Brooks Peterson

Tuesday, Mar. 9, 1999

A Most Panned no-show

   Went to the Gridiron Show the other night. Thoroughly enjoyed it, as I knew I would: In the fine old Corpus Christi Press Club tradition, the show worked an infinite number of variations on the theme of whacking eminent citizens upside the head with a pig's bladder.
   It was a good show. A darned good show, in fact. It showed that the Press Club faithful have learned some lessons through the years, the most important of these being: Keep it short, bubba. The Gridirons of yore, which sometimes passed the two-hour mark, inevitably saw little bands of refugees trailing out after about an hour to seek surcease in the restrooms.
   This year, the entire all-singing, all-dancing affair - pratfalls and all - clocked in at a svelte hour and quarter. In that interval, the obligatory abuse was briskly heaped upon the usual targets: politicos, civil servants, pillars of the business community.
   And as usual, there were the usual bravura performances. Sadly missed was erstwhile Caller-Times scribe Ron George, who contributed inspired turns to any number of past Gridirons. Good night, the guy could actually sing. And dance. No fear in the man.
   Happily, though, another Gridiron stalwart, the redoubtable Walter Furley, was on hand - and in fine voice. His delivery of a gloss on "Quarter to Three" was up to his usual high standards, despite a bit of a tussle with a recalcitrant microphone cord.
   But ...
   Where was the Most Panned Man?
   In what could certainly have been considered a compliment (albeit a left-handed one) to one of his brief tenure in our Burg by the Bay, City Manager David Garcia was tapped for the chrome-plated pan. It strains credulity to suppose he might not have been aware of this honor: There is a time-honored process which through the application of a combination of moral suasion and veiled threats, assures that the victim - er, honoree - will indeed be on the scene.
   But not Mr. Manager Garcia: When the dancing boys and girls of the Gridiron Corps de Ballet descended into the house to drag the Most Panned Man onstage, he was nowhere to be found. Finally, the Press Club's co-presidents, Libby Averyt and Vivienne Heines, bestowed the coveted Pan upon the actor who portrayed Garcia in the show (and did a superb job of it, by the way).
   This was Not Well Received.
   In fairness, it must be conceded that the city manager may have had a very good reason for being a no-show. A prior commitment of long standing, say. Maybe he could find nothing but mismatches in the sock drawer. Or perhaps he got word that those darn ol' black helicopters, complete with U.N. mercenaries, were about to swoop down on Corpus Christi again -- this time with clearly malign intent.
   Perhaps.
   This dereliction stood, however, in stark contrast to the Gridiron Shows of yore, when Pan winners took their medicine with the jaunty fatalism of French aristocrats being carted to the guillotine during Robespierre's Terror.
   (Insert tiresome aside here.) Ah, them wuz the days! In those pre-oil-bust days, the Gridiron was an extravaganza, no error. When I arrived here in '73, toting only my dreams and a cargo of loud neckties (OK: some things don't change), the Gridiron glittered. You could see anything there: tuxedos, gold lame, ostrich boots, designer gowns ... sometimes on the same person. The eminentoes promenaded like pouter pigeons: Call it the Gridiron Strut.
   And the thing rocked. First at the Coliseum, and later in the Convention Center, the price of admission got you tables groaning with succulent victuals. And open bars: two of 'em, in fact. Live band? Dancing? Need you ask?
   The shows, as noted, tended to be, how you say, longish. But they afforded a canvas for some unforgettable performances. One was offered by C-T alum Jay "Kamikaze" Brakefield, as then-Police Chief Bill Banner, delivering a Patton-style speech as an enormous U.S. flag fluttered down behind him. Electrifying. (To demonstrate his commitment, ol' Kamikaze even shaved off his beard for the part. Method actor, big time.)
   I had a moment or two myself. Playing Nueces County Judge Bob Barnes in a "Camelot" skit, I sprang atop a table to lip-synch a musical number ... only to notice that my tights were heading south. Camelot, indeed.
   Most of all, though, when I recall those days I think of the late Jim Springer, who for years and years was Mr. Gridiron. A big bear-like guy with a superb sense of timing, he kept the thing hurtling along with a kind of manic energy that was his alone.
   True, it wasn't all star turns. There was the time the show included a succession of slides projected on a screen. Aiyee! The projector stuck on a slide of pigs ... uh ... doing what comes naturally when pigs surrender to porcine passions. I can still hear the mellifluous tones of announcer Ken Sullivan, as he ad-libbed his way through the debacle.
   Understand, I'm not rending my garments over the old Gridiron. To offer all the stuff we did then, we'd have to jack ticket prices into the stratosphere. And the open-bar issue would bring up all sorts of liability questions.
   There are real pluses with the new format: In the Harbor Playhouse, unlike the previous venues, you can actually understand the lines. Back then, you could labor on a skit for days, only to have the best lines muffled by bad acoustics. Of course, the new house doesn't guarantee your stuff will get boffo laffs - but it gives you a fighting chance.
   So: On with the Gridiron. Let the good times, and the bad jokes, roll. And maybe next year's Most Panned Person will actually bother to show up.
   (Peterson can be reached by phone at 886-3772 or by e-mail at petersonb@caller.com)

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