One doesn’t often get a harem girl to help celebrate one’s birthday. Not in Midtown Manhattan, not in 1980…
My birthday is something of a sore point for me. My single mom tried hard to scrape and save to find something nice for me each year… y’see, Christmas is only a few days away and gee, Li’l Eliot, two presents… just not this year… (“But Mom, the Agent Zero-M Sonic Air Blaster is only $18!” >thud< sound of mother kissing the deck…)
You think advertising pressure is bad now, why, when I was born (1954) if you didn’t get your kid a major national brand name toy—Senator Joe McCarthy would personally visit your home to accuse you of being a Communist! (But mom really did try, even if she had to put on the Samovar a couple of years going, expecting company… Why one year I even got a Helios 21—and I really want you to look that up. Your eyes will bug from your head. Pertinent to my nascent Mr. Technical abilities was the need to solder together the control panel… They encouraged a 7-year old to solder a rectifier into the controls and plug it into the wall! Don’t you say a word about my mother’s judgement! I was precocious and there were illustrated instructions! But I did get the thing to fly and terrorize my poor cat, Rapenzell (sic)!)
This December [and that’s December 19th—coming up fast, chums! –“Cash” Brown] I was celebrating in January—again among the minor unfair aspects of having one’s birthday late in the year. Crammed against all the real holidays. But a delay most welcome because I got to have my own hoochie-koochie dancer!
Dickie McKenzie! She jumped out of a cake all for me!
I’m going to do some intros on the next pic—this is a jumble. Sharp-eyed among you will note that my old comrade at photostatography Robbie Carosella took these pictures. I knew something was up and arranged some details of the camera to give him a chance.
Cast of characters: Assistant Editor Mark Gruenwald is top extreme image left, Assistant Editor Marion Stensgard is just below, sitting is mighty fine inker of yore Jack Abel, standing to image right is writer Roger Stern doing his Jackie Gleason impression. Hard to make out in the checkerboard shirt is Art Director Danny Crespi, the by Dickie’s hand is intern extraordinaire Lance Tooks. Immediately behind Lance is a young Frank Miller! Completely obscured by Dickie are Executive Secretary Wendy Miller and Art Director Nora Maclin. That’s me doing my Mr. Cool impression. Sweet Executive Secretary Alice Gordon– I think– led me in to the slaughter.
Dickie had somehow gotten out of her cake and is belly dancing her heart out. Now, just visible over Dickie’s shoulder is Wendy. I am making some sort of supplicating gesture. There’s Alice again but now Legendary penciler and cover designer Ed Hannigan is just behind her. Rick Parker, that letterer about town is to image right.
Final shot—I can’t imagine was Miller (exactly by Dickie’s right arm) is looking at unless it’s one of his covers—in the doorway, still the bearded Hannigan. I do believe peeking around the door jamb is Traffic Manager Virginia Romita.
Dickie is being a real good sport here. I believe she had been taking belly dancing lessons with Merchandising Production Doyenne Paty Cockrum. She borrowed Paty’s finger cymbals! And to my memory, at the center of spinning red haze was some pretty good dancing.
Dickie was married to Roger McKenzie who at the time was co-writing Daredevil with Frank. Rog was one of those Marvel and DC guys—who did stand out work that set new directions for several major characters in both houses—yes, that long ago! Dickie started out as an art return person and at this point was an Assistant Editor. Those details are a bit unclear. I cannot recall when the organization plan changed to the more modern Editor In Chief and all the Editors had their own Assistants. Dickie also was a writer.
Silly office memory: Videographer At Large Carl Gafford had shot an interview with Dickie and someone else—mostly in a two-shot to my memory. Whatever else went on, Dickie laid the big smack-down in her soft Southern accent, “I hate you, I hate you.” Which sounds fine except you must make it sound like “I yate chew, I yate chew.” That struck us all as so funny, we were telling each other that for years.
Having one’s own belly dancer for a birthday may be ho-hum in the UAE, but this red-blooded American found it a rare treat indeed. It was a happier 27th…