was a teenager, though, it felt like a whole lot of inexplicable, hostile rejection.
It was no surprise that my social life was pretty dull. I’d even outgrown my one good neighborhood pal and “army” buddy, Jack McCalla. War games weren’t as fun now that gory images from the Vietnam War appeared on the TV news every night. Occasionally, I’d tag along with my brother Stan and his gang to cruise Sunset Strip for chicks. We’d usually wind up for breakfast at the International House of Pancakes at two in the morning alongside such burgeoning rock-and-rollers as Neil Young, Jim Morrison, and David Crosby having their after-the-gig meals. It was great hanging out with the older guys, but I always felt like I was a junior member of the pack and could be expelled at any moment.
I did have one great, reliable friend to keep me company when I was alone: the Los Angeles Dodgers. I’d lock myself in a bathroom at our house and listen to the games on my transistor radio. I was like Superman in his Fortress of Solitude, making notes on the players’ stats, hanging on Vin Scully’s words as he’d describe the play-by-play action. Dodger games were my holy hours. I was not to be disturbed, particularly if my hero, Sandy Koufax, was pitching the game. I was alone but never lonely when the game was on.
It wasn’t until I graduated from Millikan Middle School and entered North Hollywood High that I connected with a few kindred spirits. The first great friend I made was Gene King. He was initially a buddy of my brother Stan, who met him while they were attending North Hollywood High.
Gene was a fifteen-year-old speed-talker, a raconteur and a dead ringer for Gene Clark, the lead singer of the Byrds. His parents were alcoholics and abusive, and he sought refuge at our house on the weekends. Very quickly, Gene and my mother bonded over pots of Yuban coffee and unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes.
Over the summer of 1968, Gene went from a kid who occasionally slept over to a full-time member of our family. My parents had a rocky husband-wife relationship, but they were in total sync when it came to sheltering kids in need. They’d already adopted two children at birth, my brother Bill and my sister Michelle. Now Gene joined our brood. It was one big happy family on Milbank Street until Stan unleashed a bombshell: he was getting married and would be moving out of the house.
Stan was seventeen years old when he told my parents that he had met his future bride on a late-night outing at the Pancake House. Enter Sandy Goble. She was four years older than Stan and was working as a “cage dancer” at the Whiskey-a-Go-Go nightclub. Naturally, my flustered parents disapproved and counseled my love-struck brother to wait. They tried to point out the risks of getting married so young, particularly to an older woman who was a go-go-dancer at the Whiskey.
My parents’ warning fell on skeptical ears, though. Stan reminded my mom that she ran away from her home in Beaver Falls at sixteen and worked as a “fan dancer.” That pretty much destroyed their arguments to dissuade my brother.
I wasn’t keen about Stan’s marriage, because it meant losing my brother and best friend. From the beginning, Stan’s future bride tried to pry him away from his family. To her defense, Sandy was not exactly welcomed with open arms by my mom and dad. I resented her greatly, much like Paul McCartney must have felt about losing John Lennon to Yoko Ono.
My parents obviously had another concern about Stan’s impending marriage: the impact it would have on his career. Wholesome teenage Chip Douglas marrying a go-go-dancer from the Whiskey? What would CBS think? What would the American public think? What would Fred MacMurray think?
The series had been on for eight years, and certainly by now our relationship with MacMurray was established: it was all business. My Three Sons was just a workplace for the star, and we were his junior colleagues. When it came
It was no surprise that my social life was pretty dull. I’d even outgrown my one good neighborhood pal and “army” buddy, Jack McCalla. War games weren’t as fun now that gory images from the Vietnam War appeared on the TV news every night. Occasionally, I’d tag along with my brother Stan and his gang to cruise Sunset Strip for chicks. We’d usually wind up for breakfast at the International House of Pancakes at two in the morning alongside such burgeoning rock-and-rollers as Neil Young, Jim Morrison, and David Crosby having their after-the-gig meals. It was great hanging out with the older guys, but I always felt like I was a junior member of the pack and could be expelled at any moment.
I did have one great, reliable friend to keep me company when I was alone: the Los Angeles Dodgers. I’d lock myself in a bathroom at our house and listen to the games on my transistor radio. I was like Superman in his Fortress of Solitude, making notes on the players’ stats, hanging on Vin Scully’s words as he’d describe the play-by-play action. Dodger games were my holy hours. I was not to be disturbed, particularly if my hero, Sandy Koufax, was pitching the game. I was alone but never lonely when the game was on.
It wasn’t until I graduated from Millikan Middle School and entered North Hollywood High that I connected with a few kindred spirits. The first great friend I made was Gene King. He was initially a buddy of my brother Stan, who met him while they were attending North Hollywood High.
Gene was a fifteen-year-old speed-talker, a raconteur and a dead ringer for Gene Clark, the lead singer of the Byrds. His parents were alcoholics and abusive, and he sought refuge at our house on the weekends. Very quickly, Gene and my mother bonded over pots of Yuban coffee and unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes.
Over the summer of 1968, Gene went from a kid who occasionally slept over to a full-time member of our family. My parents had a rocky husband-wife relationship, but they were in total sync when it came to sheltering kids in need. They’d already adopted two children at birth, my brother Bill and my sister Michelle. Now Gene joined our brood. It was one big happy family on Milbank Street until Stan unleashed a bombshell: he was getting married and would be moving out of the house.
Stan was seventeen years old when he told my parents that he had met his future bride on a late-night outing at the Pancake House. Enter Sandy Goble. She was four years older than Stan and was working as a “cage dancer” at the Whiskey-a-Go-Go nightclub. Naturally, my flustered parents disapproved and counseled my love-struck brother to wait. They tried to point out the risks of getting married so young, particularly to an older woman who was a go-go-dancer at the Whiskey.
My parents’ warning fell on skeptical ears, though. Stan reminded my mom that she ran away from her home in Beaver Falls at sixteen and worked as a “fan dancer.” That pretty much destroyed their arguments to dissuade my brother.
I wasn’t keen about Stan’s marriage, because it meant losing my brother and best friend. From the beginning, Stan’s future bride tried to pry him away from his family. To her defense, Sandy was not exactly welcomed with open arms by my mom and dad. I resented her greatly, much like Paul McCartney must have felt about losing John Lennon to Yoko Ono.
My parents obviously had another concern about Stan’s impending marriage: the impact it would have on his career. Wholesome teenage Chip Douglas marrying a go-go-dancer from the Whiskey? What would CBS think? What would the American public think? What would Fred MacMurray think?
The series had been on for eight years, and certainly by now our relationship with MacMurray was established: it was all business. My Three Sons was just a workplace for the star, and we were his junior colleagues. When it came
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