These chapters have not been proofed...they are posted on the web site because I'm in jeopardy of losing heart and my vision for the book, let alone that it can be finished. If my friends are able to actually read a chapter or two...and give me some feed back I just know I can finish the last few chapters, pick the many photos...set up the index, finish the appendix, and the other flotsam and jetsam that goes into writing, designing, and publishing the book...wait...I shouldn't have written that...now I am dubious once again...oh, well...have fun reading.
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George Clinton, Funk and Me
Animation Filmakers Corporation. My, doesn't that sound grand? Well, it was our dream that it would be grand someday. In the late 1970's, it was definitely not grand. We were looking for our next dollar.
Ritchard Brown, my husband and AFC's president, was working on a deal that was not going well. During this waiting time, since we really didn't have the where-with-all to hire administrators, artists or even a sales department, the odds against AFC becoming grand were getting longer and longer.
We would invite men who found their way to our San Vicente Boulevard offices to 'grab-a-desk' and see if he could get any new business underway. Never would a female be invited. We're talking about the 1970's so that meant that I worked there for free as a good wife should. AFC had a method in the madness. This policy kept the office and small animation plant in the rear populated. It would appear that we were a very active company if any prospective client stumbled upon us and wished to look us over. We started fooling ourselves because there were people everywhere.
One morning a man walked into our offices and stopped briefly to speak to Roy Freeman, the writer of our motley crew on the good ship AFC. As he pointed me out I heard Roy say something like, 'I don't know if we can do the job for you but ask Margaret, there.'
At that moment, David Watson and I had our heads together struggling with a marketing plan for AFC but when we heard Roy utter the word job we were at instant alert. David had just left a Public TV station and was one of those invited to 'grab-a-desk' and see what he could get going.
As the prospective client walked towards us David and I mentally changed into our 'sales hats'. We greeted and steered, Mr. I.M. Diorky, to the small but comfortable conference room. Yes, his name was strange but we saw past that. If he was to become a bone fide client his name could be Mr. Kawabunga Dude for all we cared.
We offered him a chair but Mr. I.M. Diorky kept dancing around and blinking his eyes. It was fascinating to note that even with all his physical activity his huge black Afro stayed affixed to his head held there by a lot of pomade. His voice was a mixture of fast pacing peppered with hip phrases.
"I got troubles," he began. "We got this gig, ya see, 'n we gotta have sebben minutes of the *@# *# animation. It's all about Sir Nose D'Voidoffunk against the Starchild, George Clinton and the Motha' Ship. We're doin' our concert at the Shrine in ten days. Somebody tol' me 'bout you. Do you dig?"
David and I struggled to makes sense out of what he was saying.
"Well," I said slipping it in quickly while our prospective client stopped to blow his nose, "it takes time to come up with characters and the backgrounds and…." I was going to make sure he knew that I knew something about the art of producing animation.
"I said… tha's the problem. We only got ten days before we open!" He paused for effect. "I've been to all the other studios. They said they couldn't but say hey…" The timbre of his voice started to change. Panic was setting in "You gotta say that you can do it. You know what I'm saying?"
The word job still played in my head but David rolled his eyes and walked away mumbling an excuse of some kind. So, it was up me to make the decision. "Well, let's see what we can do," I said. David did do a large share of the work on the project but at this particular moment I could hear him whistling the funeral march.
David had not seen the roll of twenty-dollar bills I.M. Diorkey pulled out of his very tightly fitting dark orange pants. They must have been stretch pants because he could not close his finger around the bulk of the wad of cash. Rolled up it would have fit easily into an empty coffee mug. I had made up my mind.
"I got a thousand for the job I c'n give ya now," I.M. whispered to me looking around to see if anyone else was listening. "When I gits the film I c'n shell out another three thousand."
Now maybe some of you have heard or seen George Clinton, the King of Funk. Mr. I.M. Diorkey (I'm not kidding about his name) thought everyone knew everything about the Clinton concerts. I certainly didn't. So, he made a stab at a brief synopsis of the extravaganza.
First he told me about the hundreds of thousands of Funkadelic and George Clinton fans there were. Truly this was an area of show business I knew nothing about. When he detailed the group's grueling and profitable touring schedule I was mightily impressed.
However, Diorkey and I spoke a completely different language and all I could fathom was that there was a lot of noise, fireworks, upbeat music and a space ship that landed on stage. Out of the depths of this Star Ship stepped George Clinton, the King of Funk, to save the world from the evil Sir Nose D'Voidoffunk.
As if answering all my objections such as no time to design characters, write a script, and record the voice track, add music, editing and lab work, Diorky pulled two items out of his brief case. First was the show's music soundtrack album. That could be our voice and sound track. Secondly, out came a comic book containing drawings of all the characters acting out the plot he had just recounted. It gave me heart because that meant that we didn't have to do design work. I took a deep breath and said that we would attempt to turn out a seven minute "cartoon short" in ten days.
I gave our client a few minutes to collapse happily in a chair and mop his brow while I checked in with Ritchard. He and several guys were just back from their daily trip to the local 'Fat Burger' stand. I handed over the cash and told Ritchard the deal and he agreed that we should take the job
You could see the excitement (as much as a Swedish husband could muster) as he realized the challenges that had to be solved.
Kay Wright> would be in charge of production. Kay (Karen) Wright, a bishop of the Church of Latter Day Saints, was himself a saint. I was sure that if this project could come in on time and with some profit, the calm, collected and efficient professional Kay could make it happen. He went on to be senior producer at Hanna-Barbera Studio for many years
One item that might make it possible to meet the schedule was our own Horizontal, Multi-plane, Mechanical, Animation Stand (ANIMAC). AFC had a copy of the original designed by cinematographer Edwin Gillette. ANIMAC allowed us to affix a piece of art work onto an eight foot long platen of glass to give the illusion of action for the character by filming at a ninety degree angle as the glass (with character) ratcheted from right to left or visa versa. The cost and time in animation is filming a character two frames at a time. So, with ANIMAC we could film in 'real time' and therefore had a chance to meet the deadline.
My job was to get the artist's finished pencil drawings over to the ink-and-painters out in Glendora. That's a trip over the Hollywood Hills and twenty miles to the east. These ladies there would trace the artist's lines in ink then color in the characters in paint. I'd pick up the cels, still wet, and place them face up in the back of my station wagon. I delivered them to be filmed in Hollywood at three o'clock in the morning. This went on day AND night.
Oh, it was the stuff that situation comedies are made of. But it gets better!
Everyone came through. On Friday morning, the day of the concert, I was at the lab in Glendale to pick up the film ready for I.M. Diorky.
I closed Ritchard's office door before I proudly handed the print to him. The print, by the way, had never been screened. Since I had made the deal I needed to talk to Ritchard so he'd grasped the concluding step of the deal.
I spoke slowly and distinctly. "I guess too many touring groups left town without paying the locals. And because this is a touring concert we're dealing with, they must pay us in cash or a cashiers check," I explained. "I.M. Diorky owes three thousand dollars on delivery of this film. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT give him the film unless you get the cash. OK, Ritchard?" I left heading out for an appointment at one of the networks.
You can all see where this is going, can't you? I.M. Diorky got the film and Ritchard did not get the cash. But wait! This gets better.
I am the one and only fair-faced mama
I knew we must have the money so AFC could pay our crew for their work. Therefore early the next morning, Saturday, feeling scared and angry (no, not frustrated, ANGRY!) I head for George Clinton's office and see if I can get our three thousand dollars.
As a body guard backup, I corraled my husky son, Eric, to drive me to the Sunset Strip. 'Plan A' is for us both to go into George Clinton's temporary office. I say temporary because all the traveling concert tours rented offices on the Sunset Strip. It is outside the L.A. city limits and so, a company only needed to deal with the county's less stringent licensing rules to do business. Most of the Sunset Strip offices are furnished with the bare necessities of chairs, desks and couches, etc. It's like a revolving door. So, I didn't even know whether Clinton had moved out.
Well, we're about to find out. Eric and I locate the address and for a good twenty minutes scout for a parking place. There is none. So we go to 'Plan B'. He loiters in a No-Parking zone right in front of our target – an innocuous, three-story building. He'll stay in the car and I'll go in alone.
Opening the front door, I stare straight ahead through a narrow hallway that runs the length of the building. Standing around in little knots in the hallway are several men with astounding Afro hair dos.
They look to be at least nine feet tall. At least that's what they seem to little ol' Margaret – all five foot two of me. They stare as I nervously walk forward. I have a lot riding on this visit. I am also very nervous because I am going to have to ask the receptionist for a 'Mr. I.M. Diorky.' Oh, Lord, why didn't Ritchard get the cash as I had asked him? I think I'll kill him when I get back… if I go back.
At the far end of this long hall is a desk with a round, bald person lounging in the chair behind it. I clear my throat twice and ask for Mr. I.M. Diorky. Mr. Bald Guy looks at me suspiciously. Well, I am rather out of place. He turns away and mumbles "Diorky's not here… he's flying out to Philly where we play next." I knew it!
I finally get my voice back. "I'm Margaret Kerry-Brown and I produced the animated film that was shown at your concert last night."
He turns around at looks at me and breaks into a smile that takes up his whole face. "Hey everybody… this here's the little mama that gave us that great cartoon we showed." Every body shouts at once from the hallway letting me how they loved it and how much the audience loved it!
At that moment a door opens and a very large and well formed man steps out and asks, 'what's goin' on?' I am introduced as the little mama who produced the animation short that stopped show last night. It is the man, himself George Clinton. He's all smiles. With a gentle handshake he congratulates me. Then he asks, "What you doin' here?"
"Mr. Diorky did not have the money on him when he picked up the film so I am here to be paid," I state with a lot more confidence now that I know the film was a hit. "There is still three thousand dollars outstanding," I volunteer.
"Give the little mama the three thousand," George grins. Music to my ears. "Tell you what," Clinton adds, "because the film's so good give her three hundred more."
Mr. Bald Guy pulls out the middle drawer of his desk. It holds at least two dozen rolls of cash all scrunched in – each roll stands on its edge with a rubber band wrapped around it. I am handed one of the largest rolls plus three one hundred dollar bills.
I thank Mr. Clinton and Mr. Bald Guy and turn to float down the hallway to the car. On my way, I hear accolades such as 'good job, mama' and 'it was witching.'
I come out into the sunshine and jump into the waiting car, show Eric the roll of money and hold it in my lap all the way back to AFC. Next Monday, everyone was treated to a 'Fat Burger' and a fudge brownie.
I realized later that I never got to see the finished film. As far as I know there was only one print ever made. Weird. Oh, contrary to the rumor, I did NOT kill Ritchard. I may have maimed him a little but …