More than twenty years ago, when my elder son had colic late at night, I would hold him against one shoulder and say in a tender voice, “The only thing that has stayed the same is the shape of the jar. Everything else is brand-new. With a brand-new label. It’s new aroma-roast Sanka Coffee.” That seemed to settle his digestion. He also took relief from, “American Airlines has just the ticket for you—” and “Winston tastes good, like a cigarette should.” I could’ve told him about Little Red Riding Hood or Rapunzel. But you don’t get residuals for a fairy tale.
Back then I was young, poor, and double-bassoon voiced. I sold cement store-to-store, did the occasional off-Broadway play, and had written half my second draft of Bishop’s Progress. Still, what I wanted most was a voiceover career. I am not, you understand, the natural writer (and I detest that drudging, lonesome process)—I am, by contrast, naturally sonorous and glib. My stint on college radio (WKCR-Columbia) had been, well, resounding. And splendid fun. I got called in off the airwaves for an audition by Young & Rubicam (they became rather coy when they saw I was just 17). After college and England I took a course with Dick Rendely, who taught me how to say, “Whiter whites, brighter brights” (high-low, lower-higher, not so easy). I knew I was good: hell, I could’ve done voice-over for the Transfiguration. Then my father died and left me a cement factory to run.
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