my service. Your predecessor was not a wonderful entrepreneur. In fact, he was a little snot!"

Niko went to the bar and returned with two unusual glasses—martini glasses, though I didn't know that at the time.

"These are martini glasses. I have mixed us both a dry martini. Have you ever had a martini?"

"I don't even know what a martini is," I admitted.

He poured liquids and ice into a silver shaker, sealed it, and shook vigorously. Then he poured the clear liquid into both glasses and sat across from me.

"Now you have to be careful about martinis. They can sneak up on you. They have a rough taste on the very first sip, but after a few sips, you get used to it."

He demonstrated how to hold the glass—underneath the bowl, above the stem. I mimicked him.

"Stinygiasou," he said, and took a sip.

I followed his lead—and immediately spit it out. The taste was awful.

Niko laughed heartily.

"What are you laughing at?" I asked, wiping my mouth.

"That was my first reaction too. That, my friend, was gin. My father gave me my first martini when I was six, and he told me 'Carpe Diem'—which in Latin means, Seize the Day. Now, drink up, and be a man."

I raised my glass again and slowly sipped, watching Niko. He chuckled when I managed to get it down without incident.

"What does Stinygiasou mean?" I asked.

"To your health."

That night I sat with him, taking careful sips of my martini while he told me about the old country. His family and cousin Aristotle had lived in Smyrna—now Izmir, Turkey. After World War I, their families lost everything and became refugees fleeing to Greece after the great fire of Smyrna, which burned for almost ten days. As many as a hundred thousand Greeks and Armenians perished.

He described being a young boy, crammed with his family on the water's edge to escape the flames. He lost his parents, who were hiding in a church. His cousin's parents—Socrates and Penelope—saved him.

After about an hour, I realized how late it was. When I tried to stand, I had to grip the table for balance.

"Go slow," Niko said. "You will get your sea legs in a moment."

I told him I'd bring his change next time.

"Keep it. And do not be a stranger. If the inside porch light is on, and you have time, please join me for a martini and delightful conversation."

I left Niko's house that night feeling like I had just met a friend. Although he was over a half-century older than me, we had connected. The one thing I knew was this friendship needed to be kept secret. I couldn't share it with my parents or friends, and I didn't want to. I had much to learn from Niko, and over the next several years I would find comfort, education, and friendship from this remarkable man.

This was the beginning of a mentorship that would eventually lead to a guitar, music lessons with a man who'd played with Paul McCartney, and recording sessions at Legrand Records. But that night, I was simply an eight-year-old paperboy who'd made an extraordinary friend.

I walked home slightly buzzed from my first martini, with a hundred dollars in my pocket, having just met Aristotle Onassis's cousin.

Unbelievable?...but it happened.

[tomcerb]

I GET BY WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS

April 1964. I was about to turn ten years old, and I was facing a dilemma that seemed insurmountable. I wanted a guitar more than anything in the world. I had the money from my newspaper route to buy one. But my father had forbidden it. He didn't think his son should play guitar and listen to rock-and-roll music.

The solution came from an unexpected source—Niko Konialidis, my elderly Greek customer who lived at the end of a long dirt driveway on my paper route. Niko was no ordinary customer. He was the cousin of Aristotle Onassis, and over our regular evening visits—where he'd teach me to drink martinis and tell me stories about the old country—we'd become genuine friends.

One evening, as I sat in his parlor warming myself by the fire, I told him about my birthday wish. "What I really want is a guitar. A good guitar, and lessons on how to play," I said. "But my father doesn't think his son should play guitar and listen to rock-and-roll music."

Niko sat back in his chair and began laughing at me. "What are you laughing at?" I asked.

"You're ten years old, almost a man! You don't have to always listen to your father, do you?"

He had a point. "Actually Niko, I hardly ever listen to my father."

"Then what's the problem? If you hardly ever listen to your father and he is going out to sea in a few weeks, what are you waiting for?"

The plan was simple: I could order my guitar and have it delivered to Niko's house. My father would never know. Niko even offered to pay fifty percent of the cost and said he had a good friend who taught guitar lessons—I could take them right there in his living room.

After looking through the catalogs Niko provided, I chose a 1964 Flat Top Gibson LG-1 Tobacco Sunburst. The price was steep at $125.00—an expensive guitar in 1964. I felt guilty wanting such an expensive guitar, but Niko didn't even flinch. "That's an excellent choice for a first guitar," he said. "I got off easier than I thought I would."

On April 4th, the day before my birthday, I gave him my half—$62.50. He grabbed my hand, looked me in the eye, shook it, and said so sincerely, "Happy Birthday, my friend. Welcome to adulthood. I hope you are blessed with all your desires." Then he gave me a big, burly Greek hug.

My tenth birthday was significant and memorable—exactly as Niko had promised.

A few weeks later, I rode my Whizzer over to the music shop to redeem my certificate for yearly guitar lessons. While waiting for the instructor to come out of the backroom, I noticed pictures on the wall—a man standing with Paul McCartney, laughing and shaking hands. Several of them.

The man came out. He was the same one in the pictures.

"Do you know Paul McCartney?" I asked immediately.

"I do. I played with Paul McCartney years ago when I was in London."

He looked at my certificate. "So you're the young man that Niko was telling me about?"

It was at that point I realized Niko and he were friends. His name was Cliff Gallup.

I reached for his hand to shake it, remembering what my Papa had told me about handshakes—that you can tell everything about a person from their grip, their eyes, and how they present themselves. Cliff's grip was firm and his hands were soft—the hands of a musician. His eyes were kind, with weathered wrinkles around them.

"My name is Tom, and it's a pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Don't call me sir. Just call me Cliff."

We set up a schedule: Tuesday and Thursday lessons each week.

As I was leaving, Cliff said, "Niko told me about your dilemma with the guitar and your mother and father. I have a solution if you are interested. Just mention you met me at the talent contest, and I offered you a rent-to-own program with lessons that you could afford. I will back you up. Then you could take your guitar home and throw yourself into learning how to play."

"That might work. That's brilliant."

It did work. My mother agreed without much resistance. "As long as you can afford it, you should give it a shot."

My first lesson was Tuesday, May 5th, 1964. There was no way of knowing at the time just how powerful and significant that day was going to be in my life. The chain of events that would be created would make waves with ripples that would spread throughout my entire life.

I arrived at the record store a few minutes early. I called out for Cliff. No answer. As I approached the doorway with beads hanging, I got a whiff of a very familiar smell—the sweet smell of marijuana.

When Cliff emerged, he took me to the back room. It looked like a full recording studio—I knew what a recording studio looked like because I'd been on the Bozo Show. We would record skits there.

Cliff began my education not just about guitar, but about music itself. "I've been involved in some pretty big bands working with some trend changers," he told me. "I've toured with them in Europe. Worked with two Beatles once. I played lead guitar for Gene Vincent and the Blue Caps and backup guitar for Gary U.S. Bonds."

"I don't know who those people are," I admitted.

"Exactly," he said, and smiled.

Over the next several weeks, Cliff gave me albums to listen to after our lessons—all recorded right there in that studio by a producer named Frank Guida and Legrand Records. Tommy Facenda. Gene Vincent. Gary U.S. Bonds. The Church Street Five. This was the "Norfolk Sound"—music history being made right where I was taking guitar lessons.

Then came Thursday, August 6th, 1964.

When I arrived at the record store, the parking lot was full of cars and a couple of Volkswagen vans. I opened the door and the air was very smoky and full of the sound of instruments tuning and drums pounding.

A man in a black suit came out and seemed surprised and disturbed that I was there. "Can I help you?"

"I am here for my lesson with Cliff."

He called for Cliff, who came out saying, "Tommy, you didn't get my message? We had to cancel today's lesson because we're recording today."

Just then, the bell rang as the front door opened. Entering the store was a line of musicians, most carrying instrument cases of all sizes and shapes. I recognized a couple of them from their album covers—Tommy Facenda and Gene Vincent.

They all stopped and greeted the man in the suit with handshakes and hugs. They all called him Frank.

Frank Guida. The owner of Legrand Records.

After the room emptied and only Cliff, Frank, and I remained, Frank's demeanor completely changed when he learned who I was.

"You said you called Niko to leave him a message," Frank said to Cliff. "Is this the kid that Niko told me about?"

"Yeah, Frank. This is Tommy. Niko's friend, remember?"

Frank approached me and reached out his hand. "Hello Tommy, my name is Frank Guida. I am the owner of the store and studio. I have heard a lot about you from my dear Greek friend Niko. When Niko told me about your Garage Beatles and that you wanted to learn how to play the guitar, I asked Cliff if he would take you under his wing to get you started. How is it working out?"

"Great, Mr. Guida."

"Please call me Frank or Frankie. That's what my friends call me."

Then Frank turned to me and said, "Tommy, would you like to sit in on the recording session?"

All I could do was nod. My throat was all choked up.

Frank led me into the studio where there were probably a dozen musicians. I was told to sit in the booth—the glass room where the technician was sitting. There was a chair in the background behind the audio mixing board. I had a front-row seat watching accomplished professionals make records and music.

I watched Cliff, my teacher, and was impressed by just how good he was at playing the guitar and singing. I watched Frank move from the studio to the booth and back, giving instructions, loosening his tie, talking about different sections of the song.

I learned a lot just watching the process. That experience sitting in a chair in the back of a recording booth helped me in many of my directorial positions throughout my life—not just in the arts, but in all my people management positions.

Looking back on it now, the pattern is clear. If my mother hadn't taken me downtown the day of the Bozo audition, I would have never been on the Bozo show. If I hadn't been at the bowling alley when my mother was at work, I would have never met Henry and gotten my paper route. Without the paper route, I would have never met Niko. Without Niko, I would have never gotten my guitar. Without the guitar, I would have never met Cliff and taken music lessons. Without Cliff, I would have never met Frank and sat in on recording sessions with renowned musicians who helped shape rock-and-roll, blues, and jazz of the 1950s and 1960s.

One thing is for sure: this pattern never ended and still goes on to this day.

At ten years old, I had a six-degree separation from Paul McCartney through my guitar teacher. I was in the right place at the right time with the right people, watching history being made.

That day alone defined who I was going to become and what would always be important to me.

Unbelievable?...but it happened.

[tomcerb]

EPISODE 1: I AM THE WALRUS

Working on the Bozo the Clown Show

Picture this: Norfolk, Virginia, 1960. I'm six years old, and my mother is dragging me and my two sisters through downtown on a bus trip. Life was pretty boring and normal back then. My father was out to sea for nine months, and I was stuck playing with dolls with my sisters - well, I didn't actually play with dolls, at least not yet.

As we're walking down the sidewalk, I notice something across the street - a giant line of people, mostly moms with their kids, all dressed up like they were going to church. My curiosity got the better of me.

"Mom, can we go find out what's going on over there?"

We crossed the street, and my mother asked one of the women in line. The woman said, "This is the children's audition for Bozo the Clown Show."

Now, I watched "Bozo the Clown" every single day at 4 o'clock. The next words out of my mouth were immediate: "Mom, I want to audition for the Bozo show!"

My mother, in true form, didn't think of me at all. She looked at that long line and said, "There is no way I'm getting in that line and standing here all day long for you to audition for the Bozo show. Forget it."

I was upset. I mean, I never got upset in front of my mother or threw tantrums, but this was one of those times where I came close.

Then what happened next was the most unbelievable thing that to this day completely leaves me questioning my mother's mental state.

The woman in line - her name was Sandy, and her son's name was Ronald - says to my mother, "If you want to leave your son with me, he can go in with us."

Remember, this was 1960, and the world wasn't as crazy as it is now. But still.

My mother said, "Well that is very nice of you. I could go down to the mall and on my way back later on get him. What do you think Tommy?"

It all sounded good to me, so I said sure. And in a matter of seconds, I watched my mother walk away with my sisters, leaving me with complete strangers she had just met on the street.

I made the best of it. Ronald showed me this script that all the kids needed to memorize for the audition. It wasn't a lot of words, but I figured - since I watched the show so much - they wanted it to be big and happy. So that was what I went with.

When we finally got inside and our names were called, I was one of four boys standing on stars on the floor. The director asked us each to step forward and say, "Gee Bozo, I am so excited to be here with you today."

There was Preston - a pretty boy in designer clothes. There was Henry - a country boy with dirty shoes, overalls, bright red hair and freckles. Then there was Ronald, who looked like he was going to cry and delivered a silent, lackluster performance.

Then it was my turn. Since I was lucky enough to see all the other guys, I felt like I had an advantage. I stepped forward, looked at everyone at the table, and blurted out, "Gee, Bozo, I am so happy to be here today!" and stepped back.

I got a callback. Preston got a callback. Ronald did not.

Now here's where it gets interesting. When the callback came, my mother still hadn't returned. Sandy called my house and my mother answered - she had gone home! She left me downtown with strangers and went home without checking on me. What kind of parent does that?

But the callback audition began. Two boys went in and came out crying. Then Preston went in and stayed longer than anyone else.

Then it was my turn.

I decided to control as much of the situation as I could. I walked right up to the table where Stu Kerr - the man who played Bozo - was sitting and offered him a handshake. "My name is Thomas Erb. Are you Bozo the Clown? If you are, I am a huge fan. I have seen every episode."

The director asked me questions, which I answered energetically using facial expressions I'd practiced in my bathroom mirror. Then Stu pushed his chair away, walked over to me, took my chair, and sat down so we were eye-to-eye.

"Do you know how to make a scene?" he asked.

I didn't know what that meant, but I figured it was something we made up on the spot. "Yes, I do."

"OK, we are starting now."

His face completely changed, and he became Bozo right before my eyes. We did an improvised scene together, and I went all in - talking about the games, the toothpaste commercials, how my sisters and I fought over who got to sit in front of the television.

When I finished, everyone in the room was speechless.

At the end, when all the finalists came back into the room with their parents, the director made the announcement: "We have chosen Thomas to be the principal and Preston to be the alternate."

Sandy - who had promised to drive me home - immediately said she was leaving and would give me a ride. But Stu stood up and said, "That won't be necessary! We have spoken to his mother, and she has instructed us to take him from you and bring him home."

Stu smiled and winked at me.

And that's how, at six years old, I became Bozo the Clown's principal kid, doing commercials and skits on the show, getting paid fifty dollars a week - a good paycheck in 1960.

My mother left me with strangers she'd just met on the street, went home, and I ended up landing a television job.

Unbelievable?...but it happened.