Mr. Show Biz

“Hey Scott, could you bring me my pants?”

It’s hard to imagine this request being croaked from the man who had just arrived for his photo shoot with a carload of brocade show jackets, and his driver Stevie in tow. But there he stood—in his wrinkled tank top and white boxers, looking much smaller than the giant he was.

Eugene Jelesnik, for as far back as I can remember, was Mr. Show Biz. On Saturday afternoons he would bring his “Talent Showcase” into our living room with acts such as dancing poodles and warbling housewives. He introduced each contestant like Ed Sullivan himself. The acts were always mediocre, and the applause was always canned, but I watched with envy as those people received their fifteen minutes of fame. One afternoon, “Scorpio Eye” was the local rock band trying to make it big. By all rights, they were a pretty bad act, and nothing I would normally sit through. But the Calacino brothers were my brother’s friends, and now they had hit the big time. When they were through, Eugene Jelesnik joined them on stage as the pre-recorded applause echoed through the Channel 5 studio. His eyes dancing with glee at his newest discovery. His shimmery lamé jacket making him look much larger than his barely five foot frame. He patted them on the back and whisked them offstage to make way for the next act. When everyone was through, he brought them all on stage to announce the winner which was picked by the applause meter. Show biz! Salt Lake City style!

One summer, my mom took me to Liberty Park for one of the Sunday Night Band concerts. It was an age old event that featured the Salt Lake Philharmonic under the baton of Maestro Eugene Jelesnik. They crashed through renditions of “God Bless America” and “Flight of the Bumblebee” as the audience tapped their feet wand swatted at mosquitoes with their programs. There he was... In person... Mr. Show Biz.

Years later, my editor, came into my office and told me that a writer was working on a story about a man named Eugene Jelesnik and asked if I thought it would be any good. I nearly peed my pants. I called Tom, the only photographer I knew who would appreciate the chance to shoot such an icon. He nearly peed, too.

The day of the shoot, I stood outside of Tom’s photo studio to flag down the Maestro. He rolled up in a little black Hyundai with a Jesus fish pasted on the bumper. and waved from the passenger side. “Hi, Eugene,” I fawned. “I’m Scott” He smiled as he crawled out of the car. “Hi Scott. This is my driver Stevie” he said motioning in his Sullivanesque way to a sixty-ish man with rumpled clothes and a too-large tooth in the center of his grin. “Come on in, “ I Sullivanned back, “We’re just about ready.”

We walked into the studio and hung up a half dozen Mr. Mac garment bags. “These are my show jackets” he said in his slightly fractured English, “I have eighty more at home.” I marveled at the colors and textures and drooled at the way they would reflect the colored lights Tom had set up. I picked my two favorites and sent him into the dressing room to change. “I think the light blue tuxedo shirt looks better than the white, don’t you?” “Sure,” I said, “you’re the pro.” He stepped into the changing room as Tom and I rubbed our hands in boyish anticipation.

“Hey Scott, could you hand me my pants?” he called. I glanced across the studio to see his wrinkled body buried inside a rumple of underclothes, and took his pants to him. Who would have guessed that not only was I in the same room with my idol, but he would be half naked to boot.

He came out shortly afterward dressed to the nines— a gold lamé jacket, black bow tie, blue and red jeweled cufflinks, rings on most of his fingers and that blue tuxedo shirt. TV could never do him justice. He took his place on the mark and Tom lowered the lights about a foot to accommodate his dwarfish stature. “It’s showtime!” I blurted as he let loose with that Hollywood smile. His eyes twinkled as his arms whisked back and forth, pointing to the camera. He looked like Liberace selling used cars on a late night TV commercial. Every shot was classic. 

We shot some color film then some black and white and called it a wrap.

After he had changed into his street clothes, he showed me his scrapbook. It was filled with USO pictures with Sinatra, and a dozen or so personal letters from Nixon, Bobby Kennedy and a handful from JFK. 

Eugene looked at his gigantic watch and said, “Thank you for your courtesies, Scott. Do you like Indian food? Let me take you to lunch.” I nearly fainted. Out of my many teenage idols—Leif Garrett, Scott Baio, Shaun Cassidy—who would have thought Eugene Jelesnik would end up treating me to tandoori chicken after letting me see him in his underwear.