In Service to the Mouse
My Unexpected Journey to Becoming
Disneyland’s First President
A memoir by
Jack Lindquist
with Melinda J. Combs
Published jointly by
Neverland Media
and
Chapman University Press
Orange, California
©2010 The Board of Trustees of Chapman University. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher.
To all those closest to me:
Thanks for
your love, patience, understanding,
and
time in sharing me with the Mouse.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
It is totally impossible to recognize and acknowledge all the people who have been such an important part of my 38-year adventure with Disney. In so many little and not so little ways, you have all played a role in creating not only this book, but in creating who I am today.
Rather than name some and risk alienating many, I choose to only recognize a few. I believe the rest of you know how very much you mean to me and how important you have been in my career.
First, of course, there is Walt. There would be no story but for the belief, commitment, resolve, vision, and creative genius of one man. Walt Disney, through his innate understanding of what people wanted, not only gave the world Disneyland, but a plethora of cartoons, feature films, television series and specials that today represent a legacy of family entertainment that will stand for all time.
Next, Ed Ettinger, in 1955, Disneyland’s director of public relations, hired me even though we got off to a very aggressive, adversarial beginning. Ed was brilliant and impatient. I learned a lot from him and hope I justified his faith in me.
Then, Card Walker, whom I met and worked closely with when he was advertising manager of Walt Disney Productions through his rise to president and CEO of Walt Disney Productions until his retirement following the opening of Epcot in 1982. Card was the singular driving force dedicated to seeing the creation and completion of Walt’s dream of Epcot — a tough but fair taskmaster who never let me forget that I was once “a washing machine salesman!”
Next, Michael Eisner, who came aboard as CEO with Frank Wells as president in 1984. It had been a miserable, unsettling, debilitating year for Disney. Almost immediately, Michael and Frank brought a whole new urgency and attitude to Disney – not just to theme parks, but also to films, especially with the new Touchstone label, the Disney Channel, and Disney merchandise. It was invigorating and exciting. Michael and Frank signed off on Disneyland’s Gift Giver Extraordinaire, Disney Dollars, Skyfest, and Disneyland Pigskin Classic, among other ideas.
I enjoyed working with both of them, but particularly Michael. He was the creative driving force. He threw out ideas by the dozens in meetings — some were even good — but mostly, he just kept them coming. Michael kept everyone on their toes. Whatever success I had in directing the overall marketing concepts for Disneyland, Walt Disney World, Tokyo Disneyland and Paris Disneyland, I owe to Michael’s confidence, support, and for the most part, hands-off approach. I worked with, and for, Michael through 1993.
I wasn’t around when Frank Wells was tragically killed, but it was a shattering blow from which Michael never recovered. I can’t speak firsthand about anything that went on after October 1993, but from October 1984 to Frank’s death, Michael Eisner was the best CEO Disney could have had and he deserves credit for quite possibly saving the company.
Last, of course, to Mickey Mouse, the little guy in the red pants with the four-fingered white gloves who best personifies the total output of Walt Disney’s legacy. It’s been a grand adventure. Keep that smile on your face, the twinkle in your eye, and the song in your heart. Thanks, Mickey. See you around, buddy.
INTRODUCTION
When I worked at Disneyland, my brass name tag read “Jack.” I started working for the Walt Disney Company as the park’s first advertising manager when I was 28 years old, way back in 1955, just two months after Disneyland opened.
If I had been smart and had been able to foresee the exciting and unbelievable 38-year journey I was embarking on, I would have kept a daily journal that would have accurately chronicled every one of those 13,870 days with exact names, places, and dates. I would have written down specific matters discussed and key decisions made.
Keeping a journal would have been a wonderful idea but, alas, it didn’t happen. So, here I am today, 55 years later, 83 years old, remembering the highlights, the lowlights, and the everyday happenings that are all part of a such a long, unexpected career — my memories from Disneyland, Walt Disney World, Epcot Center, Tokyo Disneyland, Paris Disneyland — yesterday, today, and what might have been.
But, why did I suddenly feel the need to put this personal memoir on paper?
Well, first of all, my time to remember and tell it is getting shorter — just like my memory. I needed and wanted to tell this story because I feel it is a part of the fabric and history of Disneyland that has been neglected. Walt Disney had the God-given imagination, ability, creativity, drive, and personality to bring a completely new entertainment medium into being. That story has been well documented. This, then, is the story of some of the people who were entrusted with taking that marvelous gift and making it work, and then selling it to the world. Walt knew instinctively and intimately every single aspect of Disneyland and how it all had to work together. He was “The Boss,” and nothing happened at Disneyland that he wasn’t aware of or hadn’t approved of. Yet he gave a team of young, dedicated believers the freedom to innovate, create, test, and try new ideas that not only impacted Disneyland, but also had major business applications far beyond the boundaries of the Magic Kingdoms. Walt created the product, but he let us learn in our own ways — again, always with his approval — how to make it all work together to best serve every area of the company, including finance, operations, entertainment, marketing, food, merchandise, maintenance, and participants. And boy, did we learn.
Second, over the years, many friends and associates have prodded me to put my stories down on paper. Among them, Jim Doti, president of Chapman University, Mel Rogers, president of KOCE-TV, and Jim Ruth, retired Anaheim city manager.
Well, you all asked for it. Here it is.
Lastly, my daughter-in-law, Bridget, who after reading a first draft told me, “I loved your book because it finally answered the question your family always wondered about: Just what the hell were you doing for 38 years?”
So this is my story as best I can remember it, and I think my stories are worthy of sharing. I’m not guaranteeing every date, every place as being 100 percent accurate, but I do guarantee everything that happened as a fact because I was there.
If you don’t believe me, just ask Mickey.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Section I: The New Frontier
Chapter 1: A Precarious Foot in the Door
Chapter 2: Opening Day Mishaps
Chapter 3: Signing On — Even on Saturdays
Chapter 4: The Gardener Decides
Chapter 5: Where the Heck Is Disneyland?
Chapter 6: Circus Tricks
Chapter 7: Winter Wonderland
Chapter 8: Always, “Walt Disney”
Chapter 9: The Anaheim Colonists
Chapter 10: The Other Walt
Chapter 11: ’Til Then, Jayne Mansfield
Chapter 12: Halloween Mischief
Chapter 13: A Presidential Bet
Chapter 14: Date Nite Premieres
Chapter 15: I’m a Card-Carrying Member
Chapter 16: Tough Negotiations
Chapter 17: A Turbulent Voyage
Chapter 18: Mickey Mouse Almost Thaws Cold War
Chapter 19: The Battle of the Expense Report
Section II: Building a Land of Tomorrow
Chapter 20: Politics, Bribes, and The Duck
Chapter 21: Dixieland at Disneyland
Chapter 22: High School Antics
Chapter 23: It Is a Small World, After All
Chapter 24: Is That The Mr. Lincoln?
Chapter 25: The Catalyst for Club 33
Chapter 26: It’s Only a Car!
Chapter 27: Flying Mashed Potatoes and Dead Fish
Chapter 28: Losing a King
Section III: More Than an Adventure
Chapter 29: Protecting Our Own
Chapter 30: Recreating Walt’s Childhood
Chapter 31: Walt Disney World Spurs an Evolution
Chapter 32: Not in Perpetuity!
Chapter 33: Taking on Mike Wallace
Chapter 34: Learning Some Manners
Chapter 35: Spotlight on Mrs. Marcos
Chapter 36: Viva Mexico! Viva El Presidente!
Chapter 37: Strange Tales from Iran
Chapter 38: I’m Dying! Save Me, Jack!
Chapter 39: Moroccan Madness
Chapter 40: Taking Cover, Disney Style
Section IV: Some Fantasy and Some Reality
Chapter 41: The Fall and Rise of Disney Motion Pictures
Chapter 42: Changes in the Top Brass
Chapter 43: Now Accepting American Express
Chapter 44: The 21st Century Actually Began in 1982
Chapter 45: Mickey Mouse Shouldn’t Wear Lederhosen!
Chapter 46: How About Giving Away Some Cars?
Chapter 47: A Ballooning Celebration
Chapter 48: You Win Some, You Lose Some
Chapter 49: A Miracle
Chapter 50: Mickey Mouse Saves the Day
Chapter 51: Politics Aboard the Queen Mary
Chapter 52: Goofy Makes the Bill
Chapter 53: Who, Me? The First President of Disneyland?
Section V: The Final Walk Down Main Street
Chapter 54: When Money Talks, Everyone Listens
Chapter 55: Goodbye, Ticket Books
Chapter 56: That’s Fantasmagorical!
Chapter 57: Michael and Me
Chapter 58: What an Adventure!
Chapter 59: Take Me Out to Anaheim!
Chapter 60: Freedom Bowl to Pigskin Classic to Game Over
Chapter 61: My Main Street
Chapter 62: And Goodnight
SECTION I
The New Frontier
“There will never be another Disneyland.”
— Walt Disney
CHAPTER 1
A Precarious Foot in the Door
In April of 1955, the Los Angeles Times ran a feature story about Walt Disney building a place called Disneyland. I couldn’t even comprehend this idea: Walt Disney, a cartoonist famous for creating Mickey Mouse, planned to spend $22 million for an “amusement park” in some unknown place called Anaheim.
And there would be an admission charge just to get in. No beer, wine, or alcoholic beverages would be allowed in or sold on the premises, and no chewing gum would be sold in the park.
The more I read, the more incomprehensible it seemed. Walt Disney, a noted, innovative filmmaker – the genius who gambled on producing Snow White, the first full-length animated motion picture, and then followed with Fantasia, Bambi, Dumbo, and Pinocchio – was now dumping millions of dollars into an amusement park in Anaheim, a totally unknown place in the backwater of the hodgepodge that made up the Southern California landscape in the mid 1950s.
What a joke. Good luck, Mr. Disney.
Even Mel Blanc joked about Anaheim on The Jack Benny Program. He had the running gag, “Train leaving on Track 5 for Anaheim, Azusa and Cuuuu-ca-mon-gaaa!” And that’s the only way people had heard of Anaheim. Honestly, I don’t think anyone in Southern California could have found Anaheim on a map. I only knew about it from listening to the radio. And this is where this new multimillion dollar amusement park would be located?
After Walt concocted his idea for the park, he hired Stanford Research Institute to do a study to determine the best spot for the park. They identified two locations: The west end of the San Fernando Valley or a town called Anaheim because of its proximity to Interstate 5. When Walt decided on Anaheim, a bevy of rumors circulated as to who was acquiring a large parcel of acreage on Harbor Boulevard. The biggest rumor was that Ford Motor Company was planning to build an assembly plant. But when Walt disclosed his plans to Anaheim’s mayor and city manager they were delighted and happily accepted Anaheim’s new role as a tourist destination.
When the L.A.Times article mentioned that the companies participating in the venture would have exclusive promotional rights in the park, I knew Orange County was about to experience something big. Mr. Disney proposed to offer American corporations an opportunity to participate in the venture by sponsoring exhibits, attractions, and shows.
At that point, the article noted that TWA would sponsor Rocket to the Moon while Richfield would have their signs associated with the Autopia ride in Tomorrowland; the Kodak Company would present the Photo Shop on Main Street, and the Carnation Company would sponsor the soda fountain across the street. Upjohn, Coca-Cola, and the Swift Company, along with the Santa Fe Railroad would also take up important residences on Main Street. Other well-known American corporations including the American Milk Association, The Crane Company, Kaiser Aluminum, Aunt Jemima, and American Motor Corp. had also signed on with Disney but had not yet determined their involvement. These sponsorships would not only bring Main Street, Tomorrowland, and Frontierland to life, but they also provided badly needed financing.
At the time, I worked in downtown Los Angeles as the Radio and TV director of a small advertising agency called Mays and Company Advertising. We were a medium-sized, local advertising agency, handling mostly white good accounts (refrigerators, washing machines, dryers, dishwashers, freezers, and such) for clients such as GE, Westinghouse, Philco, and Kelvinator. Mays and Company had the Kelvinator account prior to my learning about Disneyland. And since American Motors, the parent company of Kelvinator, had agreed to become one of the original companies participating in Disneyland, they had certain special promotional rights. All of this gave birth to my idea to explore the possibility of a Kelvinator promotion – not just an American Motors promotion – in conjunction with the opening of Disneyland. Basically, I wanted to use Disneyland to help sell Kelvinator.
So I called the Disney Studios to investigate a possible Kelvinator-Disneyland promotion. I was referred to Bud Colson, manager of the Public Relations Division, who suggested we meet at Disneyland. The following week, I made the trek to Anaheim from Los Angeles in my 1954 Ford station wagon, which didn’t have air conditioning but luckily did have a radio. I started on the Santa Ana Freeway in downtown L.A., then landed on Manchester Boulevard in Anaheim, then back onto the Santa Ana Freeway, and finally back onto Manchester Boulevard again, where I finally came across a two-lane road with a two-foot sign on a two-by-four post. The sign read “Disneyland.” The freeway drive wasn’t much to speak of: Just two lanes in each direction with an open swath of gravel down the middle.
I traveled down the unpaved road for about 50 yards before I arrived at a plywood shack where a security officer stopped me and asked who I was looking for. When I answered, “ Bud Colson,” he looked in his phone book, made a call, and directed me to a farmhouse about 50 yards away. Orange groves surrounded the unmarked building that turned out to be Colson’s office. The berm that shielded Disneyland from the outside world was already taking shape, making it almost impossible to see the farmhouse from Harbor Boulevard.
That old relocated farmhouse served as the Disneyland administration building from pre-opening until 1964, when an outside and an inside wing were added to the tunnel that the Disneyland and Santa Fe Railroads traveled through for the opening of the “Grand Canyon Diorama.” The farmhouse sat about 75 yards east of the entrance to Town Square through what became the Hills Brothers gate.
When I entered Colson’s office, his secretary informed me that he would not be available for at least 30 minutes.
“Would you like to look around in the meantime?” she asked.
“Sure!”
“Just go out there, but don’t get in anyone’s way.”
I walked out to Town Square, which was about 70 percent complete at the time, and marveled at the Railroad Station, Opera House, and City Hall. Then I looked up the street and saw a firehouse, along with a large department store called The Emporium, and an Upjohn drug store, where guests received complimentary vitamin samples and where leeches for medicinal purposes were displayed. Across Main Street was an old-fashioned cinema, a tobacco shop with a wooden Indian out front, a magic shop, a turn-of-the-century grocery store complete with a party line telephone, a potbellied stove, and a checkers table. There was also the Kodak Photo Shop, and across Main Street sat the Carnation Ice Cream Parlor.
Then, my gaze was drawn to the top of Main Street. I stood in awe of a real fairytale castle under construction. At that moment, I realized that this Disney guy wasn’t building some nickel-and-dime amusement park; he was building a real, three-dimension city – and I’d just seen the tip of the iceberg. This was an entirely new concept in entertainment. This had never been done before, and to me, it was damn exciting.
When Bud and I finally met, I proposed a Kelvinator promotion to kick off on Disneyland’s Opening Day on July 17, 1955. I wanted customers to go to their local Kelvinator dealer to see the latest new appliances; they could get a trade-in allowance for their old product and receive a Disneyland admission ticket including tickets for the Jungle Cruise ride, the Carousel, and the Main Street Horsedrawn Street Car – all for free. At this point, no ticket packages existed – only admission tickets and individual ride tickets costing from 10 to 50 cents. So Kelvinator was offering a package that nobody else could buy.
“I like it,” Bud said, “but you need to come back with some rough ad concepts.”
As soon as I returned to the Mays and Company office, I worked with our art department on the layout of the proposed Disneyland ad. We had a rough completed in a couple of days. Our agency planned to run a double-page ad in the Los Angeles Times and in the Los Angeles Herald Examiner on July 18 and full-page black and white ads on Wednesday in the Long Beach Press Telegram, Pasadena Star-News, Santa Monica Outlook, Redondo Beach Breeze, Santa Ana Register, Anaheim Bulletin and other Southern California papers.
When Bud and I met for a follow-up meeting, we reviewed the ad, which he liked but now, he said we needed to meet with his boss, Ed Ettinger, director of Public Relations for Disneyland, to get his approval. We had a good meeting with Ed who approved the rough drafts. I then asked both Ed and Bud to sign off on the ads, which they did. I drove back to Los Angeles very pleased.
We reserved the ad space for July 18 in the Times and Examiner. Meanwhile, we began to move the ad from rough to finished form, which in those days included typesetting, color separations, and platemaking. The process took three days: Two days to finish the art and another day to get the type set and the copy pasted in place. Then it went to the engraver who made color separations and final plates for printing. We were in good shape schedule-wise because the papers didn’t need the ads until two weeks prior to the publication date.
A few days later, I got a call from Ed.
“I’m sorry, but the promotion can’t go ahead.”
I felt like I had just been kicked in the stomach.
Apparently, Mr. Disney decided there could be no Disneyland promotions, aside from what Disney itself was doing, until at least the fall of 1955. The reason was twofold: Although Disney was anxious to get U.S. companies to participate, Walt didn’t want these companies to use Disneyland to their advantage, nor did he want an outsider promoting Disneyland’s opening.
“We’re committed, and our client, Kelvinator, is excited about the project,” I told Ed.
“Sorry, too bad. There’s nothing we can do.”
I insisted on a meeting.
“It’ll do you no good,” Ed replied, “but if you want to drive to Anaheim, fine. I’ll meet with you.”
I was in his office at 10 the next morning. For the next hour, we called each other every dirty name in the book, questioned each other’s integrity and legitimacy, but neither side gave an inch. We parted as adversaries, and I think each of us fervently hoped we never had to meet or speak to one another again. When I returned to my office and told my boss, Rod Mays, he was, of course, quite unhappy. He called our client to give them the bad news. They too were upset.
Then, I had a rather farfetched idea. I suggested to Rod and the local Kelvinator manager that they ask the president of American Motors to send a telegram directly to Walt Disney stating that American Motors felt that by reneging on a promotion Disney had approved in writing, they had thus broken the contract between Disney and American Motors, and accordingly, American Motors wanted out of their Disney sponsorship immediately. Everyone agreed that my idea was a long shot.
My idea proved to be rather controversial both within the agency and with the client. The local Kelvinator manager – I don’t know if he’d ever met the president of American Motors – was concerned about overstepping his authority. And Rod didn’t think it was our agency’s place to suggest such an adversarial position to the client. So the arguments went back and forth. I admitted that it was a huge gamble, a bluff that could easily backfire, but if they believed in the promotion, they needed to do something big and daring like this to save it. Finally, we decided that the Kelvinator manager and Rod should jointly send the request to the corporate VP of advertising, asking him to pass it along to the president of American Motors. I have no real proof or knowledge that the telegram was actually sent, but four days later, Ed called and asked me to meet him in Anaheim.
Two hours later, Ed and I were in his Disneyland office. He said that he had a compromise: Disney would approve the promotion if Kelvinator postponed the kickoff until a Sunday in early August. Disney also agreed that the Kelvinator promotion would be their first third-party promotion ever for Disneyland.
I was ecstatic.
And Ed and I agreed that maybe, just maybe, neither of us was the dirty SOB we told each other we were.
CHAPTER 2
Opening Day Mishaps
I attended Disneyland’s opening, originally called “The Invitational Press Preview” (later named “Black Sunday” by the media) on Sunday, July 17, 1955, courtesy of Kelvinator, who gave me three VIP invitations for a 2 p.m. entrance. The park opened to the public on Monday, July 18, 1955.
On Sunday’s opening, however, the plan was to invite people at different hours so that the arrivals would be staggered to avoid a rush. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way because everyone wanted to come early to watch the celebrities, like Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr., and California Governor Goodwin Knight, arrive.
Apparently, the original plan for opening day was to invite 8,000 people, including for the most part celebrities, media, and heads of corporations. This alone would have been a good-sized crowd, but six days before the opening, Walt decided that the workers who’d built the park should share in the fun, and so they were also invited to the opening. So, a practical opening with 8,000 people swelled to 28,000 people, which caused the whole day to break down. Nobody arrived or left when they were supposed to. To make matters even worse, the new asphalt wasn’t completely dry – the 97-degree-heat didn’t help – and women’s high heels kept sinking into the asphalt. They were literally walking out of their shoes. Quite simply, the opening just wasn’t as successful as anticipated.
Because no one paid attention to their assigned arrival time, a logjam occurred at the turnstile. Upon entering, my 5-year-old son, my wife, and I were pushed along by the crowd, like a herd of cattle. We couldn’t get near the Carousel or Snow White (the ride) because they were both packed, nor could we approach Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride or Peter Pan.
As we were being pushed along by the crowd, we saw the Canal Boats of the World in Fantasyland. They were barge-like boats piloted by an operator sitting in the back. My son, David, wanted to go on them, and I thought it was a great idea. I watched somewhat nervously as David sailed away with around 40 other kids on board. The boat was supposed to return about five minutes after it took off, but after about 15 minutes, David still hadn’t returned.
Some boats returned and people got off, but not David.
Then, half an hour passed. Still no David.
I thought I had sent my first born on a voyage to hell and that he’d never return.
Forty-five minutes later, four guys wearing waders slogged through the water pulling David’s boat with ropes. My son had been sitting on this broken boat for forty-five minutes. As I stood in this sweaty, sticky mass of humanity, I grew more disenchanted by the minute with the supposed “happiest place on earth.”
When David got off, sweat rolling down his face, he asked, “Can we go home now?”
My wife and I didn’t go on any rides. I had built up this place with its fancy Castle and little city so much to my family, and I was totally disappointed.
Obviously Disneyland still had a lot of work to do even though Walt went way over budget, spending $17 million by the opening. They weren’t prepared for all the invited guests, let alone the thousands of people who snuck in by jumping fences and forging tickets.
Walt also planned an Opening Day TV Special with celebrity commentators like Art Linkletter, Bob Cummings, and Ronald Reagan, and a group of live Disney cartoon characters. Real people dressed as characters – Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse – had never been seen before. Hopefully they looked better on TV than they did in person because when we saw them we said, “Oh my God, they’re awful.” They looked entirely bizarre, almost gross. They were normal-sized people with small heads and enormous black ears. No one paid attention to the size of the cartoon characters relative to the size of real people. Thus, Mickey looked about 6 feet tall, while Minnie was about 51/2 feet tall. It didn’t matter that “the drawn” Mickey had a big head in proportion to his body; the live Mickey looked like a pinhead.
If Walt and his crew hadn’t made the necessary adjustments to bringing animated characters to life, kids today would be running and screaming in terror at what those characters looked like in 1955. Even I was a bit frightened.
We walked around for a few more minutes, and then we got in the car and drove to Knott’s Berry Farm for a chicken dinner.
CHAPTER 3
Signing on – Even on Saturdays
I hadn’t had any contact with Bud or Ed since they allowed the Kelvinator promotion to proceed, but, out of the blue, in September of 1955, Ed called me at Mays and Company. He told me that Disneyland was looking for an advertising manager (its first) and that he only had a few contacts in the advertising business in the L.A. area. He wondered whether I could give him assistance.
“Sure, Ed. Glad to help.”
“Do you know anyone who might be interested in the job?”
And then, for no reason, I heard myself say, “Yes, I do.”
“Who?” Ed asked.
“Me.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
I was shocked by my own response but I think it goes back to opening day. Even though it was a debacle, I still remained totally intrigued by Disneyland itself. Somehow, even as I watched the Opening Day TV Special with all of its cornball antics, the park still seemed very special — mostly because of the celebrity interviews with Art Linkletter, Jerry Lewis, and Danny Thomas to name a few. Irene Dunn even christened the Mark Twain Riverboat with champagne. With the mixture of Hollywood celebrities and high-profile politicians, I knew that Disneyland was going to be spectacular.
After Ed interviewed me for the advertising manager position, he said I had to meet and get approval from Card Walker, Disney Company advertising manager.
I couldn’t believe the name.
“Who?” I asked.
“Card,” Ed said.
“Like in a deck of cards?”
“Yep, that’s right,” Ed replied. I had visions of a Mississippi riverboat gambler, but he didn’t quite turn out like that. Instead, Card was movie star handsome. When he walked into a room, especially if he was in his Navy uniform, all the ladies swooned. I was plain awed to meet a Disney executive. Here I was, a 28-year-old kid who had done okay working at an ad agency but had never met anybody big from an important corporation. At my age, it seemed huge.
We met in his modest office on the Disney lot in Burbank. The meeting lasted less than an hour. Card was aware of my advertising agency experience and my hassle with Ed over the Kelvinator-Disneyland promotion. He asked whether I could work with Ed after our contentious beginning. I assured him, as did Ed, that our blow-up was in the past. I knew I could work with Ed without a problem.
Card said he understood my responsibilities as a husband and father but $135-per-week salary was tops. We discussed my family and where we lived. At the time, I had three sons and owned a home off Glenoaks Boulevard in Burbank. I knew I wanted this Disney job, and I guess Card knew too. I accepted the offer: A measly $10-per-week increase and a 70-mile commute each way. I would have to sell my home and buy a new one in a pretty unfamiliar area. But what the heck? Disney might look good on a résumé in a few years. So I rolled the dice and gave my two-weeks notice to Rod Mays.
Two days later, I got a call from Ed telling me that Card had spoken to Walt, who informed Card that the ad manager’s job at Disneyland was budgeted at $125 a week, and he would not go higher.
I had already burned my bridges at the advertising agency. I had no alternatives. I was stuck at Disneyland.
September 26, 1955 was my first day on the job as advertising manager at Disneyland. Since I was the only member of the advertising team, I was assigned an office in the Publicity Department, which was located on the second floor of City Hall at the park. Besides Eddie Meck, Disneyland’s publicity manager, whom I had known for more than 10 years (but that’s another story for another day), I met the other members of the Public Relations Division under the direction of Ed. I was introduced to my new compatriots: Marty Sklar, a junior at UCLA who would be returning to school in a few weeks to complete his senior year and serve as editor of the Daily Bruin. Marty had come to work at Disneyland in June of 1955, for a summer job, to create and become the first editor of the Disneyland News. Marty returned to Disneyland in the late summer of 1956, following his graduation from UCLA. Then there was Lee Cake, another UCLA alumni. After about two years with Disneyland, Lee left to attend Western States Law School. He graduated, passed the bar and eventually became the assistant DA of Alameda County, married and, sadly, passed away in the 1980s. Lloyd Settle and Cap Blackburn were two other Public Relations Division teammates in those very early days. I have no idea where Lloyd ended up when he left the park, but Cap left to go into the booming real estate market of the mid 1950s.
We were all in our twenties. We were very confident and anxious to prove ourselves, to make more money, to get promoted, to be recognized, and to be accepted. We were also very naive. And we were all intrigued, fascinated, captivated, and committed to this wonderful new place, this wonderful new thing, this wonderful new concept called Disneyland. Maybe we didn’t totally know why, but we all knew we were lucky to be working at Disneyland at this point in our careers. We became good friends. We worked. We played together. We horsed around together. We drank together. We ate lunch in Hurley’s Green Tent, a lunch wagon in the backstage area that served as an employee cafeteria until a real employee cafeteria opened in 1959 on the backstage side of the Plaza Inn Restaurant.
At that time, only about 750 people worked at Disneyland. We all knew each other, and if we needed to go from our office to the print shop or the mill or the Fantasyland office, we just walked. One of the great things was being in City Hall. We got to look out over Town Square and see the guests coming into the park. We got to hear the Disneyland Band marching down Main Street every morning and at the flag-lowering ceremony in Town Square each afternoon before closing. We could hear the bells and the clip-clop of the Clydesdales pulling the streetcars down Main Street and out the back of City Hall. We could also hear the drumbeat and the natives dancing, the lions roar and the jabbering monkeys from the Jungle Cruise. And, to me, the best part was walking across Town Square to and from work each day. I walked across the park’s hub at least twice a day, which meant that I saw, met, talked to, listened to, and heard the comments of Disneyland guests arriving and leaving the park. That was the best validation of what guests thought of their experience and whether our message was getting through or not.
On that auspicious first day, I cleaned out drawers stuffed with $53,000 in unpaid bills. I had to make sure that the bills were legitimate — some dated four months back. Nobody ever fessed up to shoving the receipts in those drawers, and although Ed knew there were some unpaid bills, he had no idea just how many bills there were.
On the Friday afternoon of my first week at Disneyland, I said, “See you all on Monday.” We had never actually discussed work weeks because in that modern world, everybody worked 40-hour weeks.
“No,” Lee came back with, “See you tomorrow. We work a half-day on Saturday.”
I couldn’t believe it, but Eddie told me it was true. Another 140-mile daily commute, and even with gas at 25 cents per gallon, it became obvious that I wasn’t breaking even with my new job. I was making less.
After a few months, I figured out that neither Walt nor Ed turned down the $135-per-week salary. My money — or lack thereof — was on Card.
But the money didn’t really matter; although I started at Disneyland slightly disappointed and skeptical, I was still enjoying myself, even on Saturdays.
CHAPTER 4
The Gardener Decides
Our responsibility was getting people to the park, but The Disney Company and Disneyland weren’t big advertisers. Nonetheless, The Walt Disney Company used C.J. LaRoche Advertising Agency, a New York agency with an office in Los Angeles, headed by Stu Ludlum. Since they were the advertising agency for Walt Disney Productions, I started working with them immediately after I was hired, but it was complicated because we were already doing our own creative work at the park.
I was working with Bob Moore, a fantastic artist at Disney Studios, who did all of the advertising work for the Disney pictures. Bob, who was the official signer of Walt Disney’s name for all publicity photos, reported to Card. The first days were interesting because Bob and I created ads for the following week that we liked, but then Stu, representing C.J. LaRoche, would come in with ads they’d created. There was continuous conflict.
We always had a Monday morning meeting with Card at the studio in Burbank to review and choose the week’s newspaper ad. Card would put both ads on the board and say, “I like this part of this ad and this part of that ad” and he would want to merge the two. It would turn into a cut and paste job. We spent a lot of frustrating time trying to agree on the best approach for an ad, and sometimes Card just couldn’t make up his mind about which one he liked best.
One day, as we were going back and forth, Card looked up and saw a gardener outside clipping the hedge. He knocked on the window and asked the gardener to come in. When he did, Card explained to him, “We are going to run one of these two ads this weekend and we can’t figure out which one is best.”
The gardener pointed to an ad, which became the one we ran.
Some of us were shocked, though probably not as much as the gardener. The ad certainly didn’t have a firm call to action, so we couldn’t really gauge the success of the gardener’s selection, but it sure seemed like his choice was just as successful as the ads we’d run on previous weekends. This wasn’t science; it was an opinion business.
We could have saved ourselves a whole lot of trouble every Monday simply by alternating the various ads. I quickly came to the conclusion that advertising was a subjective business, and that most of the time it just didn’t matter because people are too hung up on dotting the “i’s” and crossing the “t’s” and if something should be red or if something should be blue. In my opinion, 90 percent of the time, it doesn’t matter.
Battle lines were often drawn over whether art or copy should carry the ads. Again, it depended on the subject. Sometimes, a specific piece of art made an ad work. Basically, we’re lucky if 25 percent of the market reads any of the copy, but the headline and illustration are obviously necessary to grab attention and tell the story. Most of the time, headlines are important, much more than the body copy. And the illustration needs to get the attention without saying anything.
Ultimately, The Disney Company and Disneyland both relied more on publicity than on advertising. Basically, if we could get a celebrity or a politician to the park and get pictures, we knew we couldn’t buy that kind of advertising. That was part of our philosophy of getting something but not necessarily having to pay for it.
Whether we had a gardener’s opinion or advertising executive’s opinion, it taught me that advertising is subjective and not necessarily about what is taught in school.
CHAPTER 5
Where the Heck Is Disneyland?
In the early days, we had to help people find Disneyland, which was located at the Santa Ana Freeway and Harbor Boulevard. The freeway, all the way to Santa Ana, was completed about three months after Disneyland opened. Because the Santa Ana Freeway had just been built, people didn’t know the location of the Harbor Boulevard exit; at that time, it was easy to miss since the Harbor Boulevard sign was only about 100 yards before the exit.
A brick winery sat near the freeway, about a quarter-mile from the Harbor Boulevard off-ramp, so I suggested that we put a sign on that building to indicate to turn right at the next off-ramp. In my desire to attract Disney-style attention, we used a big cutout of Br’er Bear from Song of the South (a 1946 Disney film that combined live action and animation).
Of course, the sign said, “Bear Right at Harbor Boulevard ¼ mile.”
At the time, the building was empty, but it had been part of a winery. In 1857, Anaheim had been founded by German immigrants who grew grapes, hoping that this area might someday be the Napa Valley of today. But the blight came and killed all the grapes, so somebody said, “I’ve got the answer: Oranges.” So, oranges were planted.
Since this old building sat empty, I started meeting with the owner, and he said that the winery had been in the family for 80 years or so. He wasn’t the kind of guy I could make a quick deal with. Money wasn’t the object because he didn’t know the building’s worth, nor did he care. But he wanted to talk to somebody, so I met with him two or three times a week to get the contract signed before we could put our sign up. We talked and talked, and he’d always say, “I really ought to sell this place. Prices are going up around here. I was talking to somebody and he said I could get $100,000 for these four and a half acres.”
“That’s a lot of money,” I said.
“Yes, and I would love to travel. Leave my kids some money too, but I told them I’m going to hold off until maybe next year.”
Eventually, we agreed to put the sign up for $200 a month. He was thrilled. This old building sat there, and he was going to make $2,400 a year for letting us put a sign up. We always had a one-year contract, so every year when the time came around to get it renewed, I had to sit and talk with him for a few hours a week. We needed this man for our signage but to get it, he needed to be coddled. He was an old man who had stories to tell and needed someone to tell them to.
The wildest story he ever told me was that in the mid-1930s, an old ocean liner had been refitted as a gambling casino and anchored 12 or so miles off the coast between Newport Beach and Long Beach. From Long Beach and from Newport Beach, these alleged gambling proprietors had speed boats that would take people out to the mother ship to gamble, eat, dance, and who knows what else. So this old friend told me that he and four of his American Legion buddies went out to the ship one night, and he got lucky by winning $4,000, which was an absolute fortune at the time.
“It was getting close to midnight,” he said, “and time to get back and I started to get on the little boat to get back to land, and two guys in tuxedos came up to me and said, ‘The big boss would like to see you.’”
He continued, “I knew I had to go into the office. I sent my buddies back to Long Beach. These big guys stood in the office when I arrived. And the big boss said, ‘I understand you did very well tonight.’”
‘Yes, I did very well indeed. I won almost $4,000.’
‘That’s wonderful. There’s nothing more we like to see than when people come here and get lucky. But we are so concerned because of all the bad people in the world that somebody could rob you of this money by hitting you over the head and throwing you overboard, especially since you are 12 miles out to sea and nobody would ever know. We just feel a responsibility to our guests, so I want you to take my private launch back to Long Beach,’ the big boss told him.
‘Oh, that’s very kind of you. How much do you charge?’
‘About $3,500.’
My friend told me that after looking around that room, he knew the decision was easy. He said, “I still came out about $500 ahead and was lucky to be alive.”
I don’t know if that story is true or not, but he reminds me of those people who write books 50 or so years later, and of course, since their memories are a little shot, the stories are much better. I’d like to think that we want to hear these stories just the same.
CHAPTER 6
Circus Tricks
In the fall of 1955, Walt said that we were going to have a big circus at Disneyland, so we did. He bought a huge red and white striped circus tent that we put up where the Matterhorn is now — between Fantasyland and Tomorrowland. He had trapeze acts, and he even leased elephants. The circus ran for approximately six weeks, from roughly Thanksgiving to the beginning of January. Guests paid 50 cents for a circus ticket in addition to their Disneyland admission.
The Mickey Mouse Club Circus also featured the first live appearance of the Mouseketeers from the Mickey Mouse Club TV show. Even though the show had only been on the air since early October of 1955, it was an immediate hit, and young fans started choosing their favorite Mouseketeers right from the beginning. Annette, Cubby, and Bobbie were among the favorites along with Roy Williams, the Big Mooseketeer Mouseketeer, and Jimmie Dodd, the Head Mooseketeer Mouseketeer.
On opening night, our trapeze act flew out over the audience, which they loved, but our young female trapeze artist accidentally caused quite a stir. She wore a bra, shorts, and tights, but when she did the trick of putting her feet and hands up while her body was flying over the audience, her bra broke and flew off. This well-built trapeze artist whizzed back and forth, completely topless.
How un-Disney, I thought.
One afternoon of the circus, a llama escaped and ran up Main Street. Also, a kangaroo escaped onto Main Street. The kangaroo, not the friendliest animal, ran away from all of us, and when we did catch up, he had a habit of jumping and kicking with his back feet. It was a kind of kickboxing, and it took a whole lot of Disney manpower to bring him under control.
As part of the circus experience, someone at the show hired a guy named Professor Keller and his wild lion act. Rather than just a six-week contract, somebody made the mistake of signing the lion tamer to a 52-week contract, so when the circus was over and we didn’t know what to do with Professor Keller, we tried to negotiate a buyout, but he said, “No, I like it here.” He hung out in his trailer for the rest of the year.
We moved the red and white circus tent to a location behind the Plaza Inn on Main Street, and everyday at one o’clock and four o’clock, Professor Keller and his lions performed. He wore white gloves and claimed he hypnotized the animals. He got the four lions up on stools and would direct them as a typical lion tamer does: To roar, sit up, snarl and look mean and menacing. But behind each lion was a guy with a sharp stick. He also told me that the only danger in the act is that the lions could fall asleep, stumble off their stools and crush Professor Keller. So, for a year, we had good ol’ Professor Keller and his lions.
In order to promote the circus, I got permission to use Annette Funicello and Tommy Cole for a radio commercial. At that time, boys drooled over Annette: She was the Marilyn Monroe of the 12-year-old set. I drove Annette and Tommy up to Santa Monica Boulevard to do the 60-second radio recording. When the music came on, they said, “I’m Annette and I’m Tommy, and we are here to tell you about the circus.” The advertising promotion worked well because it ran on a good schedule on local radio shows. But, basically, anything with Annette in November of 1955 would have worked because she was the only Mouseketeer with bumps in her sweater.
To market the circus even further, I worked with Alpha Beta Markets to have big boxes full of circus tickets that the cashiers could sell when someone bought groceries. Because we had the circus twice a day, a customer could go to Alpha Beta and buy tickets for a specific time and date. They were like TicketMaster, and Alpha Beta supported this brilliant idea with a major ad campaign on their grocery bags. These ticket sales took place at every Alpha Beta store. Imagine all of those tickets and trying to find the exact day and time the customer wanted without a computer system in place. Obviously, it turned out to be a nightmare for the customer and the cashier; it must have been the biggest pain in the ass. The whole thing blew up in flames because there wasn’t a system in place to support the complexity of it all and barely any tickets were sold. Really, they should have fired me for such a harebrained idea.
I have no regrets about doing that Alpha Beta promotion because it helped me learn how to promote events better in the future, but the circus didn’t work. Walt wanted to do the circus the year the park had opened. We had less than two million visitors at the time. We could have put the circus at Fairfax and Beverly Boulevard in Los Angeles, and it would have been a huge hit. At Disneyland, it was a yawn because people wanted to see Disneyland; the rides were bigger and better than any circus.
CHAPTER 7
Winter Wonderland
On Christmas Eve in 1955, I walked up Main Street in the early evening. And on this night, with the garlands strung between the lampposts, the wreaths hanging in all the store windows, and the huge Christmas tree in Town Square, the atmosphere drew me in.
My favorite time to be in the park is in the middle of the night with the twinkle lights in the trees, and without the people, the park is quiet, peaceful, and beautiful. I feel like I’m alone in my own little city. Few people visit the park that way, and although Tomorrowland, Fantasyland, and Frontierland have their own character and personality when empty, Main Street is the most magical and pristine, like no one has ever been there before.
Because the park was practically empty on that Christmas Eve night, a family caught my attention, and as the mother, father, their 10-year-old son and younger daughter walked down Main Street, I followed them. They were dressed neatly but not stylish; the father and son wore overalls. The mother wore a cotton dress with a coat. They all held hands. They talked to each other and appeared to be a close-knit family.
When they arrived at the Christmas tree in Town Square, next to The Emporium with the mechanical Santa Claus and dolls in the window, the little girl tugged on her mom’s arm and said, “Mom, this really was better than having Santa Claus.”
I knew then that Santa wasn’t bringing them presents. The parents must have told their children that if they went to Disneyland, Santa couldn’t bring presents. Right then, I wanted to take them into The Emporium and let them pick out anything they wanted, but, sadly, I didn’t have the authority to do so.
This family came to Disneyland but could not afford to spend a lot of money. So, for this family, their time at the park was probably Christmas. The kids would forego toys, and mom and dad wouldn’t receive presents.
To me, this one brief moment proved to be my most meaningful memory at the park because it symbolized what we mean to people: We are not a cure for cancer, we are not going to save the world, but if we can make people that happy for a few hours or for a day, then we are doing something worthwhile.
CHAPTER 8
Always, “Walt Disney”
When I met Walt for the first time, I felt like a kid, five years out of college, and he was a giant man, a guy everybody knew.
He was walking up Main Street with a bunch of people, including Ed Ettinger, while I was visiting with some of our executives, when somebody said, “Walt, this is our new advertising guy.”
“Hi. How are you? Nice to meet you. Good job. We are glad to have you aboard,” Walt said to me.
He probably turned away and asked, “Who the hell is that?”
But I was impressed that Walt Disney said “Hi” to me.
The next time I had anything to do with Walt was when I accidentally yelled at him. In early 1956, our little motley crew grew with the addition of Walter Scott, another personable young man, who was hired to set up promotional activities for Disneyland. Ed had Walter report to me and gave me the title of advertising and promotion manager. No salary increase, of course, but my department had doubled in size, and I was on my way to creating an empire. Next, I was given an okay to hire a secretary. Her name was Dorothy Hodge, a graduate and cheerleader from the University of Miami. She was peppy, and for the most part, a good secretary.
One day, I was frantically looking for Walter because Ed wanted to talk to him, but he was nowhere to be found. I had Dorothy calling everywhere to find him. Ed was out of town and had sort of put me in charge of the division while he was gone. At about 4:30 in the afternoon — still no Walter — Dorothy buzzed me and said Walt was on the line. I was furious, so I picked up the phone and screamed, “Where the hell have you been?”
“Just sitting here in my office trying to get some work done,” came back the quiet, unmistakable voice of Walt Disney.
I stammered, “Sorry, Walt. I thought you were somebody else.” Totally ignoring my rather stupid remark, he went on to say that in a few weeks Shirley Temple would be joining him for the dedication of the new walk-through in Sleeping Beauty Castle. He asked if I would prepare two or three minutes of remarks for him for the ceremony. And then he was gone.
I had barely talked with Walt Disney before this fiasco on the phone. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he fired me on the spot. Fortunately, for me, he didn’t, but I am sure he wondered what kind of jerk had someone hired as the Disneyland ad manager.
I called Dorothy in and made it very clear that with Disney there was only one Walt and he must always be identified with both names. No Walt. No Walter. Always, Walt Disney.
I was scared as hell to write something for Walt Disney. When I kept looking at that blank piece of paper, I tried to write as I thought Walt would sound while reading it. Luckily, I possess a knack that when I’m writing for somebody specific, I can picture everything I ever saw that person say or do.
The final product pleased me, so I sent it off to Walt. I never heard a word back. Finally, the day of the Sleeping Beauty Castle dedication, I met Walt in the City Hall where we were waiting for Shirley Temple to arrive. Walt took a piece of paper out of his pocket and asked, “Who wrote this?”
I sort of held my breath and answered softly, “I did.”
He raised that famous eyebrow and said, “Not bad.”
Shirley Temple arrived a few minutes later and she, Walt, and I rode in the 03 Taxicab up Main Street to the Castle. The dedication was inside the Castle. After fanfares and introductions, Walt was introduced. He stepped up to the podium, took the paper from his pocket and read my remarks word for word.
I can’t begin to express my exuberance and jubilation at that moment. Walt Disney read two pages of copy I had written especially for him! So, I either seemed to be embarrassing myself or impressing Walt.
Whatever it was, it was never dull. In early 1958, when we needed to take publicity pictures in front of the Castle, they needed some kids for effect. I had three sons, an 8-year-old, a 6-year-old, and a 2-year-old. So, I brought them along to be in the pictures.
We were in front of the Castle, and for one of the pictures, Walt stooped down with my youngest son by his leg.
All of sudden, Walt shouted, “Ouch! He fanged me!”
My son, Troy, had bit Walt on the leg.
Then, Walt asked, “Whose kid is this?”
I turned around to everybody and asked, “Alright, whose kid is this?”
A few minutes after that, Walt walked away. I guiltily gathered up my brood and hastily moved them backstage. That evening, Troy and I had a long chat about not biting people, any people, but particularly not Walt Disney.
To my knowledge Walt never did find out the name of the kid who had fanged him.
CHAPTER 9
The Anaheim Colonists
Disneyland took a nothing little town and turned it into one of the most famous places in the world in less than 20 years. The city grew from fewer than 10,000 people in the early 1950s to 100,000 by 1957. Obviously, that’s spectacular growth, and when Anaheim needed more schools but couldn’t find enough teachers, they were forced to recruit teachers from all over the country. So the city used Disneyland’s Castle on a brochure. It worked. Teachers came to this little town in Orange County, California, just to be next to Disneyland.
And because of my job, in March of 1956, my wife, three boys, and I moved from Burbank to Anaheim. We enjoyed our “little house on the prairie” after six months of commuting. We bought a Westinghouse All-Electric Home of the Future in Anaheim in a tract near the Santa Ana Freeway for $15,000. With a $102-a-month mortgage payment and all-new electric appliances included in our new home, I thought I’d hit the big time.
Soon after we moved, on a Friday night at around six in the evening, I went to the only hardware store in downtown Anaheim to pick up something to do work around the house with, but I found the store closed with a sign on the door that said, “Gone to the football game.”
You’ve got to be kidding! On Friday night?
Every store on the street was closed. So I asked a guy what was going on and he told me, “Anaheim High School football.”
The next Friday night, we joined our new neighbors. I bought tickets for my family, and we all proceeded to La Palma Park to watch The Colonists, Anaheim High School’s football team. The game wasn’t scheduled for another 30 minutes, but 2,000 fans had already packed the stadium.
Soon enough, the place erupted when the Anaheim Marchin’ Colonists Band came on the field playing “Alabamy Bound,” and they stretched from one goal line to the other. Then, the team ran onto the field with a thunderous ovation. After the band played “The Star-Spangled Banner,” everybody was pumped up for the kickoff.
The unquestionable star of the team and one of the leading players in all of Southern California that year was a young man named Mickey Finn. He returned the opening kickoff 67 yards for a touchdown. During the course of the game, he also scored on plays of 83, 72, 60, and 54 yards. Mickey Finn was not just an Anaheim High School hero, he was a legend in Anaheim and Orange County, a perfect example of a big fish in a small pond.