We're just back from a short trip to Florida to soak up some sun
and visit with our friends Bill and Trish from the lake. While down there, I
came "thisclose" to meeting a show-business legend. We'll get back to that
part of our story in a few moments...
I don't understand the allure of Florida. It's far away from all
the places from which everyone comes to visit, tucked way down in the most-southeasterly
corner of the country. And if you think it's a shlep for Americans to travel to
-- what about all the Canadians who flock down there? JEE-sus Chr-IST! The
state is lousy with Canadians. Or,
perhaps, there aren’t that many there but the ones who are are lousy. I have
nothing against Canadians; some of my best friends are Canadian. Canada gave us
Molson's. I went to college in Canada and was always amused that Canadians
wanted to drink Budweiser whenever it was available at a bar (or, as they are
often referred to up there -- a "hotel"). I'll drink anything that's
offered to me, but if I had a choice? And was paying for it? I'd go for
anything BUT a Bud every time, and gladly quaff an Export with great
satisfaction.
While we're on the subject of beer... I work with a number of
people who can only be described as "beer snobs". They are up on the
latest, limited-edition microbrews (and I date myself with that term -- I
believe "craft brew" is the preferred terminology now) and look down
their stanges at anything not cask-conditioned or anyone who can't recite the
IBUs of what they're sipping. Back when I started drinking beer (in the third
grade), Coors was considered an "import", and Olympia was a
“microbrew” -- available only in the Pacific Northwest and the stuff of legend.
I recall being in a Canadian “hotel” with 3 of my college buddies
for 25¢ Draft Night. We ordered forty drafts. The
waitress thought we were joking and said she could only fit thirty on a tray.
We told her to bring us those thirty and then bring us ten more. While there
was a brief period of mirth during our lengthy consumption, the evening quickly
turned sour and I really don’t care to discuss it any further.
Now, then – where were we? (The same question I and my college
buddies asked ourselves that next hazy morning.) Oh, yes – Florida. While randomly gallivanting with our friends, we were approached by an elderly gentleman
who inquired whether we were looking to buy some property. This will perhaps
make more sense when I tell you we were standing in front of a real estate
office at the time, looking at pictures of properties for sale. This fellow, whose name
apparently was not “William” or “Willy” but “Willa”, had just listed his
waterfront condo with the realtor and instead of letting her earn her
commission was in full-on sales mode himself. Willa said he was 90 years old
and introduced us to his fiancé of two years, who was a mere 80 (she later
confided to us she was really 82, and asked that we not share that information
with her boy toy). He said his condo was very close by and we were welcome to
stop over to take a look. We decided what the hell since our friends are
actually looking for a place, and made the short drive to Willa’s domicile.
The condo was nothing special – a stucco finish in flamingo pink,
a clay-tiled roof, roomy inside but nothing striking. It was certainly facing
the water; however, the water was the equivalent of a back-alley off of the Intracoastal
Waterway. The view was of a dock across the gulley with a boat ramp and several
diesel pumps. Willa made a point to tell us that he could get somewhere between
14 and 20 over-the-air TV stations without the need for cable or a dish
antenna. While it might have been more enticing to hear him extol the virtues
of a recessed Jacuzzi, we all know cable doesn’t come cheap.
We made some pleasant small talk with Willa and his lady friend
(who, I must say, was the foxiest 80-to-82-year-old I’ve ever seen) and
gradually worked our way toward the exit. On the way out, Bill asked Willa to
repeat the name of the “entertainer” who lived next door (I had missed that
part of the conversation). Willa said his name was “John Bynum”.
I’m certain none of you are familiar with John Bynum. That is
largely because what Willa meant to say was “John Byner”.
I’m certain few of you are familiar with John Byner – unless your
TV watching days include the panoply of variety and daytime talk shows popular
in the late 60s/early 70s. John Byner was an impressionist, a very good one,
who was often seen on Ed Sullivan, Merv Griffin, Mike Douglas, shows of that
ilk. He was never as well known as Rich Little (“Who??”), perhaps the
best-known of impressionists back when that kind of entertainment was popular.
But for my money he was certainly one of the best, and due to his
near-ubiquitous presence on the aforementioned shows, plus numerous
guest-starring roles on a variety of TV programs (most notably Soap for
those of you who remember it), I instantly recalled who he was.
I would love for the next part of this story to be about how I
went next door and rang the buzzer, and John answered and invited us in and we had a fascinating
chat about his days in show biz while he showed us pictures of the times he
hung out with Sinatra and the rest of the Rat Pack, Carol Burnett, the Captain
and Tennille, Elton John, Charo, Englebert Humperdinck (I should have stopped
after Carol Burnett, yes?). However, that’s not what happened… we got back in
the car and I pulled up “John Bynum’s” picture on my phone to show everyone
and jog their memories. Unsuccessfully.
Bill and Trish aren’t planning to buy the condo, but at least I
now know where John Byner lives. That kind of information + a quarter used to
buy you a beer…
