Excerpt #43 from the long-awaited book that Chuck Blore has almost finished writing ...

www.chuckblore.com

Okay, Okay, I Wrote the Book

Don and I were invited to speak all over the country. Every month, one, or both of us, was addressing an Ad Club meeting somewhere.

The Canadian Radio Advertising Bureau invited us to speak in Montreal. The day we were to talk was ‘officially’ proclaimed “Radio Day in Canada.” We were told there were three thousand people there that day, from all over Canada. The huge auditorium, in which we were speaking, was so large, any kind of audience reaction, laughter or applause, seemed to go on and on as it made it’s way from the back part of the auditorium, and kind of rolled up to where we were. It was very strange. It really screwed up the timing in our oh-so-carefully rehearsed presentation. But it didn’t seem to matter much. There was an enormous party afterwards at which Don and I spent a very enjoyable couple of hours being told how absolutely wondrous we were. We also got an assignment from Coca Cola of Canada, an association which continued for a couple of years. So, all in all, it was a pretty good day.

But, the most fun of all was ... Australia.

Returning from lunch one day, Joyce, our lovely receptionist, informed us she had received a call from the A-R-A-B. She said, “They told me they had come a long way to see you guys, so I invited them up. They’re in the conference room.”

“A-R-A-B? Arab?” said Don. “You didn’t tell them I was Jewish did you?”

“A-R-A-B. The Australian Radio Advertising Bureau,” said a very nice chap by the name of Bob Logie. “We’d like to invite the two of you to experience a week of everything Australian hospitality has to offer. All expenses paid, all first class. All you have to do is speak to our advertising community in Sydney, and then again in Melbourne.”

“We make two presentations and we’re there for a full week?” said Don. “What do we do for the rest of the time?”

“Anything and everything Australian hospitality can provide.” said Mr. Logie, “And believe me,” he said with an Australian twinkle, “That’s far more than whale watching.”

In what seemed like no time at all, Don and I were seated in big plush chairs in the first class section of Quantas Air, being pampered by a strikingly beautiful hostess whose name was Colleen. (It’s important to mention here, that this was smack dab in the middle of our wife-free era.) First Class was not nearly full, so Colleen was able to spend a great deal of time explaining the elegance of fine Australian cuisine. She was speaking in a language that sounded vaguely like English, but was, for the most part un-understandable.

By the time we reached Tahiti, by diligently studying the stunning Colleen, I had mastered the Australian tongue. Actually that came a little later. But, by Tahiti, I could at least understand that the words, “Fine ‘Strine wine,” meant something like ... “very nice Australian Cabernet.”

On our first morning in Sydney, Don and I decided to walk around a bit and see the city. We very quickly learned that the strikingly beautiful Colleen was typical of almost the entire Australian female population. Walking down the main street in Sydney, we were amazed at the percentage of women who were absolute knockouts. This was when pretty girls were referred to, in the slang of the time, as ‘birds.’ I remember Don saying, “The national anthem of Australia must be, The Lullaby of Birdland.”

Our Sydney speech could not have gone better, and even though we hadn’t planned it, as we were ending the presentation, several hands went up in the audience and Don said, “You have questions?” The response was enthusiastic applause. We looked to Mr Logie who nodded, Okay. Don pointed to a girl in the first row.

“When you were telling us about producing your Rheingold Beer commercials, you said you had a budget of three thousand, four hundred, and sixty seven dollars.” Don nodded, yes, and the girl continued, “My question is, how did you get such an odd figure?”

Don looked down at his waistline, patted himself on the tummy and said, “I guess I eat too much ice cream.” Well, the audience loved it and so did we.

From that moment on, in every talk where Q & A was possible, we’d find a pretty girl and incorporate the ‘odd figure’ bit.

Both the Sydney and the Melbourne talks were extremely well received. Before we left Australia we had agreed to come back again ... and again ... and again. Five years in a row. We loved it, and happily the love was returned ten fold. On one of those five trips, we did a country wide tour. Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane, Canberra, Adelaide, all the way across to Perth. Since we ended up on that side of the country, why not go home via the orient?.


Great. First stop was Bangkok. Many tales to tell about our adventures in Bangkok. But, in order to keep this tome G rated, most of them will have to wait. There is one story which was ... unbelievable. Don and I had just checked into our hotel and we decided to walk through the city. Activity everywhere. Busy, busy people on busy, busy streets. Streets lined with peddlers of all kinds, from soup to nuts ... literally. An old woman, wearing a dirty sheet, was sitting on the sidewalk, slowly stirring what we guessed was a pot of smelly carrot soup. She ladled a bit of soup into a small container and handed it to Don. He shook his head, no. She spit in it, and tossed it into the street.

Next to her was an old man wearing a dirty beard, along with what seemed to be, the uniform of the day, a dirty sheet. He was holding out some warm nuts and offering them to us. When we passed without buying, he threw them at us.

We had been walking for about half an hour when we heard someone shout ...”Americans! Americans!” We turned to find a strange gray man following us. His bare feet were gray and dirty. The rags he wore were gray and dirty. His face and beard, gray and dirty. The grayest and dirtiest of all was his turban. Why a turban in Bangkok? I have no idea, but it looked as though, if you were to touch it, it would disintegrate into gray and dirty dust. In perfect English he said, “I will tell your fortune.” We shook our heads and turned to leave. He grabbed Don’s arm and stared fire into his eyes. “I will tell your fortune!”

“Forget it,” Don said and we turned to walk away.

This time, the old man grabbed Don’s hand and put a small, folded piece of paper in his palm. He folded Don’s fingers over the paper, never taking his eyes off Don’s. “Tell me the name of a girl you love.” the gray man said to Don. When he got no response, he clasped Don’s hands in his and repeated, “Tell me the name of a girl you love.”

Don said, “Heidi.” His daughter’s name. The old man opened Don’s hand and nodded to Don to open the folded paper. Don unfolded the paper, and there in bold hand written letters was spelled, H E I D I.

I looked at Don, he looked at me, and said, “I think this guy should tell our fortune.” The guy did. There was one thing our fortune teller told us that we had in common. He said to both of us; “You will bathe your feet in the Ganges.” Don said, “Chuck You know what that means? If we never go to India. We’ll live forever.”

One thing I know for sure. Don does live forever--- in the memory of everyone who was lucky enough to know him.