Here and Ben-Bacharach Again

By Bruce Ben-Bacharach
Here and Ben-Bacharach Again 2
Preface: A Boy Can Dream
It was a night unlike any other. The year? 1970. The sight? The City of
Angels. Tinseltown. That great amalgamation of freeways and delusions.
And there, amidst the strip malls and the churros, was a boy with a dream and an
inaccurately-labeled learning disability: Me. Bruce Ben-Bacharach. I had just set
soles to soil after a long and arduous bus ride from Bismarck, North Dakota, where I
had unceremoniously parted ways with my mother after she informed me that her
lover, Roy, would no longer allow me to practice my drums in the family home.
Having spent fifteen years under the bosom of my dear mother, and only five
months under the repugnant thumb of Roy, I felt a stir of rebellion deep in my
tummy. So I emptied my belongings into a satchel, wrapped my precious
drumsticks in a dishrag, and set my sites Westward, toward the Land of La. And that
is precisely where I found myself that fateful December night, following fifty-two
hours spent dreaming of my name in lights and struggling to get comfortable
enough to sleep in a seated position. As fate would have it, that particular skill
would come in quite handy during my time in Hollywood. But I digress.
As I strolled the sullied Los Angeles streets for the first time, I could think
only of two people: Charles Manson and Ali MacGraw. How badly I wanted to find a
love like Ali, to live up to my reputation amongst friends as the Ryan O’Neal of
Bismarck. But how scared I was that that pursuit would lead me straight into the
arms of a manic cult leader, promising the world and offering nothing but limited
access to a lesser-known Beach Boy. You see, I was impressionable in my younger
years—not the shrewd fox I now pride myself on being. I often fell for scams and
found myself the object of so-called ‘pranks,’ such as the time Roy beckoned me to
come downstairs to enjoy a slice of coconut cake, and as I hurried down the steps
ready for a taste, I instead found he and his friends standing in a circle and urinating
on my bed pillow. There was nary a slice of cake in sight.
So I determined that as soon as I stepped off that bus, I would be a new
Bruce. My defenses were up as I scanned the faces of Angelenos under neon. I had
always wanted to be part of something larger than myself, and I understood deeply
the need to belong. It was why I had joined three separate scouting troupes as a
young lad, only to be left to fend for myself when each troupe leader was found to be
behaving, shall we say, inappropriately with the boys. I didn’t mind a little extra
attention, as long as I acquired the necessary survival skills, but apparently the
Bismarck Police Department disagreed. I found myself thinking about those
confusing days of my pupilage as I wandered up and down Cahuenga Boulevard,
looking for a sign from the heavens or, perhaps, a reasonably priced tuna fish
sandwich. Funds were tighter than Steve McQueen’s dashing turtlenecks.
You see, in my haste to leave Bismarck in the most dramatic of fashions, I
wound up relinquishing the majority of my knockaround cash on what I believed to
be a yellow cab ride from my home to the bus station. As it turned out, my “cab
driver” Manny left me by the railroad tracks with a black eye and solamente catorce
dolares, which narrowly avoided his sticky fingers by being deviously nestled near
my ankle, tucked away in my tube sock. It was enough for a bus ticket and not much
else. I suppose some of the fault for this unfortunate mishap lays with my boyish
innocence, for while I took notice that Manny’s cab was not so much a cab as it was a
large white passenger van, wherein the seats had been replaced with upturned
painters’ buckets, I chose to give him the benefit of the doubt. It was neither the first
nor the last time that I would make this mistake, but it was at least the fourth worst-
timed occurrence of said mistake.
So there I was, fifteen years of age, barely a penny to my name, my heart full
of the promise of music super stardom and ill-fated love. I walked up and down the
storefronts, looking for help wanted signs in the various cafes and sex shops. I was
technically a virgin at that time, so I found myself having to stop and take regular
rests throughout my journey, overwhelmed by the items and pictures that were
filling my pupils in this strange new world. At one corner marketplace, I grabbed a
Hitachi Magic Wand, which at first struck me as a particularly cumbersome
flashlight, and promptly went into a tailspin upon reading the instructions and
realizing the intended use of this particular item. My brain and my loins working
overtime, I scurried out of the shop and slumped down on the sidewalk for a rest. I
placed my melon in my hands to calm down and have a thought. What did the
immediate future hold for young Bruce? Should I spend my last few dollars on a
cheap room somewhere, and continue my search for stardom in the morning after a
fresh shower and some salacious television? Should I give my mother a call, and sob
indiscriminately into the phone about my lack of male role models until she agreed
to wire me some money to bring me back home? Should I scrape my last dollars
together to buy the Hitachi Magic Wand and deliver it to the agency representing
Miss Ali MacGraw, my dark and stormy siren, singing from the rocks on the shores
of Hollywood? It was at this moment, as I pondered life’s heaviest of questions, that
I was approached by a raven-haired woman of the streets, swinging her hips and
spitting out gum as she approached.
“Hey daddy,” she purred, “looking to take a ride?” The word ‘daddy’ was still
very triggering for me, and this young lady did have the girlish sensuality of a young
Jenny from ‘Love Story,’ but I managed to stammer out an affirmative and promptly
scrambled up on my haunches. She laid out a flattened palm in solicitation, and
embarrassingly enough, my naiveté led me to believe she simply wanted a
gentlemanly gesture. I tenderly pressed my lips to her palm, and she angrily yanked
it back.
I believe the young lady’s next words were something along the lines of, “No
motherfucker, get your pussy lips off my hand. Money. MONEY. How much you
got?” My face went as red as a cherry tomato in June and I despondently turned to
my pockets, knowing exactly what I’d find there. A measly three dollars and twelve
cents. I sheepishly pulled the coins and crumpled dollar bills out and held them in
offering to my lady. She sighed and reluctantly grabbed the money. “Open your
mouth.” My heart leaped. This was it!! Young Bruce’s shot at love. His first
consensual kiss. I envisioned myself grabbing a handful of her sweet pudding
pouches, and wondered if she could tell the only pudding pouches I’d grabbed up to
that point had been mine own. And sure, I knew a financial transaction was the
basis of our romance, but I could tell from the way she sneered at me that true love
was in the cards. Every great couple’s got to start somewhere. Rumor has it that Liz
Taylor and Dickie Burton’s first interaction was actually in line for a Roman port-a-
potty on one fateful day when their trailers’ plumbing was out on the set of
Cleopatra. With this thought in mind, I did as I was instructed. I opened my mouth
and closed my eyes, fully prepared to suckle at the teat of love.
But rather than the slippery oral roller coaster I was expecting, I was met
instead with the faint taste of chalk emanating off a small piece of paper that had
been delicately placed on the tip of my tongue. Before I could even open my eyes
and cough out a question about this surprise, the paper had dissolved, leaving not a
trace. I opened my eyes and caught my wily paramour giggling and running away,
holding my satchel above her head as items spilled out. I traced her metaphorical
jellybeans down the sidewalk, picking up my only precious belongings and praying
upon praying that my drumsticks, those tickets to freedom, would be amongst the
discarded. I counted three pairs of tube socks, a copy of MAD magazine, and a pair
of silken drawers, but alas—no drumsticks. The disappearing sidewalk angel outran
me, darting around several corners as I wheezed in her wake, and, much like Ryan
and Ali, I had to accept the fact that sometimes, fate and timing collude to let love
slip through our clumsy fingers.
I did not ponder this sad fact for upwards of ten minutes before my grasp on
reality started to escape me. The sky, once full of smog and the occasional
cumulonimbus cloud, had now become a beautiful thatched canvas—the colors
moving and morphing right in front of my very eyes. Is this the California Dreamin
the mother and the fathers had sung about? The parade of visuals was just
beginning—the rolling hills of the Hollywood sign became a teacher’s chalkboard,
and suddenly my brain showed me an image long repressed from childhood, a
young Bruce standing in front of the class, painstakingly writing and rewriting “I will
keep my hands out of my pants” over and over and over again, until my reputation
was worse than that of Rick Solomon. Cahuenga Blvd rolled up and down like a boat
on a concrete ocean, the neon lights dancing and flashing, spelling out “KEEP
DREAMING, BRUCEY BOY” right in front of my face. It was a carnival boat ride
through a tunnel of love unlike any other, and it went on like that for hours as the
sun set and finally began to rise again.
It wasn’t until that next morning that I realized I had been drugged by my
would-be lover and the streets of Hollywood were not, in fact, psychedelic carnival
rides, but filthy gutters full of hookers and hallucinogenic drugs. As the LSD began to
wear off, I saw a man in the distance – sandy hair, wanton smile, the swagger of a
movie star. It was him! It was Ryan O’Neal, my spiritual guide, longtime role model,
and, should he respond to the speech I had spent the last three years practicing in
the shower, my soon-to-be adopted father. But wait -- could I trust my peepers, or
was this another trick of the mind, addled now with lab-created fantasy and a
symphony of colors and Hollywood dreams gone awry? The key to success in
Hollywood is to never doubt one’s ability, one’s worth, or one’s skill. Unfortunately,
it would take me twenty-six years and two failed marriages to learn that, so my first
night in town, I was plagued with doubts. Although I had never missed a single
episode of Peyton’s Place, and I knew Ryan would appreciate my malleability and
willingness to take orders as a potential son, I lacked the confidence to make my
approach. I watched from the sidelines as Mr. O’Neal, that devilishly winking
playboy, called into a storefront. I could hardly believe what I saw next: Out came a
beautiful young brunette, dancing on air and twirling into his arms, brown eyes
glimmering and eyebrows cutting across her face like an unmonitored child gone
wild with a thick black crayon. Could it be… her? My Ali cat? Could this be the sign
from the heavens I had been waiting for? The reason I journeyed out to California in
the first place? My shot at love? I rubbed the street grime and sandman’s crumbs
from my eyes and squinted hard. It was her, it had to be. I cursed myself for not
buying the Hitachi Magic Wand, but I brushed the wrinkles from my clothes and
prepared to make my approach. Doubt be damned, Ryan O’Neal be damned! I
would woo Ali MacGraw and sweep her away from Ryan, as I was younger and more
virile, and I was also experiencing high levels of LSD-induced confidence that were
quickly pushing the doubts out of my mushy brain. This was my moment! Barritus!!
Just as I cleared my throat to utter a greeting, I noticed something poking out
of Ryan’s pants pocket. No, not his beautiful penis, but a fine pair of drumsticks. I
thought perhaps this was even more confirmation that I was on the right path,
maybe Ryan was a drummer as well and instead of cursing me for stealing away his
movie girlfriend and granting her the rest of my virginity, he’d take me under his
wing and adopt me after all, and we would share many afternoons drumming away
and enjoying soft drinks on his wraparound porch. I felt as though the jigsaw puzzle
pieces of my life were finely fitting together, rather than being shoved and pounded
by some ham-fisted, drunken stepfather, who seems completely ignorant to the fact
that there is a guide picture to show you what the picture on the puzzle should look
like, for Christ’s sake. So imagine my shock when, upon closer inspection, I noticed
that the drumsticks had familiar words etched into their side: “Property of Bruce
Ben-Bacharach. NOT ROY.” Alas! They were mine own drumsticks! Somehow the
magic of Hollywood had lifted them into the hands of the one and only Ryan O’Neal!
But how? And then it all became clear.
Ryan’s brunette companion twirled out of the storefront and into his arms,
but she was not Ali, the queen of my heart, after all. She was my drugger, my
assailant, my first taste of the unpredictable and cold nature of the city of angels.
“C’mon, babe. I want my full hour,” Ryan cooed into her ear, dripping with
syrup and sounding equally under the influence. She turned around and saw me
standing there, jaw on the ground.
“Oh... It’s you.” They turned and looked at me. This was my moment. I
closed my eyes and saw those neon signs flashing once more: KEEP DREAMING,
BRUCEY BOY. Assert yourself. Take what’s yours in this new promise land.
“Excuse me, sir, I believe those are my drumsticks. I am Bruce Ben-
Bacharach.” He pulled them out of his back pocket and gave them a sniff.
“I don’t think you want these, kids. Who knows where they’ve been.”
“Just give the kid his drumsticks and let’s go.” She grabbed his tush and put
her tongue in his ear, and I remembered wistfully how, just a few hours earlier, I
believed in earnest that that tongue would be mine to enjoy. Ryan tossed me the
drumsticks and then reached into his wallet.
“Here, kid. Don’t say anything about this to the press. Call my manager and
he’ll set you up real nice.” He flicked a small business card my way and I traced it
with my fingers as the lovers strolled away. I liked the feeling of it—sharp corners,
raised font, smooth surface. I read the card. Steve Leszczynski: Talent Manager,
Talent2Talent Management. The world fell away as I read those two fateful words:
Talent. Manager. It was as if the business card were some sort of talisman calling
me from the future: Bruce—I call to thee to manage the talent of Hollywood. I call to
thee to manage them with grace and courage and diarrhea-inducing fear. Find Steve.
He shall be your spirit guide into the world of talent management. Go now, Brucey Boy!
Go forth and seize your dreams! I held the drumsticks in one hand and the business
card in the other—feeling the weight of decisions about my future. I knew I had
been set on a new path, and again, the colors swirled around me. I tucked the
business card in my shirt pocket and placed the drumsticks back in my satchel.
Then I promptly expelled a stream of confetti-colored vomit into the street,
stumbled back against the building, and had a proper sleep, sitting straight up in a
comfortable seated position, dreaming of the future.
Chapter One: Bruce Learns “The Biz”*
*Short for “the business,” referring to “Show Business,” a shorthand term for the entertainment industry
Steve Leszczynski was a manager to the megastars and a Hollywood legend,

the likes of which was never seen before or since. In steering those great, colossal
ships of actors’ careers, Steve became awash with power and sexual prowess. He
could go to bed with any actress in town and wake up with a new multi-million
dollar check waiting on his mahogany desk. Don’t believe me? Ask Carol Lombard’s
housekeeper Susetta. She’s seen more than her share of Steve and his hulking, Polish
rear. Steve was a gentleman, a business genius, and, incidentally, a prolific whistler.
He was surprised to hear that I was not interested in receiving a stack of cash from a
file drawer labeled “Ryan’s Accidents,” but he listened as I told him my plan: I
promised not to sue as long as Steve would take me under his wing and show me
how he coughed up the owl pellets of Hollywood Success for his various clients to
peck apart.
Steve bristled at first: you could tell this was a stallion who liked to roam the
countryside solo, feeling the wind in his metaphorical mane (Steve was, like I would
become at the tender age of 22, fully bald). He gave me a few choice words meant to
signify that I was to “beat it,” and tossed a chunk of cash and some paperwork my
way. While I was admittedly thrilled to be asked to give my first John Hancock and
couldn’t begrudge the benefit of coming into such a healthy sweep of sheckles, I was
sad to lose a potential mentor in Steve. I figured I could learn to manage talent on
my own, but as I lifted the quill to make my mark, my eye caught something else.
Hanging in the corner of Steve’s office was a framed letter. I read the words
with disbelief:
Steve- Thanks for everything. You have been like a father to me, which is sad,
considering I’m old enough to be your dad. Ha! We love to laugh. –Jack Paar
Jack Paar! Praise be to the highest heavens, Jack Paar! Jack had soothed me
through the television on many a chaotic night, awaiting Roy and my mother to go
from screaming to lovemaking, the sounds of the latter being just as difficult to
ignore. I could hardly imagine someone like Jack Paar thanking me, calling me a
father figure, and I studied Steve’s kind face: covered in pockmarks, a thin layer of
grease streaked across his forehead, a friendly little mole with a perky whisker
poking out. Something in me stirred, and not in a sexual way. No, at that moment,
my heart was aroused. I knew I must convince Steve to teach me the ancient and
honorable trade of talent management.
I wish I could tell you I gave Steve an impassioned speech about my
qualifications as a young manager’s apprentice, but instead, I burst into tears and
threw myself at the feet of this wild mustang. I clutched at his polyester pants and
begged him to take me on. I availed upon him my many miseries: no place to live, no
money to my name, no idea how to manage the body odor that was increasingly
becoming a problem at home, at school, and especially on the bus from Bismarck. I
needed guidance, and he was the one to give it to me. Although Steve wasn’t what I
would describe as particularly emotional, he seemed touched. He agreed to take me
on on a provisional basis: no pay for the first six months, but he’d take care of me as
long as I knew how to keep my mouth shut. Reflecting on my history with the
Scouts, I confidently assured him that my lips were sealed. And amidst that tear and
snot-filled moment of true vulnerability, an epic partnership was forged.
For the next six months, I would work tirelessly by Steve’s side and sleep on
his office couch at night. Often times I’d be asked to leave in the middle of the night
when some of his rowdier clients would barge in with various ladies of the night in
tow, looking for some cushions on which to do their pushin. During those times, I
would leave to grab a donut from the shop on the corner, or I’d simply crouch down
on the other side of the door and listen to the moans of the likes of Lee Majors and
Jimmie Walker. That period of my life gave me a grand education in my ways. For
example, if a client is drugged out of his mind and threatening to light himself on
fire, first you call the girlfriend, then you grab the fire extinguisher. It also can’t hurt
to light the client’s car on fire, just in case he needs a ready-made story for the wife.
Ah, the life of a Hollywood manager! Steve was unflappable—there was no problem
too big nor client too high for him to get the deal done. If it weren’t for his chronic
plaque psoriasis, I’d say he resembled the billion dollar man.
In Steve, I found a mentor, a friend, and yes, a father figure. I worked by his
side for twenty-two years, and during that time he taught me to throw a baseball,
shave my beard, and make love to a woman. Most importantly, he taught me how to
leverage the natural talent of a client to explode a Hollywood career into the star-
streaked path of success. Talent management is an art: it requires one to be
sensitive to the artist’s ego while keeping an eye on the shrewd, ever-changing
mood of the Hollywood power structure. One could say it’s like lion taming, but
instead of a whip or a stool, we beat the hungry beast off with a lucrative
commercial sponsorship or points on the back-end. Here are some of the finest tips
I ever learned from the greatest lion tamer of them all, Steve Leszczynski:
 Never let your client go to bed angry. There are prescription pills for that.
 Shower your client with more praise than an African American in church.
(Steve used more colorful language for this tip, but it has been edited out to
reflect today’s standards of what is or is not socially acceptable.)
 Close every deal over a fine steak dinner, that way the cow does the mooing
instead of your client. Ha!
 Sexual relations with a client aren’t advised, but they aren’t advertised either.
(See: Carole Lombard, p. 8)
 Your client’s drug problem is part of what makes him or her a star: only
interfere if it affects your paycheck.
 You will tire of your client’s work over time, and watching him/her act will
feel like watching paint dry on an old barn fence. Amuse yourself while on
set by picturing him/her naked so that you can continue to shower said client
with praise in an authentic manor.
 Go for the Jew-gular! (Whenever possible, only do business with Jews.)
Armed with these tips and a growing collection of business attire, Steve
eventually hired me on as a full-time Junior Talent Manager. I saved enough to rent
my own bachelor pad in the basement of some nice gentlemen’s West Hollywood
home, and I continued to show up every day to Steve’s own personal Grand Central
Station, racking up tales of Hollywood Glamour like a Mexican amassing corn silk on
tamale day. We were a team, and we were truly living la vida loca.
Chapter Two: Giddyup, Ben Vereen!
Ben Vereen was the first client I was allowed to manage without the helpful
guiding hand of Steve. This great shift in fortune came my way after a happy
accident out at The Cowpoke Ranch in lower Ojai in the year of our Lord, 1979. How
did I wind up standing over a semi-conscious African-American multi-hyphenate
with fecal matter all over my pants, and how did that lead to the first major step up
in my professional career? To fully tell that story, I’ll have to go back in time just a
smidge, to the summer of 1975.
One hazy evening, I was massaging Steve’s calves in the office as he drank
vermouth and yelled at the television. This was a little weekend routine we had
gotten in the swing of to relieve the stresses of the week and see what our
competitors were up to on the old tube of boob. Steve was several drinks in and I
was making headway on his upper right arch as the television settled on NBC and
we happened across a nice chocolate-skinned man dancing to the high heavens with
such celebrity pals as Lola Falana and Liz Torres. The special was a symphony for
the eyes: lithe bodies of all colors twirled around a rehearsal space doing leg lifts
and pas de bourrees, clad in the most striking leotards either Steve or myself had
ever seen. The energy was transfixing! People going up stairs, people going down
stairs, people stopping on the landing of the stairs and changing directions, singing
all the while! It was the pure magic of Broadway theater, being delivered straight to
the living rooms of every single American patriot. Steve threw his drink against the
wall and demanded to know who this more wholesome Sammy Davis Jr. type was
leading the circus. I had never seen the man before and, incidentally, I happen to
suffer from a rare form of face blindness when it comes to ethnic minorities, but I
was saved just in the nick of time. The man turned to the television, winked, and
assured us he’d be right back for the second hour of the program: Ben Vereen, Comin’
At Ya! Ben Vereen. Ben Vereen! We had to have him.
Steve and I wooed Mr. Vereen to our team and had been working to bring
him into the bear hug that is mainstream Hollywood for the next several years. We
booked him on numerous other dance-related escapades and even earned him an
Emmy nomination for the brilliant role of ‘Chicken’ George Moore in the television
mini series Roots, which I am told was quite good. By the summer of 1979, Ben was
pleased with his career, but he wanted to take it to the next level. If you can believe
it, he wanted to star in an emotional family drama, having been caught with Kramer
Vs. Kramer fever, an affliction that knocked out the whole town that summer! I
relayed Ben’s hopes to Steve, who gave me some choice words about the validity of
a black man being seen as the head of a family in a major Hollywood studio film. I
hate to admit this to you, dear readers, but the conversation did not paint Steve in
the most progressive of lights. It may shock you to learn that at that time, much of
Hollywood was controlled by men with severely antiquated ways of thinking, unlike
today. Maximum respect, Brian Grazer.
But alas, the end of the flower era was awash with unspoken racial
expectations, and it was not up to one man from Bismarck to suddenly change all of
that. Caucasian people can’t be expected to take responsibility for all of the world’s
racism, afterall. (This was another tip I learned from my boss, but I chose not to add
it to the list in the previous chapter, for it is more of a life lesson and less of a career
lesson—alas, to be saved for another book entirely!). Steve tasked me with taking
Mr. Vereen out for a “boys’ night” to course correct: to show him that some things
were out of reach, and to better focus on smiling and soft-shoeing for the masses
instead of reaching for dramatic integrity. I was hesitant to accept the assignment,
not only because I felt it morally questionable, but because I had never had a boys’
night in my life! Aside from the nights when Steve would ask me to bring him a slab
of corned beef and allow me to sit on a stool in his kitchen and listen while he yelled
at the radio, I hadn’t been one for male bonding in the past. And although I had seen
Steve and his clients burn through their share of pills and powders, some of which
were ingested directly off of various female body parts, I didn’t think I could
convincingly paint myself as one of the Hollywood ne’er-do-wells. I tried to decline
Steve’s task, to make it clear I wasn’t ready for such an assignment, but then the
offer came:
“Bruce,” he said to me, he said, “Bruce, if you get Vereen to stay in his lane, I
will officially promote you to Talent Manager. No more Junior. You’ll be a big boy
now.” I couldn’t say no. I had spent nine years as a manager’s apprentice, and
although I hadn’t finished high school in that time or learned to drive a car (I made
due with a sturdy bicycle when necessary), I had learned how to manage talent.
This was my chance to prove that I, at the tender age of 24, was ready to steer the
ships of Hollywood careers for myself. I am the captain now! I thought to myself.
(That is a reference to the 2013 film Captain Phillips, produced by the great Scott
Rudin. Scott! We once shared a plate of oysters at the fabulous Beverly Hills Hotel,
and by that I mean he left some on his plate and I ate them before anyone could
clear the dishes. I call this move the Bruce’s Busboy Special. Scott!)
Because I felt not exactly in the most comfortable of soul positions
considering the thought of taking one Mr. Ben Vereen around for a night of drinking
and whoring, I instead looked up boys’ trips in the Los Angeles area. This was of
course before future vice-president and protector of weather, the great Al Gore,
would go on to invent the internet, so I had to inquire at the West Hollywood library
and avail upon the librarians for help. The woman gave me a funny look when I
asked about boys’ trips, and she turned to her coworker, a very handsome man
named Paul with a colossal upper body and a thin mustache. “I got another for you,
Paul,” she said, and he turned with a rakish smile. Paul was tremendously helpful
and seemed to know all kinds of things about boys’ trips in the West Hollywood
area. He suggested bars and clubs and even secret basement playrooms he knew of.
For as much as I looked forward to the masculine ribaldry I imagined took place in
these basement playrooms, I wanted something a bit more removed from the city
for Ben and I, so we could really rap about the future. Paul said he knew just the
place: The Cowpoke Ranch. I thanked him and departed for the travel agent, but
Paul said travel agents wouldn’t know about the Cowpoke. He could close the deal
for me himself. Exclusivity! The prettiest girl at the Hollywood Prom! I was in.
Several days later, Ben and I were prancing a couple of fine ponies around
the rolling fields of Ojai, soaking in sunlight and wiping the dust from our glasses. It
had been an awkward afternoon when Ben quickly realized I had taken him to a
homosexual getaway, which came as quite a surprise to me as well! Although later, I
reflected on Paul the library associate and his insistence that The Cowpoke would
have “plenty of swinging guys to ride if I got tired of my partner,” and it became
slightly more clear as to how we wound up there. Nevertheless, we decided to make
the best of it and take a few trots around the grounds before heading back to the
heterosexual paradise of Hollywood.
With Ben and I atop our stallions, Shamrock and Sprinkles, respectively, we
rounded the grounds and discussed Ben’s career. I tried to artfully steer him
towards a few more proposed dance and variety specials, even one hosted by the
great Red Foxx! The pitch was that Ben would dance and Red would yell obscenities
at him, all to the funky tunes of Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods. It was a surefire
hit. But much to my chagrin, Mr. Vereen again kowtowed to his more artistic and
dramatic aspirations. I knew he had the talent, but I also heard Steve’s words of
warning echoing in my ears: “Bruce, Hollywood eats a man alive as soon as he steps
out of his place. Keep Ben in his, and you stay in yours.” Steve’s stern face appeared
to me in the sky above Ben’s shoulders as I reflected on these words, like a link from
heaven or a precursor to an underrated show that would later hit the airwaves, The
Teletubbies. As I tried to form the words to ease this fine gentleman into
complacency, I experienced the first of many fear blackouts that would plague my
adult life. My body was awake, but my brain was fast asleep, in a sort of defensive
hibernation meant to protect me from any bad thoughts. I had developed the habit
as a child when my first stepfather Gary was the much maligned man of the house,
but had long since forgotten the coping mechanism. And yet, here I was atop
Sprinkles, staring at a Tony Award winning man while spasming and drooling
uncontrollably.
This sight was embarrassing enough, but it quickly got much worse as I
accidentally gave my pony a pat on the bottom in my seizing state. Sprinkles, both
motivated by my physical cue and, most assuredly, picking up on my nervous beta
energy, took off at full speed ahead, startling Ben’s horse and knocking the man right
off! I quickly fell into a heap on the ground as well, and as luck would have it, landed
directly in a pile of excrement. (I bet you thought the feces mentioned at the top of
this chapter was mine! Ha! Not this time. Bruce Ben-Shymalan!)
The force of impact as well as the smell promptly knocked me out of my
stupor and back into the strange reality I had created. I frantically called out for Ben
like a Southern Belle searching a decimated battlefield for her paramour, but I didn’t
have to search far before I heard his groans from the edge of the field. I ran to him.
Mr. Vereen stared up at me with those loving Hershey’s kiss eyes of his and asked
what happened. I took a moment to think: How much did he remember? No sooner
asked than answered!
“Are you that disabled boy that works for my manager? The shoe shine?”
Clearly some time had been lost in the fall, and I seized on my opportunity. I
laughed loudly, feigning confidence. “Why, no, silly! I am your manager, Bruce Ben-
Bacharach, and we were simply discussing how you no longer wished to pursue
dramatic roles when you fell from your horse, completely unprompted by any
strange episode on my end.” Ben Vereen sized me up. He would have seen how
much I was sweating were my shirt not completely covered in horse manure. Saved
by the ponies’ droppings! And in that moment, I stood stinking to high heavens
amidst many vacationing gay couples, as my career, and entire life as I knew it,
changed. “Oh. Well why are you covered in horse shit?” said Ben.
This was it! “Oh. Oh!” He acknowledged my place at the table of Hollywood
power players. I had accomplished my task and appeased Steve without having to
tell my new client directly that the industry which he had chosen did not
particularly care for a fundamental and unchangeable aspect of his humanity! This
was a skill that would come up time and time again in the career of Bruce Ben-
Bacharach, manager to the stars: sometimes, if there is news you don’t want to
deliver to your client, it is best to lie or injure yourself as a distraction. Both, if you
can. That’s a lesson I didn’t need to learn from Steve.
And what happened to Mr. Vereen’s career after I took over, you might ask?
Well, ever heard of President Ronald Reagan? Ben certainly has! But alas, thus
begins a story for another time…
Chapter Three: A List of Parties From Which I Have Been Forcibly Removed
Over the years, I eventually grew into my destined persona as a Hollywood

bad boy. Perhaps it was that first encounter with Ryan O’Neil, perhaps it was my
Hebrew Hunk good looks, or perhaps it was what my first wife referred to as “my
lack of understanding of social cues.” Whatever it was, old Bruce eventually had to
call a truce from his bad-boy-on-the-loose rule misuse. Ha! A professional
wordsmith, I am not, but lo, what fun we have.
So for those of you gossip mongers out there who are only perusing the pages
of this book looking for salacious tales of run-ins and scrapes with Hollywood’s A
List, I’ve compiled a list for you of all of my most famous confrontations, in easy-to-
digest bullet point form. Call me a tattletale if you like, but Hollywood chatter goes
down smoother than an Ensure milkshake at the end of the month when you’ve run
out of funds so you stand outside the CVS and ask customers to buy you something
just to get through that hump until your next paycheck. But alas! There’s nothing
nutritious about this chin waggle! Here are a list of elite Hollywood parties I have
attended and then been removed from. Naughty boy!
 Dick Van Patten’s “Tennis Anyone?” Afternoon Soirée

o THE SCENE: Hollywood elites like Grant Goodeve, Dick Van Dyke,
Dom Deluise, and even Susan Richardson sported their tennis whites
and enjoyed finger sandwiches out on the courts as Dick paraded
around whore after whore after whore! (I mean “whore” in the
professional, rather than the pejorative, sense. They were working
women, always game for a round of mixed doubles, if you catch my
drift.) (I’m talking about sex.)
o MY CRIME: I asked Diana Hyland to be my doubles partner and then
promptly bloodied her nose after a loose serve sent the racket flying
out of my hand and into that perfectly perky nose of hers. Talk about
a backstroke!
 William Daniels’s Masquerade Ball

o THE SCENE: Masked celebrities stalked around William’s grand
Beachwood Canyon home smoking Virginia Slims and helping
themselves to bountiful bowls of only the finest mixed nuts. Amongst
the partygoers: Edward Mulhare, Buck Henry, Rebecca Holden, Anne
Bancroft, and a wildly aroused Bruce Ben-Bacharach.
o MY CRIME: After a few too many sips of Sherry, I yanked Anne
Bancroft’s beautiful feathered blue mask off her face and placed it
above my expanding crotchal region, proclaiming, “Look! It’s Gonzo!”
Not my finest hour, but a fine observation, if I do say so myself.
 Ron Popeil’s Fourth of July Picnic

o THE SCENE: Mostly Ron and his cousins, Jeff Popeil, Alan Popeil, and
of course the great Paul Popeil, Indiana’s leading rug and carpet
cleaning specialist. Jack Wagner was also there.
o MY CRIME: Terry Popeil spotted me jamming shrimp cocktail into my

jacket pocket. I guess you could say I was caught red handed, as my
hands were covered in cocktail sauce!
 Anne Murray’s Grammy After-Party

o THE SCENE: It was 1984, and Anne had won big that year! And as
luck would have it, Anne had “A Little Good News” for me, as well: due
to the fact that she had run me over with her car leaving a Grammy
pre-show party the night before, I was invited to partake in her
victory celebration at the Hyatt West Hollywood. I donned my finest
cowboy boots and mingled with the likes of Kenny Rogers, Olivia
Newton John, and Miss Deborah Allen, a loser that night but the
winner of my heart, in a dashing peach chiffon which stays forever
etched into my memory.
o MY CRIME: Although it was not communicated to me beforehand,
apparently passing around one’s demo tapes at a Grammy after-party
is considered something of a faux pas. I had a stack of five cassette
tapes I had recorded of myself drumming my heart out in Steve’s
basement one weekend when he was in Pismo Beach, and I figured
now was as good a time as any to re-start the old dream machine, as it
were. Unfortunately, Dave Loggins disagreed, and the tape was pulled
out from my cassettes and stuffed down my throat as I was ushered
out the door.
 Olsen Twin(s) First Communion Celebration

o THE SCENE: Dave Coulier was a bit of a bosom buddy of mine, our
relationship dating back to my first stint as a Hollywood Super Producer on
the hit animated series “Slimer! And the Real Ghostbusters,” for which Dave
did tremendous voice work. One night we were out past dawn, boozing and
chasing women, when Dave realized it was ten A.M. and he was late for the
Olsen Twins’ First Communion Celebration, held at The Ivy. Still reeking of
bourbon, Dave implored me to go along with him and keep him awake
during the event, but boy did we underestimate the fun to be had in that
elegant covered patio! Petit fours, a piñata, even a small petting zoo, which
I’m sure broke numerous health codes. But who can say no to baby
billionaires dressed in virginal whites! Mary Kate and Ashley were already
acting like big stars, ordering around waiters and refusing to shake my hand
or accept several dimes I found at the bottom of my shoe.
o MY CRIME: Primarily vomiting into the water trough of the petting zoo, but
also asking Heather Locklear if she was considered an Olsen Triplet, I
imagine.
Okay, Harvey Levin, call off the dogs! That’s all the Hollywood gossip I have
to feed your insatiable hunger… for now! To get the rest of my stories you’ll have to
ply me full of liquor and another, hopefully more lucrative book deal! (Winky face.)
Chapter Four: The Loni Years
Now, my bouncing bibliophiles, a question for you to ponder: What is the

point of a classic Hollywood tale if one does not also attempt to delve into matters of
the heart? Well fear not! I have a love story for the ages, and no, it involves neither
Ryan O’Neal nor Ali MacGraw, the former of whom asked me to wait in the broom
closet whenever he visited Steve at the office, and the latter of whom placed a fence
around her home that was simply too high for me to scale, as I had done some
damage to my wrist during a bocce ball accident in 1972.
No, this love story involves another member of Hollywood royalty, the candy
floss princess of my heart, the rosy-cheeked high priestess of glamour, Miss Loni
Anderson. Loni captured my heart on the set of Police Woman, where I was
checking up on Steve’s orphan cowboy client, Earl Holliman. I had yet to see the
show or any of Earl’s film or television performances, but Steve sent me to set that
fateful day as a favor, knowing that I would enjoy leering at Angie Dickinson’s
character Sergeant Pepper Anderson as she found herself undercover as various
ladies of the night. And while Pepper certainly gave a little “spice” to my afternoon,
it was another Police Woman who went undercover as my soul mate that day. I
noticed her wispy blonde hair, the apples in her cheeks, and the coon-like black
around her eyeballs first, and I was positively entranced upon first glance. So
imagine my surprise when my eyes drifted down and I took in her glorious,
Mansfield-esque body: breasts like two water balloons ready to pop, tiny little
waste, and a ham hock of a rear that was fit for roasting. It was love.
I could tell you myself about the thirty-year saga that would continue, seeing
its way through three of Loni’s marriages, Loni like a wayward traveler looking to
the sky to find her bespectacled north star in moments of duress. But perhaps it is
better to let the story unfold through Loni’s own words, alive and well in the
numerous love letters sent to me and transcribed below. As the great Sophocles
once said, “One word frees us of all the weight and pain in life. That word is love.”
Take it away, Loni.
September, 1974
Dear Bruce,
It was very nice to meet you as well! I don’t recall how many pieces of celery were on
the craft service table at Police Woman, but yes, I imagine it was a lot! Probably the
most I’ve ever seen, too. Ha ha! Thank you for your compliments on my outfit, hair,
and body. Yes, I do like Italian food, but I am not available for dinner anytime soon.
Best wishes,
Loni
P.S. How did you find my address? What a clever detective you are! Maybe you should
join the ‘force’!
November, 1974
Dear Bruce,
It is so sweet of you to visit the set again! Unfortunately, I was only doing a short guest
role, so I will not be back. Alan told me you left some gift baskets in my name—I will
try and pick them up sometime this week. I hope everything fits! Perhaps if you talk to
Earl about making my character recurring, you’ll get to see me again! Ha ha! No, I do
not like Chinese food.
Best wishes,
Loni
January, 1975
Bruce,
Yes, I remember you, and yes, I have been very busy. In fact, I just celebrated a year
with my husband, Ross. Here is a picture of us together that you are welcome to keep.
He says to tell you hello. I did get the gift baskets you sent to the Police Woman set, so
you can stop sending new ones to my home address. I’m sorry to hear that Earl asked
you not to return to the set. Yes, of course I like hamburgers, Ross makes a very nice
hamburger.
Loni
March, 1975
Dear Sir,
This CEASE AND DESIST ORDER is to inform you that your harassing and intimidating
actions against me have become unbearable. Such anti-social behavior is completely
unacceptable and will not be tolerated in any way, shape or form. This letter is to
demand that your harassment and intimidation must CEASE AND DESIST
immediately. Should you continue to pursue these activities in violation of this CEASE
AND DESIST ORDER, we will not hesitate to pursue further legal action against you,
including, but not limited to, civil action and/or criminal complaints.
The behavior in question includes but is not limited to the following occurrences:
-January 10, 1975: the victim’s wedding photo was mailed back to her, including a
picture of the accused’s face pasted over the groom.
-January 15, 1975: Approximately 85 flyers featuring the above mentioned doctored
wedding image were pasted around the victim’s neighborhood, featuring the words
“Come home to daddy.”
-January 25, 1975: A homemade video featuring the victim and the accused’s face
placed over Barbie and Ken dolls, walking down a presumed wedding aisle to the tune
of “I Honestly Love You” by Olivia Newton John, was sent to the victim’s home.
-February 14, 1975: A box is sent to the victim, its contents including: three dozen red
roses, six condoms, and at least 13 soiled tissues.
-February 28, 1975: An ad is taken out in Variety magazine, featuring a photo of the
victim’s husband, Ross Bickell, and the words “HUGE PEDOPHILE,” written in
handwriting similar to that of the accused, per handwriting analysis experts.
Please note that I have a right to remain free from your intimidating tactics, and we
will take the responsibility upon ourselves to protect that right. Note that a copy of this
letter and a record of its delivery will be stored. Note too that it is admissible as
evidence in a court of law and will be used as such if need be in the future.
This CEASE AND DESIST ORDER demands that you immediately discontinue and do
not at any point in the future under any circumstances do the following to me: speak
to, contact, pursue, harass, attack, strike, bump into, brush up against, push, tap, grab,
hold, threaten, telephone, follow, stalk, shadow, disturb my peace, keep me under
surveillance, gather information about and/or block my movements at home, work,
social gatherings or religious functions.
[California: Note that your behavior is a violation of the California Penal Code
Subsection 646.9 - Stalking and 422 - Punishment for Threats]
Should you willfully choose to continue your current course of action, I will not hesitate
to file a complaint with the Police Department for your ongoing violations of the
Criminal Laws noted previously.
This letter does not constitute exhaustive statement of my position nor is it a waiver of
any of my rights and/or remedies in this and/or any other related matter.
We demand your immediate compliance, and furthermore that you confirm in writing
that all violative activity will cease immediately.
Very truly yours,
Barry Ostrov, esq., representing Loni Anderson
Bruce here, interjecting with a little note: No legal action was ever taken against me
as I had committed no crimes other than being a lovesick puppy dog trying a bit too
exhaustively to woo a woman. But although the claims against me were never
substantiated in a court of law, the consequences were devastating. The seventies
were a time of free love, but apparently for North Dakotans with lightly-webbed feet
and undue faith in the United States postal system, love can come at quite a cost.
Following advice from Steve’s lawyer Albert Shenkman, I had to take a few years
away from my lady love, to let things “cool down,” as they say. I could see Loni was
happy with her alleged-pedophile of a husband, and that was none of my business.
Besides, I had women lined up around the block wanting to take a ride on the Bruce
train. At this point, I was even able to make love to a woman without crying. So
while March 1975 saw some hurdles in our relationship, I continued to love and
support Loni from afar, wearing out my home tape of S.W.A.T episode “The Steel-
Plated Security Blanket,” in which she played Miss Texas, and another tape of an
uncredited Loni appearance in the role of Peaches in the classic film “Vigilante
Force.” I knew my Lonipop would be back someday, but nothing could prepare me
for the force with which she reentered my life in 1978, barreling into the secretary’s
desk at WKRP in Cincinnati with all the force of a Category 4 Tropical Storm.
Hurricane Loni! Strap down the lawn ornaments and prepare the sandbags, she’s
headed for shore! The plot thickens:
October 1978
Dear Mr. Ben-Bacharach,
Thank you for your letter! Enclosed, please find an autographed picture of me at
Jennifer’s desk! “Thanks for listening!”
Xoxo
Loni Anderson
February 1979
Xoxo
Loni Anderson
June 1979
Xoxo
Loni Anderson
December 1979
Xoxo
Loni Anderson
April 1980
Bruce,
It has come to my attention that you have been sending letters to my agent and have
been getting numerous signed photos in return. Please be advised that this is a form
letter and in no way means the cease and desist no longer stands. It was an oversight
on the part of my agency and will not happen again.
-L
Almost too hot to handle, isn’t it? The fact that Loni still had such fond memories of
me from years earlier, and that she had broken form to reach out to me personally,
meant the world, nay, the universe. Moreover, it seemed she had amassed an entire
team of people to keep her from running back to old Bruce: it was a veritable Tut’s
tomb of booby-traps set up to guard her heart—cease and desist letters, strong-arm
agents and publicists, and of course, an alleged pedophile of a husband. But alas!
Not a few months after this mournful lover’s lament was received, I opened the
paper to see an announcement that Jennifer Marlowe had suddenly freed herself
from under the thumb of that lecherous husband of hers. Single again! Was she
thinking of me? Time will tell…
June 1981
Bruce,
I am not sure how much more clear I can make this: I am not interested in seeing you
romantically. I am not interested in seeing you as a friend. I am not interested in
seeing you, period. My divorce had nothing to do with you. I do not think of you,
except for when I hear a rustling in my garbage cans and dial “9-1” on my phone
before checking to see it is a raccoon or some other rodent instead of a young bald
man with a bulge in his pants. I do not know you personally, just like you do not know
me personally. We spoke once over a tray of celery nearly ten years ago, and since that
day, our only interaction has been your harassment. Please stop sending letters or
clippings of magazine articles you think I might be interested in. I am not interested in
them. I have my own magazines.
Thank you,
Loni
Some might call this the “all is lost” moment in our little narrative, at least it sure
seems that way. Hero’s journey, party of one. Yes, Loni delivered a cutting epistle
like a dagger to the heart, and by the time my eyes were finished with it, the letter
was damp with tears salty enough to pull into taffy. I thought to myself, Could she
mean this? Did my half decade-long courtship mean nothing to her? Did she not
receive the crude charcoal renderings of me giving her loving foot massages well into
our old age? But then it struck me. I don’t know much about women, but there is
one thing I know for certain, learned from years of peeking around corners,
watching my mother navigate the dating scene: women are primarily attracted to
horrible men. When faced with the so-called “good guy,” they ignore him for years
until he develops drum skills so loud so as to be impossible to ignore. And that’s
when I knew I had to pick up my drumsticks once again, for I would drum my way
back into Loni’s heart.
My landlord Gary would unfortunately not let me bring a drum set into the
home, so I had to pay a young boy named Brian who worked at the Guitar Center on
Sunset to let me practice on his kit. And let me tell you, Brian was quite the
taskmaster! He would take my money every day and then turn around and give me
the old Judas kiss when his manager came ‘round—but I cared not, for Brian
assured me I was on my way to becoming even better than Lars Ulrich, the drummer
of a hot new up-and-coming band, Metallica, which I believe is still around today!
Just another little aside from the rock-n-roll side streets of Hollyweird.
One day I was drumming my torrid little heart out while Brian smoked a pack
of Salems nearby and in walked someone who would change my life forever: my
soon-to-be first wife Deborah. Now, I am not legally permitted to give you any
details on that marriage, for unlike my sweet seraph Loni, Deborah has always been
keen to make good on threats of litigation. I simply want to illustrate the much-
discussed mysteries of happenstance: One day, you may be sweating through your
suits in a Guitar Center in Hollywood, intent on winning back the star of a very
popular sitcom by loudly playing the drums outside of her Beachwood Canyon
home, when in walks an even more blonde woman who is ready to marry you in
under three weeks time, provided you are able to represent her and manage her
career transition from the pornographic world of the Valley to the more
mainstream, but still mildly pornographic, world of Hollywood. A bup bup, Bruce,
you’ve already said too much!
My marriage to Deborah kept me occupied until our unceremonious split in
the year of our Lord, 1991. Again, I cannot go into detail for legal reasons, but let me
just say that Hook had devastating consequences for more than just Dustin Hoffman
and Steven Spielberg. Yes, I came out of that marriage looking as bedraggled as a
young Julia Roberts in a pixie cut, aimlessly roaming the streets with nothing but a
shopping cart full of belongings and a third degenerative disease to add to the heap.
Luckily, Steve had been through five divorces of his own at this point, and he proved
to be a sympathetic, though at that point, fairly senile, ear. I moved back into his
offices, where I had slept upon first arriving in Los Angeles, dewy-eyed and naive to
the cold, calculating tactics of a spiteful woman.
One restless night on the futon, I wrestled with the sandman as I drifted in
and out of slumber. The television still on in the background, a familiar voice filled
my ears and seeped into every pore of me, from the top of my scalp down to the
callouses on my toes. It was her. Loni. Out of respect to my then-wife, I hadn’t
spoken to Loni in eight years, but now, seeing her inhabiting the lost soul of slain
silver screen beauty Thelma Todd, the memories came flooding back: our drives to
Solvang, where we shared ebelskivers and emerged covered in powdered sugar.
Our late-night pickle runs to Canter’s, pregnancy scare be damned! We wanted
pickles! The pillow talk, the pillow tears, the pillow-assisted lovemaking that went
on for hours. Of course, these were all memories of things that never actually
happened, but oh, how they happened in my mind, night after night, for ten long
years. The flame of love and reconciliation had been re-kindled for me that night,
and I knew bachelorhood was no longer in the cards. I had no use for Steve’s
drawer of condoms and at-home paternity tests, there was only one woman I
needed to avoid impregnating: Loni Kaye Anderson. It’s never over!
Unfortunately for me, Mr. Burt Reynolds did not agree with that sentiment,
and as soon as he saw me setting up a snare drum outside of he and Loni’s marital
home, he ran me over with his Porsche 911 CTR. Cherry red, it struck quite the
image as it barreled toward me from the top of the driveway. As I laid in the
hospital with three broken ribs and one shattered heart, I wondered if I had perhaps
misread the situation with Loni. Maybe she had not been waiting for me to ride in
on my white steed after all these years and rescue her from a life of perceived
drudgery after all, maybe she was actually happy with her movie star husband this
time. I could see why some women might prefer Burt Reynolds over Bruce Ben-
Bacharach, hard as it was for me to admit.
But it was as I was plagued by these thoughts of self-doubt that something

amazing happened. A nurse entered my suite with a gift basket full of glorious
carnations and, what was this?, an autographed picture of one Miss Loni Anderson!
My heart was pitter-pattering like the footsteps of a toddler on the run from a loose
snake, the product of his first and most-maligned stepfather. But rather than
recount to you what the letter said, I’ll let Loni tell you in her own words:
May 1991
Bruce,
I offer my deepest condolences for the accident that happened yesterday with Burt. I
reiterate that it was an accident; Burt did not see you at the bottom of the driveway,
and he was certainly not driving toward you to “put a stop to the goddamn stalking,”
as you may have misheard during the commotion. He does not do well with drum
sounds. But Bruce, I must confess something: I do love you, I always have, I always will.
So if you love me too, you must do something for me. You must never contact me
again. I am stuck with Burt, for the good of my children, and I will never leave him.
Even if, hypothetically, I were to leave him, I would still be forbidden to see you. Ours is
a love that can never be—have you ever seen ‘Love Story’? It’s kind of like that. So
please, I beg you, stay away—it causes me too much pain to see the sun reflecting off
the top of your head and wonder what might have been.
Love-
Loni
P.S. Here is an autographed picture of me from my WKRP in Cincinnati days. Also,

please do not sue Burt. Xoxo
So there you have it, folks, an admission of love from the toehead princess of
the sky, Loni Anderson. And through the lens of Love Story, at that! Not only did she
have a glorious pair of breasts, Loni had pristine taste in entertainment, much as I
had suspected. Yes, I had been right all along! Vindication, a taste sweeter than the
molasses that flooded the streets of Boston in 1919. And I’ll admit it—after reading
that letter, I also found myself covered in goo! I understood that Loni felt trapped by
the constraints of superstardom, and I chose not to intrude, out of a deep and
earnest love. I still send her magazine articles I think she might enjoy, however, and
I hope that someday, when the stars align, we will be together at last. Hopefully
neither of us has to get hit by (another) car for that to occur, but happenstance has
bred stranger offspring!

Here and Ben-Bacharach Again

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Here and Ben-Bacharach Again

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By Bruce Ben-Bacharach

Here and Ben-Bacharach Again 2

Preface: A Boy Can Dream

Chapter One: Bruce Learns “The Biz”*

Steve Leszczynski was a manager to the megastars and a Hollywood legend,

Chapter Two: Giddyup, Ben Vereen!

Over the years, I eventually grew into my destined persona as a Hollywood

 Dick Van Patten’s “Tennis Anyone?” Afternoon Soirée

 William Daniels’s Masquerade Ball

 Ron Popeil’s Fourth of July Picnic

o MY CRIME: Terry Popeil spotted me jamming shrimp cocktail into my

 Anne Murray’s Grammy After-Party

 Olsen Twin(s) First Communion Celebration

Chapter Four: The Loni Years

Now, my bouncing bibliophiles, a question for you to ponder: What is the

Very truly yours,

Barry Ostrov, esq., representing Loni Anderson

Dear Mr. Ben-Bacharach,

But it was as I was plagued by these thoughts of self-doubt that something

P.S. Here is an autographed picture of me from my WKRP in Cincinnati days. Also,

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