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The Lion in Winter
In praise of Dick Clark: the coolest guy I never met
As an entertainment writer, I've had the occasion to interview many celebrities over the years. But none are as firmly entrenched in my memory as Dick Clark.
It was a phone interview — conducted nearly ten years ago. And it began like this:
Me: Hello, Mister Clark.
Dick (In a flat, ominous baritone): Hello.
Me (hungover, and a little surprised not to get the sunny New Year's Rockin' Eve guy): Where are you calling from today?
Dick: My bathroom.
Me: Um, what are you doing in there?
Dick (in a dark, measured tone that would have made Orson Welles quake in his docksiders): "I'm performing my morning constitutional ..."
Was he taking a dump, or doing face exercises in the mirror? Was he waxing his brows, or bathing in the blood of a hundred virgins? Whatever he was doing, it was clear that, if I chose to continue this line of questioning, there would be consequences. Of what variety, I couldn't be sure — but I definitely got the message: he's Dick Clark; he's spent his entire life interviewing celebrities. Make it brief and make it good — or get off the fuckin' phone.
To say he was intense doesn't begin to describe it. He was fascinating, and scary — in an old Hollywood gangster kind of way. I bobbed and weaved to the best of my ability, being careful to keep it "all biz." My plans to pump him for fan fodder on Little Richard and Bobby Fuller were dust — thank God. I stared at the limp, hastily composed list of questions I'd whipped out ten minutes prior to the interview and was ashamed at their weak, lazy pandering. If this had been a bullfight, I would have been standing in the ring naked and blind.
It was a phone interview — conducted nearly ten years ago. And it began like this:
Me: Hello, Mister Clark.
Dick (In a flat, ominous baritone): Hello.
Me (hungover, and a little surprised not to get the sunny New Year's Rockin' Eve guy): Where are you calling from today?
Dick: My bathroom.
Me: Um, what are you doing in there?
Dick (in a dark, measured tone that would have made Orson Welles quake in his docksiders): "I'm performing my morning constitutional ..."
Was he taking a dump, or doing face exercises in the mirror? Was he waxing his brows, or bathing in the blood of a hundred virgins? Whatever he was doing, it was clear that, if I chose to continue this line of questioning, there would be consequences. Of what variety, I couldn't be sure — but I definitely got the message: he's Dick Clark; he's spent his entire life interviewing celebrities. Make it brief and make it good — or get off the fuckin' phone.
To say he was intense doesn't begin to describe it. He was fascinating, and scary — in an old Hollywood gangster kind of way. I bobbed and weaved to the best of my ability, being careful to keep it "all biz." My plans to pump him for fan fodder on Little Richard and Bobby Fuller were dust — thank God. I stared at the limp, hastily composed list of questions I'd whipped out ten minutes prior to the interview and was ashamed at their weak, lazy pandering. If this had been a bullfight, I would have been standing in the ring naked and blind.
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12:31 EST, 02.Jan.08
12:01 EST, 01.Jan.08