Will Vinton and me—A chronicle of anecdotes

Meeting Will Vinton for the First Time

I first met Vinton in February of 1975, after I'd seen his and Bob Gardiner's clay-animated short film Closed Mondays (1974, 8 minutes) and heard it had been nominated for an Academy Award. At the time, I was a freshman at Lewis and Clark College in Portland, taking a course called Writing for Publication. One of the assignments was to interview someone interesting and write about it, so I decided to call Vinton and see if he'd be willing.

To my utter astonishment, Vinton not only answered the phone, but he was willing to be interviewed. So we set up a time for later that week to get together for lunch.

We met at his office at Producers, Inc. in Northwest Portland, then walked a half block to his favorite eatery, Bonnie's Hamburgers, a NW Portland icon. I recorded the interview on a portable tape recorder, wrote up my article, and rather brazenly submitted it to "Northwest Magazine," the Sunday supplement to The Oregonian newspaper. I say "brazenly" because the magazine had a subscriber base of around 450,000—large enough that my chances of getting published were an estimated slim to none, especially considering my first-timer status. 

As fate would have it, though, Vinton and Gardiner won the Academy Award, which was apparently enough of a reason for "Northwest Magazine" to buy my article. Here's a bad scan (taken in two passes) of the title page of my article:

Thanks to Will Vinton, I was a published writer.

Here's a photo I shot of Vinton holding his Oscar in front of the fireplace in his living room (at 3436 NW Thurman), shortly after my article was accepted for publication:

Getting Hired by Will

After my article was published, I stayed in touch with Will, interviewed him for another article, and occasionally visited his studio to see what he and his small crew were working on. But I also had an ulterior motive: to persuade Will to hire me. I didn't care what he hired me to do, as long as I could work with this kind, gentle, creative man whom I had come to admire and revere. 

In December 1975, after the fall term of my junior year in college, I decided to quit school and join a rock 'n roll band—a dream I'd harbored since sixth grade, when I first started playing drums. To support myself while pursuing this fun diversion from responsibility, I worked for a sewing machine supply company in northeast Portland. 

After about a year of working this dead-end job and playing with a pretty decent band that nevertheless ended up playing mostly small-time gigs like private parties, high school proms, and class reunions, I decided to return to school and finish my degree. Almost as if on cue, as if he knew I was turning my life around and heading in the right direction, Will called me and asked if I was available to work for him, part time. 

"Ummm...I dunno, lemme think about it for a few days," I didn't say.

So, in late February of 1977, I went to work for Will Vinton Productions as a production assistant, a job that paid only $250 a month but put me in league with the creative geniuses who by then had produced the Academy Award-winning Closed Mondays (1974, 8 minutes), a cool Rainier Beer commercial (1975, 30 seconds), the multi-award-winning Mountain Music (1976, 9 minutes), and the wonderful Martin the Cobbler (1976, 28 minutes).

I was in heaven.

My First Christmas Gift from Will

As I was headed out the studio door on the last day before Christmas in 1977, Will handed me a small, wrapped package. I was so moved I could barely speak. Didn't he know that working with him was enough of a Christmas present for me? Hadn't I made it painfully, embarrassingly obvious by now? Nevertheless, I somehow managed a meager "Thank you" and told him I'd see him after Christmas.

On Christmas morning I opened everything else first, gifts from my parents, siblings, and girlfriend that, while immensely thoughtful and very much appreciated, were no match for the package I was saving for last—whatever it was. Then I opened the package from Will. It was a leather-bound blank book he had bought from a craftsperson at Portland's Saturday Market (I knew this because my girlfriend had bought me a nearly identical book from the same vendor). Inside, Will had inscribed the following:

A creative thought is a rare and precious thing.

Fill this little book with thoughts from your heart

and you will have created a masterpiece.

Merry Christmas, Rick

—Will

I was speechless. Will had given me one of the most precious gifts I had ever received. I cherish it to this day.

Will Comes to My College Commencement

The year I graduated from Lewis and Clark College, 1978, they gave each graduate four tickets to the commencement ceremony, to be distributed however we chose. I chose to invite my parents, my girlfriend, and—a long shot, since I knew how busy he was—Will. I honestly didn't expect him to come, and he never promised to, so I wasn't surprised when I failed to spot him in the crowd before or during the ceremony. However, I was a little disappointed.

My disappointment faded instantly when I was posing for pictures with my parents and my girlfriend outside the coliseum, and…Will's smiling face suddenly appeared in front of me. He shook my hand, congratulated me, and gave me an unexpected graduation present: a promotion to full-time production manager, accompanied by a raise from my half-time salary of $250 to a whopping $800 a month.

While I'm certain some of my fellow graduates had received more prestigious and lucrative offers, I was the happiest person in the crowd that afternoon. Maybe even on the planet.

Will Loses a Cat

One day while I was working at my desk in the studio's upstairs office, Will walked in with his head down and his hand up to his forehead, covering his eyes. I heard him sniffle, and when I looked up I could see that he was trying hard not to cry. As he walked over to the window and looked out, his chest heaving and his hand now covering his face, I got up from my desk and asked him, "Will, what's wrong?"

"My cat died," he replied, sniffling. "I know it's stupid; jeez, it was just a cat, but..." his voice trailed off as he sniffled again. 

"Oh man, I am so sorry," I said. "It's hard losing a pet, and I know you loved your cat."

"Thanks," Will said. "I was pretty attached to that cat. But I'll get over it."

It was the first and last time I ever saw Will (nearly) cry*, and I have to admit I felt honored that he was comfortable enough with me to share such an intimate moment.

*With the exception of a clay-animated Will fake-bawling at the end of our 1978 documentary, Claymation, "Happy endings always make me cry."

Our 1978 Trip to Los Angeles—and "Ignorant" Me

In the fall of 1978, Will asked me to join him on a three-day trip to Los Angeles. The primary purpose of the trip would be to arrange for and attend an LA screening of our recently completed Claymation version of Rip Van Winkle, so it would be eligible for Academy Awards consideration in the Animated Short Subject (fewer than 30 minutes in length) category. A secondary objective was to give Will a chance to meet with some animation industry friends and associates, to catch up and talk business. We would stay at the historic Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel (site of the first Academy Awards, in 1929), across the street from Grauman's Chinese Theater and the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

The screening took place in a small theater whose name I don't recall, and in addition to Rip Van Winkle Will and I sat through screenings of a few of our potential competitors, including Disney's The Small One and Canada Film Board's Special Delivery. I was in awe that our humble little film was being screened in the company of films by such industry titans as Disney and Canada Film Board, both multiple Oscar winners for their previous short films. I don't remember the title of another film we watched, a cel-animated cartoon executed in a hyperkinetic style I hadn't seen before, but I will never forget the conversation Will and I had afterward. Despite the film's apparent popularity with the audience (its ending was met with boisterous applause), I told Will I thought the animation was "weird" and the film "inferior" to Rip Van Winkle. Will's reply burned my ears: "Now you're just exhibiting your ignorance." 

My ears were still red as we were heading up the aisle toward the exit and Will spotted a friend of his, a guy he introduced to me as Ron or Saul or maybe Jules Bass, I'm not sure. Any one of the three would make sense, as they were all in the film business, but Jules Bass would make perhaps the most sense as he was the Bass in Rankin/Bass, creators of the animated TV special Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Whatever: The introduction and brief exchange that followed served to distract us both from the "ignorance" conversation, which was just fine with me. But I don't think I said another word to Will until he asked me where I wanted to go for lunch. We ended up eating at a Thai restaurant, where it was only my tongue that got burned.

Epilogue: Maybe I wasn't so ignorant after all. Rip Van Winkle and Special Delivery were both nominated for an Academy Award, while neither Disney's entry nor the "weird" one made the cut. (Special Delivery ultimately won the Oscar.)

Housesitting/Kidsitting for Will and Susan

In the late spring of 1979, our 27-minute Claymation adaptation of Rip Van Winkle was accepted into the Annecy (France) International Animation Film Festival, and Will and his wife Susan Shadburne decided to attend. They would need to be gone for nine days, leaving their two teenage boys, a three-year-old girl, and a cat at home in NW Portland. Will asked me if I'd be willing to house/kid/pet-sit the two boys and the cat (someone else would babysit the girl) on a free room and board basis (no pay). I would stay at their house and feed the kids, cat, and myself three meals a day for the nine days, while continuing to work at my full-time job at the studio. 

It was a challenge and an honor I couldn't resist. I said yes.

Will's house, perched on a hillside at the edge of Portland's famous Forest Park, was cool, as were his stepsons Ian and Taber and the cat (whose name I don't recall). The winding walkway leading up to the house was covered with broken hazelnut shells, which I had never experienced before (and never wish to experience in bare feet!). The couch in the living room was covered in horse hide, complete with horse hair. I'd never seen that before, either, and I figured both it and the hazelnut shells were perhaps remnants of Will's upbringing in relatively rural McMinnville, Oregon. Another memory I have of the living rom was Will's small LP record collection, which included the Kansas album Point of Know Return. 

Upstairs in the master bedroom, the bed I was to sleep on was Will and Susan's queen-sized futon, situated on the floor—another first for me (I had always slept on mattresses on top of box springs in bed frames). Just outside the master bedroom was the master bath, which featured a shower with a skylight that Will had installed (he had majored in architecture at Berkeley)—which made showering something to look forward to, especially at night when the stars were out. 

The kitchen pantry was stocked with numerous quart- and half-gallon-sized glass jars full of various dried beans, legumes, grains, noodles, and cereals, which I would use as fodder for meals for the three of us. A glass door at the back of the kitchen led directly into Forest Park, and nighttime visits by raccoons, peeking in through the glass, were common. Will's cat seemed to enjoy watching the 'coons through the glass, and if I ever find the photo I shot of that scene, I'll post it here.

Perhaps the coolest thing for me was the fact that the basement of Will and Susan's house was where Will and Bob Gardiner had filmed the Academy Award-winning Closed Mondays. Besides being a breathtakingly creative film, Closed Mondays was the entree to my lifelong friendship with Will, hence the room where it was made held a very special place in my heart.

Other than these few details, I remember only that Ian and Taber were unusually bright, helpful, and independent teenagers, making my stay even more pleasurable. Taber, at 17, was largely on his own at the time, but I remember taking 14-year-old Ian to see a horror movie (can't recall the name, but it was indeed scary) and Fantastic Animation Festival, a collection of short films that happened to include Closed Mondays and Will's 1976 Claymation film Mountain Music. This particular screening of Fantastic Animation Festival included a costume contest, inviting participants to dress like their favorite character from one of the films. I went as the old wino from Closed Mondays, wearing clothes similar to his and a clay mask that I had sculpted over a Richard Nixon mask. I didn't win, but I didn't mind. Just being there was enough of an honor. 

As was housesitting and kidsitting for Will and Susan. The fact that they trusted me—a kid myself—to do the job blew my mind. It still does.

Will Treats the Crew to a Special Holiday Screening of Disney's Pinocchio

On the Friday before Christmas in 1979, Will treated the entire crew (Will, Barry Bruce, Don Merkt, Joan Gratz, and myself) to a special screening of Walt Disney's 1940 masterpiece Pinocchio at a Portland theater. He told me he wanted us to see it because he considered it the pinnacle of cel animation, due both to its spectacular artistry and its innovative camera work. I had seen the film once before when I was a kid, but seeing it again as an adult—especially now that I was employed in animation—gave me a whole new appreciation of just how incredible the film was. And seeing it with Will and the gang, on the virtual eve of Christmas, made it all the more special.

Here's the interesting thing about this little story: After watching Pinocchio and hearing Will's take on it, I started to suspect that Will had designs on being the next Walt Disney, only with Claymation instead of cel animation. Then it occurred to me that the names Walt and Will both started with W and were four letters long and a single syllable, and that their surnames—Disney and Vinton—also contained the same number of letters and syllables. And then I noticed that Will's signature was similar to that of Walt Disney (see logo comparison below). Was this by design on Will's part? I never asked, but I suspected it was. And years later, after I had left Will's employ and read about his plans to build a theme park—Claymation Station—next to Portland's landmark train station, Union Station, I knew the coincidences were not...coincidences. About that same time, Will changed the name of his company from Will Vinton Productions to Will Vinton Studios...a la Walt Disney Studios. The new logo:

And here's the Walt Disney Studios logo. The two are nowhere near exact replicas, of course but...similar enough.

It must have been the fulfillment of a fantasy for Will to see his 1978 short film Rip Van Winkle beat out Disney's The Small One for an Academy Award nomination, and in 1984 to be commissioned by Disney to produce Claymation special effects for Return to Oz,  and then in 1986 to have his feature film The Adventures of Mark Twain appear on The Disney Channel. Through the years I've noticed additional links between Will and Walt, and more than one journalist has described Will as "the Walt Disney of Claymation." While I would stop short of claiming that Will's best work equalled that of Walt (and I think Will would, too), I think the earnestness of his aspirations brought him about as close to achieving the artistry of Pinocchio as anyone could hope.

My Retirement Present from Will

In 1980 when I "retired" from Will Vinton Productions to pursue other interests, Will gave me something both humorous and precious: a gold pocket watch. Humorous because, well, it was a gold watch and I had been with the company only three years (and I was only 25 years old); precious because of the inscription inside the cover: "You have decided to go away, now go." It was one of several key lines from The Little Prince, a Claymation version of which we had just completed a few months before, and to me it meant that Will really wanted me to stay and was trying hard to be stoic. I was moved almost to tears. I cherish that silly watch to this day.

Here are my best attempts at photos of the front and insides of my gold watch. Note the inscribed "WVP" (for Will Vinton Productions) on the front. As mentioned above, Will later changed the name to Will Vinton Studios.

The Best Letter of Recommendation Ever

Another parting gift I received from Will, two months after my departure, was this letter of recommendation. This single letter did more to open doors for me and help me land coveted jobs than any letter I had received before or since. Thank you, Will.

Will Hires Me to Write Claymation: The Book

In late 1981, about 18 months after I "retired" from Will Vinton Productions, I approached Will with an idea: a book about Claymation. I would interview Will and the other members of the crew, transcribe the interviews, write the book, gather appropriate photos and artwork, draft a rough layout, and shop the book to publishers...all for the meager sum of $1,800. If that isn't crazy enough, I told him I could finish the job within six weeks. 

Even crazier: Will agreed. And he wanted me to start right away.

So I did. And six weeks later, I presented Will with a draft of the book. Which he said he would read that night.

The next morning, Will bounded into my temporary office and exclaimed, "Rick, this is GREAT. You know how I am about these things, and I'd say this is about 85 percent there."

Eighty-five percent? Not 100?

"Terrific," I replied, trying not to let my dismay show. "What do you think it'll take to get it the rest of the way there?"

"Well," Will said, "for starters I think we should make copies of it and hand them out to the crew. Let them have a look and give us some feedback. And just to cover our asses, we probably should send a copy to Bob [Gardiner], to make sure he's OK with the parts that mention him and Closed Mondays."

Which I did. And the feedback started rolling in. Some of it was supportive and kind; some of it quite critical, but constructively so. I saved all the responses for posterity (and to keep my ego in check), but I'll resist sharing them here—except for the response from Bob Gardiner, which was...unique. In addition to his comments in the margins of the draft manuscript itself, Bob wrote all over the manila envelope containing the manuscript. Here's the backside:

There's a big, ugly backstory here, but suffice it to say that Bob wasn't well. Will had suspected it since the early days of their collaborations, but he didn't know for sure until years later, when he learned that Bob was bipolar.* 

Feedback in hand, I made Will another offer: I would complete another draft of the book, incorporating everyone's comments and criticisms (within reason) and inserting my ideas for graphics and captions, for a mere $1,200. And I would do it within four weeks.

He agreed again. 

So I set about revising draft 1, and in just under four weeks I presented Will with draft 2. He liked this one, too, but he wasn't quite as enthusiastic about it as he was about draft 1. I guess the shine was beginning to wear off.

A few days later, Will handed draft 2 back to me, his sparse edits handwritten in the margins, and asked me how much it would cost to do a final draft—but with an added dimension: a separate "how-to" booklet for kids. I would work with newly hired marketing guru Jim Andrews on the how-to booklet, and then try to market final drafts of both manuscripts to an appropriate publisher. I told Will it would cost him another $1,200 (yep, I worked cheap), and it would take me another four weeks.

He agreed again. Maybe because he knew there was no way in hell I could complete both projects in just four weeks, and he would end up getting a really good deal.

If that was, indeed, his thinking, he was partly right. I was able to complete the third draft of the book within the allotted time, but Jim and I couldn't agree on the best approach for the how-to booklet and ran out of time before we could compose a presentable draft. I did, however, make some headway on marketing the book, and even got a bite from a local publisher. I also managed to squeeze in a couple of special projects that Will needed done (see "Will and I Clash Over a Press Release," below), so I made sure Will got his money's worth, despite the dead end with the how-to booklet. 

I offered to keep trying to market the book and work with Jim on completing a viable draft of the booklet, but apparently the shine had worn completely off. I'll never forget the way Will put it: "Why throw good money after bad?" Ouch. While I understood that $4,200 (which is $12,134 in 2022 dollars) was a chunk of change to spend on such highly speculative projects, I couldn't help feeling a little hurt. 

Perhaps as a kind of mutual salve, I asked Will if I could keep all the drafts I had written and the graphics I had gathered and see if I could finish the project on my own—at no charge. He agreed.

That was 40 years ago, and I still had that box of drafts and graphics until October 2021, when I sent it to fellow ex-Vinton employee and current Disney animator Kevin MacLean, who is archiving and curating all kinds of Vinton-related materials. Among Kevin's plans for the materials: a possible book. Maybe he'll be able to turn bad money back into good...

*Sadly, Bob later took his own life.

Will and I Clash Over a Press Release

After The Creation (1981) was nominated for an Academy Award, Will and I agreed that we should send out a press release both to announce the honor and to advertise our availability for Claymation commercial production. Will composed a first draft of the release and asked me to edit it. Other than a few typos and some awkward syntax, there was really nothing wrong with Will's text—other than the fact that it followed standard news release protocols. In other words, I thought it was boring. And to my mind, Will Vinton Productions did not do boring; we did original, different, exciting. 

So, being the cocky 26-year-old jerk I was, I told Will I couldn't in good conscience send out his news release, because I felt it misrepresented who we were and what we did. In response, Will put on his best nonchalant face, but I could sense he was hurt. He replied, "Well, go ahead and write up your own press release and let's have a look at it."

Which I did. But my news release took a decidedly nontraditional approach, one I had never seen anyone else use before. Because I wanted it to be original, different, exciting. My news release took the form of a nine-panel, hand-drawn cartoon, with a simply rendered talking head voicing the salient points, one at a time, panel by panel. I thought it was brilliant. I thought Will would think it was brilliant.

After drawing and redrawing several drafts to make sure it was good enough, I proudly handed it to Will and said, "Well, what do you think?"

Will took the sheet of paper from me and started looking it over in earnest, pulling at his beard while reading. A minute passed. Two minutes. 

The suspense was tying my stomach in a knot.

Finally, Will spoke up. "I can't in good conscience let you send this out," he said. "I feel like it misrepresents who we are and what we do."

Ouch. Did he really mean that, or was he just getting revenge? I didn't know for sure, and I didn't ask. I just swallowed hard a couple of times, took the sheet back from Will, choked out an "OK" and something along the lines of "I'll rework it," and sat back down at my desk, crushed.

It was the first time Will had ever really negated me on a creative decision, and it hurt. But after re-examining my draft release and thinking for a few minutes about what had actually happened, I started to realize not only that was Will right, but that I had been off base telling him I couldn't send out his news release. Instead, I should've simply edited his version to my professional standards and left my ego and my ignorant, immature sense of "creativity" out of it. 

Twenty minutes later, I handed Will a new, freshly typewritten draft—all text, no cartoons. He took 30 seconds to read it, give me a thumbs up and a smile, and all was right again with the world.

I didn't keep a copy of the final version of the release, but for some stupid reason I did keep a copy of its fateful predecessor. Here it is.

Will Comes to My Backyard Fish Fry

In the spring of 1982, following the conclusion of my freelance writing and marketing work for Will Vinton Productions, I returned to my own personal writing and music projects. To help pay the bills, I also picked up some apartment painting work with Chuck Jameson, the older brother of Claymation music producer Paul Jameson (who, with musical partner Bill Scream, composed and performed the wonderful Mountain Music theme song, among many other soundtrack pieces). The two avocations kept me pretty busy, but not busy enough to stop fishing. That spring and summer I went stream and lake fishing probably half a dozen times (mostly in southeastern Oregon), and by mid-August I had a freezer full of trout. More trout than I could possibly eat on my own. So I decided to have a fish fry/potluck, and invited some friends and neighbors over.

Among those I invited to the fish fry were Will Vinton, his wife Susan Shadburne, and their teenaged sons Taber and Ian Shadburne. To my surprise, Will and Taber actually showed up. I had assumed that by now Will was either too busy or too famous, or both, to engage in such diversions, particularly with former employees. But there he was, and everyone else there was even more astonished than I was. For the potluck part of it, I believe he brought some beer and a chocolate cake that his wife Susan had made. 

The trout and food were all delicious and, thanks in large part to Will's presence, the gathering was a smashing success. I was overwhelmed by Will's thoughtfulness and generosity, and filled with gratitude that I had such an awesome friend. Thank you, Will, for yet another special memory.

 

My Visit to Will Vinton Studios, and a Private Lunch with Will

Once in the mid-1990s, when Will Vinton Studios was in its heyday, I was in Portland on business and decided to stop in at the studio at 22nd and NW Pettygrove. My timing was good, as a tour of the studio was commencing just then. So I joined the tour, with the idea in mind that I would at some point reveal to the tour guide my identity and my erstwhile affiliation with the studio. 

About halfway into the tour, after the tour guide mentioned Will's "close friendship" with Michael Jackson (Will and Michael had worked on several projects together, including the music video for "Speed Demon"), I confessed to the guide my shill status with the tour. Fortunately, she wasn't angry; in fact, she responded by paging Will and letting him know I was there. Next thing I knew, the tour guide was informing me that Will wanted me to come join him in his office for lunch. 

The tour guide gave me directions to Will's office, and I skipped upstairs to join him.

Will was sitting on the outside corner of his desk, eating a sandwich. Despite having a mouthful of food, he greeted me with a hearty "Howdy, Rick!" (he virtually always greeted people with a "Howdy"), and asked me what I was up to. I told him I was on a business trip for my job with Oregon State University and just wanted to check up on the latest happenings at the studio. 

As we chatted and got caught up on each other's lives, I noticed a license plate propped high up on a bookshelf behind where Will was sitting. It was a custom (or "vanity") plate that read CLAYM8. I called it to Will's attention and told him I was flattered, having coined the term "Claymate" when I was the editor of Frame by Frame, a newsletter I developed for the studio when I was production manager (1977–80). 

"An homage to your past," Will said, smiling.

"An honor to have been there then, and to be here now," I replied. 

As I was preparing to bid Will adieu, I asked him if there was anything I could do for Will Vinton Studios to help promote their current work. "I guess I'll always have Claymation marketing in my blood," I said.

"Oh no," Will replied, laughing. "Surely you have better things to do now?" 

I may have smiled and said something like "Sure," but the truth was that I loved Will and would jump at the opportunity to promote Claymation or anything else he was involved in that needed promoting. Years later, I would get just such an opportunity.

Will and His Wife Join My Wife and Me at da Vinci Days

In the summer of 2003, shortly after Will had lost his studio in a hostile takeover by Nike CEO Phil Knight, Will was invited to present the keynote address at an annual science, art, and music festival in Corvallis, Oregon, called da Vinci Days. I happened to live in Corvallis at the time, so it was a perfect opportunity for me to reconnect with Will—if he had time. I emailed him and asked if he would like to get together after his keynote, and he replied, "Sure—see you after the show." 

The keynote was a huge success, drawing a full house (I barely scored a last-minute seat), and afterward Will was thronged by adoring and inquisitive fans in the auditorium's lobby. I hung around on the periphery, awaiting an opportune moment to tell Will to meet me and my wife, Jules, outside by the music stage when he was done. After about 30 minutes, during which Will patiently and attentively answered every question thrown at him and signed autographs, that moment finally came and the meetup was arranged.

A pretty decent Brazilian rock band was about halfway into its set when Will and his wife Gillian finally showed up, tired and thirsty. I offered them both the only beverage we had left by then: Bud Lights (poured into plastic tumblers to avoid detection by the alcohol police). They were thirsty enough that they accepted the pedestrian suds without complaint. 

While my wife and Gillian chatted about children (we each had three), the challenges of being her famous husband's shadow, and the need for "chemical substances" (e.g., alcohol) to endure it all, Will and I talked about the music (me: "The band sounds like Santana without a guitar player"; Will: "It sounds like Santana without Santana"), animation festivals he'd been attending, and what happened with Phil Knight. Will told me that because Knight's son Travis was an animator at the studio, Knight hadn't flinched when Will once asked him for a $5 million loan to keep the studio afloat during a lean stretch. However, when lean times returned and Will asked for another cash infusion, Knight invoked some kind of fine-print "breach of contract" clause from the initial loan and...took ownership of the studio.

I could sense that Will was still in shock even now, a year after the hostile takeover had taken place. And knowing what a devastating blow it must've been, after building the studio up from nothing to a $40 million company, I couldn't blame him. He told me he had tried everything he could think of to avert the takeover, including asking Apple CEO Steve Jobs for a loan (he turned Will down). And yet, Will was not only still standing but was busy making lemonade: he had already established a new venture, cheekily called Freewill Entertainment. 

Music over, beer gone, exhaustion setting in, we said our goodbyes and promised we'd see each other again before too many more years had passed. But I had my doubts, not just because "let's do this again" is what people always say and rarely do, but because Will had every reason to hate me: Of all the shirts I could have chosen to wear for the occasion, I had mindlessly chosen to wear my one and only NIKE T-shirt. 

Fuck me. 

I emailed Will an apology—for the T-shirt and for the crappy beer—that evening, but never heard back. I was pretty sure I would never hear from Will again. 

Fortunately, I was wrong.

Will, Bill McCallister, Insulastics, and Me

In the late fall of 2007, I was working in my office at Oregon Sea Grant, where I was managing editor, when the phone rang. My phone didn't have caller ID, so I thought the caller was going to be one of our researchers, perhaps wondering when the hell I was going to finish editing and laying out his Very Important Paper. 

"Oregon Sea Grant, this is Rick," I answered, trying to sound cheerful.

"Hey, Rick, it's Will. How ya doin'?" 

I was gobsmacked. Will and I had corresponded a few times via email over the past few years, but hearing from him by phone took me completely off guard.

"Will!" I exclaimed, trying not to sound gobsmacked. "I'm good. How are you doing?" 

"I'm good, too. It's been awhile, hasn't it?"

"Yeah, it has. What's been going on with you?" 

"Well, as you know, I'm not doing the animation thing any more," he replied with a note of sadness. "But I'm working on something new that I wanted to run by you."

"OK," I replied nonchalantly. "What is it?"

"So, you work for Sea Grant, right? 

"Yeah, that's what they tell me," I said. 

Will laughed, then said, "What is it you guys do there?"

"Well, we're a part of NOAA, and we fund marine research," I replied. "After the research is done, the researcher writes it up and we publish it. I handle the publication editing and design."

"Cool," Will said. "So, would it be accurate to say you guys are working to protect the environment?"

"I'd like to think so," I said. In reality, some of the work we did ended up protecting people who made their living exploiting the environment—such as commercial fishermen. But I spared Will the depressing truth.

"Right," Will replied. "So, I've been working on something lately whose intention is also to protect the environment, which, as you know, is near and dear to my heart."

"Cool," I said. "What is it?"

"We're calling it Insulastics—insulation made from recycled plastics," Will said. And he proceeded to explain how he and his friend William McAllister (a fellow film industry professional perhaps best known for his art direction on Who Framed Roger Rabbit?), came up with the idea, and even patented several of the insulation plans (at a cost to Will of a cool $25,000, he told me). It was shortly after they'd heard about the Great Pacific garbage patch, a gyre twice the size of Texas consisting mostly of plastic debris, floating in the North Pacific. Will and Bill figured that a good way to prevent such garbage patches from increasing in size might be to keep used plastics out of the waste stream...and one way to accomplish that would be to recycle them into something useful—like insulation.

Will then asked me if I happened to know of any professors on campus who might like to run a class experiment to test the practicality and efficiency of insulation made from recycled plastics. I told him I'd ask the campus recycling coordinator and get back to him.

Later that day, Will was hooking up with Dr. Skip Rochefort, a professor of chemical engineering at Oregon State University (where my office was based). Rochefort told Will he would be willing to take on the project if he could secure a grant to cover expenses. 

Long story short: Rochefort was able to secure the grant, and over the course of the next few months he and his students worked with Will and Bill McCallister on the efficacy of Insulastics. I had high hopes, for Will's sake as well as the planet's, that the results would be encouraging.

During that period, each time Will came to town we would get together for coffee or a beer (depending on the time of day he and I were both free). On one occasion, Bill joined us (he lived in Philadelphia, so his visits were scarce), and I found him to be a warm and engaging person, wholly worthy of Will's friendship—and mine. 

I so enjoyed getting to visit with Will on these occasions that I didn't even mind his nervous habit of looking all around us whenever we were together, probably in anticipation of some Claymation groupie suddenly shoving his face in Will's and asking for an autograph (which oddly never happened while we were together...hmm). 

It was on one of these occasions, when we were having a burger at McMenamin's on Monroe St., that Will informed me he had been battling a blood disorder—a cancer of plasma cells—called multiple myeloma. I remember shaking my head "No," my mouth hanging open, while Will assured me that we was in remission and feeling fine—thanks to his $9,000 per month medication, paid for by his health insurance through the Screen Writers Guild. [In June 2021, after I had seen Marq Evans' documentary about Will called Claydream, I messaged Will's widow, Gillian Frances, to express my horror at how he had been treated by Phil Knight. Gillian replied, in part, "It was a very hard time for us and I can't help but think that the stress may have brought on Will's illness. I have been feeling very anxious about seeing the documentary, I'm still not sure I want to see it."]

During that same visit, I wanted to ask Will if he'd heard anything from or about his former clay animation partner Bob Gardiner, with whom he had co-created Closed Mondays. I wasn't sure I should say anything, though, because of Bob's history of antagonizing Will over the years. They had parted ways in 1975 after they had won their Academy Award for Closed Mondays, and Bob went on to create several of his own "Sculptimation" projects, including one for a Rolling Stone Magazine TV special. I learned later, while working for Will, why the two had parted ways: Bob was angry with Will for appropriating what he thought was his proprietary style of clay animation and calling it his own. (Bob used to phone me at the studio and rail about Will's having cheated him out of his "trademark.") 

I decided to go ahead and risk asking if Will had heard anything from Bob. Will's face went dark and his eyes misted. "Bob committed suicide in 2005," he said. He went on to say that he'd heard from members of Bob's family that he had struggled most of his adult life with bipolar disorder, which Will speculated was the cause of both Bob's volatility and his brilliant artistry.

Toward the end of Rochefort's project (which, by the way, showed that used plastics of all kinds could, indeed, be viably repurposed into inexpensive and efficient insulation), Will asked me if I could arrange a meeting between himself and the director of Oregon Sea Grant, Dr. Bob Malouf, to see if he would be willing to sign on as an Insulastics Board member. Bob was open to discussing the idea, so one morning the three of us met in Bob's office, which was next to mine on the third floor of OSU's administration building. After introducing the two of them, I sat mostly mute next to Will as he delivered his Insulastics sales pitch to Bob. Bob was so impressed with what he heard that he enthusiastically consented to having his name included on any and all future Insulastics grant funding applications and promotional materials. The only other thing I remember about that half-hour conversation was Will telling Bob at one point, "I had to put up with Rick, and now you have to put up with him." We all laughed, but to this day I still find myself replaying that comment and wondering if I really was just a big pain in Will's ass when I was a young, ignorant, arrogant...pain in the ass.

After the meeting, I walked Will down to his car, an old GMC Jimmy, where we stopped and chatted for a moment. At one point Will's face grew pensive...worried...doubtful, maybe. I could tell there was something he wanted to ask me. Sure enough, he wanted to know if Bob was well respected in his field, and whether I thought adding his name to the Insulastics roster would lend it any clout. 

"He's very well respected," I replied, "both here in Oregon and in Washington, D.C." I added that I thought Bob's credentials as a scientist would lend Insulastics greater credibility and validity. 

Will seemed satisfied with my answer. "Okay," he said, "let's do it and see how it goes." 

Over the next several months, I corresponded frequently with Will and Bill via email and phone, forwarded grant funding opportunities, and helped them draft one application seeking funds for researching ways to collect the plastics in the Great Pacific garbage patch and turn them into insulation. (I even suggested at an Oregon Sea Grant meeting that we come up with $1 million to fund such research; my suggestion was politely rejected.) 

About a year later, after all our efforts had failed to launch, the conversations began to taper off and I went back to my usual routine, while making it clear to Will and Bill that I would remain available to help them in any way I could. I still had high hopes that Insulastics would eventually catch on, and maybe even catch fire, in which case I would be well positioned to join the company and go back to working with Will full time. 

But it was not to be. A startup can run on fumes for only so long, and I knew the fumes had finally evaporated when Will said to me on the phone one day, "You know, I am a writer, and if you guys need help with some of the writing for your publications, I'm available." 

How does one respond to something like that? Over the course of 32 years Will had been first my interview subject, then my friend, then my boss, then my friend again, and then a potential business partner...and now he was asking me for work? I couldn't reconcile the poignancy, the crushing sadness of it all. I couldn't even think of anything to say, yet I knew I had to say something. 

"Um...I, uh...wow," I stammered. "Yeah, um, absolutely. If something comes up here that fits your skillset, I'll definitely let you know." It was the best I could give him, knowing full well that nothing we did would ever fit his skillset. Oregon Sea Grant was a scientific research organization, and Will was an entertainment writer. Still, my desire to find something he could do was overwhelming, to the extent of thinking maybe I could make up some writing project for him and...what, pay him out of my own pocket? 

No. I was just going to have to suck it up and be a huge disappointment to this person who had been my boss, my friend, even my surrogate dad for such a big part of my life. Would I ever find a way to make it up to him, to repay him for everything he had done for me?

Probably not. And I was just going to have to be okay with that, like one has to be okay with the impossibility of ever repaying one's parents.

The Live Presentation of Rip Van Winkle and The Little Prince

In late October 2010, I received an email from Will inviting me to attend a "chamber ensemble" live presentation of the Claymation short films Rip Van Winkle (1978) and The Little Prince (1979). The event would take place on Sunday, November 14, at the Hollywood Theater in NE Portland. I believe Will had invited everyone directly involved in the production of the two films, which would include his ex-wife Susan Shadburne, who wrote the two screenplays; animators Barry Bruce, Don Merkt, and Joan Gratz; music producers Bill Scream and Paul Jameson; and myself (production manager). The films would be shown in a kind of "silent film" style, with the sound turned off and live actors (most of them the original voice talents) and musicians performing all the voices, music, and sound effects.

It sounded like a kick in the pants, and it had been a few years since I had seen Will, so of course I replied that I'd be there.

Before the show started, I spotted Will sitting in the front row with his step-daughter Mya Chamberlin (Susan Shadburne's daughter), so I went down to say hello. Smiling broadly, Will stood up, exclaimed "Rick! Good to see you!" and gave me a big bear hug. He'd always had a way of making you feel like you were the only other person in the room, and that hadn't changed. I loved that about him.

The show itself was a revelation. At several junctures throughout the performance, I found myself gaping in awe at the creativity and talent on display with the actors and musicians, who were positioned on stage to the left of the screen so we could see them while watching the films. The rehearsals alone must have consumed weeks, if not months, and I was moved by the fact that these über-talented artists had invested so much of their lives in our two little films—30 years after their initial release.

Immediately following the performance, the director said a few words and then asked Will to come up on stage. Will gave a short speech, thanking everyone for the excellent show and talking a bit about the two films' respective histories. Then he asked everyone in attendance who had played a role in making the films to stand up. One by one he pointed at each of us, told the audience who we were and what part we had played in the films, and then invited us up on stage with him. Once on stage, we each shook hands with or hugged everyone else we knew (surprisingly, we all seemed to remember each other), chatted a bit, and then stood behind Will while he said a few more words. It was a sweet moment.

Afterward in the lobby, I glanced toward where Will was standing and saw that if I wanted to connect with him once more before leaving, it would be a long wait. As usual, he was thronged. So I turned and headed outside, where I ran into Joan Gratz and Barry Bruce. Upon seeing me, both exclaimed almost simultaneously, "You haven't changed!" (not true), to which I replied, "You haven't either!" (also not true). We chatted for a few minutes, said our goodbyes, and I headed for my car. 

Which, at the risk of sounding corny as hell (who cares?), I almost didn't need. The way I was feeling, I could have floated home.

Will's Lifetime Achievement Award

In late August of 2015, the Portland Film Festival emailed me an invitation to a very special event: a Lifetime Achievement Tribute to Will Vinton, including a screening of his Oscar-winning short film Closed Mondays and his feature-length The Adventures of Mark Twain (1985). "About time," I thought. The Italian Cultural Institute of Los Angeles had presented Will with such an award in 2013 (also long overdue), so it was about time Will's own city got on the stick.

The event was held at McMenamin's Mission Theater at 16th and NW Glisan in Portland, just a few blocks from the studio where I had served as his production manager so many years ago. After my wife Jules and I arrived and found our seats, I scanned the room for Will. There he was, leaning up against a pillar about 20 feet from where we were sitting. I got up and headed toward him. When he spotted me, he exclaimed with unexpected elation (and volume), "Rick! So glad you could make it!" and proceeded to squeeze all the air out of my lungs—an impressive feat, considering that he was recovering from back surgery (which was also the reason he was leaning up against a pillar instead of sitting down). After we chatted for a few minutes, I congratulated him, said goodbye, and headed back to my seat. 

A few minutes later, a youngish guy with a fairly sophisticated video camera in hand sat down next to Jules. Jules introduced herself to the guy (she's uninhibited about talking to complete strangers, bless her heart), asked his name, and then inquired as to his mission. The guy replied that he was filming a documentary about Will. "Oh, then you should interview my husband," Jules said. "He worked for Will for several years way back in the early days."

"Hmmm, interesting," the guy replied, obviously interested in one thing only at that moment: recording the event for his documentary. Fair enough, I thought. Maybe our paths will cross again later, when he has more time.

After everyone had had time to eat, drink, and be social, the director of the Portland Film Festival said a few words about Will's career and why he deserved the Lifetime Achievement Award, and then he sprang a surprise on everyone (including Will, apparently): the Festival had also created an "innovation award" named for Will, to be bestowed upon the most worthy recipient at each succeeding year's festival.

Then it was Will's turn to speak, and his speech disclosed yet another surprise: that he harbored no ill will toward Laika, the animation company formerly known as Will Vinton Studios (until Nike CEO Phil Knight's hostile takeover in 2005). In fact, as Oregon Live reported, Will actually spoke warmly about the company and its CEO, Travis Knight (son of Phil). He also spoke with some measure of pride about all the artists who once worked for him and went on to make names for themselves in animation and other fields.

Following Will's speech, we were treated to screenings of Closed Mondays and The Adventures of Mark Twain, and it was interesting to note that while the production quality of the latter totally eclipsed that of the former, the stunning originality and artistic brilliance of Closed Mondays, more than 20 years after it was released, were still magnificently intact. 

After the screenings, Will graciously posed for photographs with former colleagues and friends, including yours truly, and I swear on a stack of Animation Magazines that every single person leaving that theater had a smile on his or her face.

Epilogue: It wasn't until a few years later that I realized the documentary filmmaker was there to film footage that would eventually appear in Marq Evans's terrific film Claydream, which premiered at New York's Tribeca Film Festival in June of 2021. Although I was never interviewed for the film, several of my still photos and video clips appeared in it, thanks to my acquaintance with former Vinton animator (and current Disney animator) Kevin MacLean and his connections with Claydream director Evans and co-producer Kevin Moyer.

Will's 70th Birthday Party, a Claymation Christmas Party, and...His Memorial Service

The Birthday Party

Other than a few brief email exchanges, I didn't hear much more from Will until the fall of 2017, when he sent me an invitation to his 70th birthday party. The party was to be held on his birthday, November 17, at a facility in SE Portland. My wife Jules and I bought him a card and two 22-ounce bottles of our favorite beer at the time, Rogue Ales' Old Crustacean Barleywine.

The party was well attended (~150 people) and was an absolute delight, replete with engaging conversations and great live music by one of our favorite blues bands, the Lloyd Jones Struggle. Will was his usual spry self, despite his ongoing battle with multiple myeloma, and after giving both Jules and me big hugs, he sat down and chatted with us for several minutes. After he left the table to visit with other attendees, longtime Claymation music composer/producer Bill Scream joined us, regaling us with  hilarious memories of working with Will over the years. 

Here's a shot Jules took of the Lloyd Jones band in front of a movie screen showing images from The Adventures of Mark Twain.

At one point during the party, Jules walked over to where Will was standing amidst a throng of revelers and surreptitiously slipped a home-rolled joint into his vest pocket. Will looked a little surprised but otherwise unperturbed, evidently unaware of what had just transpired. 

Among the other people we chatted with were Will's son Jesse Vinton, who brought us up to speed on some of his own filmmaking projects and plans. We were both impressed by how gracious, mature, and self-possessed Jesse seemed. Will and his wife had done a good job raising that one.

Here's a shot of Will toasting...himself (ha ha) before blowing out his candles. (Photo credit: Mary MacDonald.)

A few months after the party, Will posted this about it on his Facebook page: 

Hi there! Welcome to my B-day Blues Bash review (finally)! I wish you ALL could have been there! I managed to assemble my very favorite Blues artists for a unique celebration - artists I've had the great pleasure of working with over the years. The line-up included Lloyd Jones Struggle and the Atlas Horns as our House Band, singer/songwriter David Pomeranz (The Kiss Musical), R&B great, Andy Stokes (got his start as AC, California Raisin Band), Curtis Salgado (collaborator), the awesome LaRhonda Steele, The Freewill Band (my band) with host Rob Sample! What I night of music, food and fun!

I've been wanting to share this and have been remiss not posting this great Nov. 17th event. I had no time to take pictures so until people started sending me shots I didn't really have much to post. If you were there and got some good shots, please add them to the collection in the Photo Album. Thanks!

A Claymation Christmas Party

The next month, we were invited to yet another event: a party commemorating the 30th anniversary of A Claymation Christmas Celebration. This party also would take place in Portland, at an old church in the St. Johns area. 

This time, Jules and I were accompanied by our son Cy and his girlfriend Stephanie. Other people in attendance included Will and my former Will Vinton Productions colleagues Don Merkt (clay animator and set builder), Joan Gratz (Academy Award-winning clay painter), Bill Fiesterman (clay animator), and Matt Wuerker (clay animator, and a 2014 Pulitzer Prize-winning editorial cartoonist for Politico). I spoke with all of them except for Bill and Will. Don reminded me of some hilarious things Barry Bruce said and did; Joan told me about her latest clay painting project and her condo that was for rent; and Matt reminded me of when I used to drive him to our jobs at the studio in my 1962 Plymouth Valiant.

Such fond memories.

The Memorial Service

On October 4, 2018, my former boss and longtime friend Will Vinton lost his 12-year battle with multiple myeloma and left this sphere. 

He was just 70 years old.

I was stunned when I heard the news. I had seen Will in person twice in the previous 11 months, and on both occasions he appeared to be getting better, not worse. Will and I had just recently emailed each other pictures of our respective Corgis. I had no idea his health had taken such a seemingly sudden turn for the worse. But that was Will: seldom letting anyone—even those closest to him—know what was really going on with him.

It took me months to process and accept Will's death. I simply couldn't believe this wonderful, kind, generous, creative, energetic, vibrant person whom I had known and loved for 43 years was gone. Even today, almost four years after his passing, I have trouble believing he's really gone. 

Several national media outlets also published tributes, including The New York Times, Variety, CBS News, The Hollywood Reporter, The Washington Post, The Los Angeles Times, and The Boston Globe. 

None of them did him justice. How could they?

Fortunately, Will's son Jesse came to the rescue. Jesse happened to be part owner of a new bar in downtown Portland, the No Vacancy Lounge, where he would host a memorial celebration for Will on October 21, 2018. Here's the invitation Jesse emailed to me and everyone else who once worked for Will or knew him in some capacity (numbering in the hundreds, I'm guessing):

MEMORIAL CELEBRATION  OF WILL VINTON Hosted by the Vinton Family Please join us to celebrate the life and legacy of Will Vinton, Sunday October 21st, at No Vacancy Lounge (235 SW 1st Ave Portland). In typical Vinton fashion, we are setting out to create an upbeat, celebratory atmosphere to commemorate the life and work of our father - just the way he would have wanted it! The celebration will include Will's favorite blues bands, special cocktails, and commemorative videos and photos. Whether you are friends of the family, colleagues, or someone who has been inspired or touched by our father, we would love to share stories and celebrate the life of our incredible dad. An award will be given for the best mustache (maybe)... This is an all ages event until 8pm. At that time, the event is for 21+ patrons only. There is no cost for entry. Drinks and food will be available for purchase. Live Blues and Jazz from 3pm - 530pm / 6pm - 730pm / 8pm - 10pm. Press Release: After a courageous 12-year battle with Multiple Myeloma, Will Vinton, animator and creator of Claymation, died on Thursday October 4th in Portland, Oregon. He passed away surrounded with love from his family who were with him until the end. A McMinnville native, Will amassed over 400 awards and film nominations including Academy Awards, Emmys and Clios. He developed, pioneered and coined “Claymation” as a trademark of his company, Will Vinton Productions. Will Vinton Studios grew to be a $25 million company employing 450 full-time employees, producing key projects including “The PJs” television pilot, “California Raisins” and M&M commercials to name a few. He was Co-founder and Chairman of the Portland Creative Conference, a unique, annual, 3-day, speaker driven conference of creative thinkers from the world of film, television, interactive media and design. He continued writing, teaching, directing and developing projects during the past 10 years. Will is survived by his wife, Gillian, his sons Billy Vinton and Jesse Vinton, his daughter Alexandra Vinton, his sisters Mary Vinton Folberg and Alice Vinton. remembrances should be sent to Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.

My wife and I attended the celebration, which was standing room only, as expected, and was also a good opportunity to explore the real meaning of "mixed emotions." There were tears, there was laughter, there were somber faces, there were joyful ones. Several attendees took the stage to share reminiscences of Will, and several others (*cough*) would have liked to but couldn't—for fear of melting down to a salty puddle. 

Someone had also brought a remembrance book for guests to write in, and I wrote about how I had first met Will in early 1975 for an interview about his and Bob Gardiner's Oscar-winning Closed Mondays. I was 19 at the time; Will was 26.

Among the other attendees at the celebration were former WVP colleagues Don Merkt and Joan Gratz, voice talent Michele Mariana, and music composer/producer Bill Scream. There were several others I recognized but didn't know very well, and dozens whom I'd never met. Notably absent was my former colleague Barry Bruce, whom I later learned was dealing with his own health issues (which took him to the ether on December 24, 2021).

Despite its natural bittersweetness, the event was an appropriate and effective means of saying goodbye to this man so many of us knew and loved. By the time my wife and I decided to head home, I was both satiated and drained. I suspect the same was true of other attendees. Heartfelt gratitude to Jesse Vinton and family for organizing and hosting the event. 

A few months later, the 2019 Academy Awards’ "In Memoriam" tribute featured a photo I shot of Will in the living room of his NW Portland home, where we had first become acquainted in early 1975. You can't see it because they blurred it out, but Will is holding the Oscar he had won for Closed Mondays. 

My video documentary about Will Vinton and Claymation

"VideoDoc: 3-Dimation" is a 32-minute documentary I produced for my college senior project in 1977-78. "VideoDoc" is short for "Video Documentary," and "3-Dimation" is short for "3-dimensional animation," which was, at the time, what Will Vinton called his particular brand of clay animation. About a year after I made this documentary, Vinton changed the moniker to Claymation (which, although trademarked, has become a generic term for clay animation). The video contains interviews with Will Vinton and several of his associates, including clay animators Don Merkt and Barry Bruce and musicians Bill Scream and Paul Jameson. Screenwriter/composer Susan Shadburne, who was Vinton's wife at the time, also appears.

I originally recorded the documentary on 3/4" videotape, and later had it dubbed to an MP4. My apologies for the less-than-stellar video and audio quality. I've posted the video here primarily for posterity. At the time I taped the interviews and made this video, I was a full-time college student and part-time production assistant for Will Vinton Productions. After I graduated college, I was promoted to full-time production manager, and continued working in that capacity and others until about 1982. Vinton and I remained friends until his death on October 4, 2018. Writer/videographer/producer/director: Rick Cooper Interviewer: Kathy Gardner Narrator: Julie Jones

The incredible true story of Jeff, the one-legged drummer

The first thing I noticed about Jeff when I spotted him in ed psych class wasn't his fake leg; it was his kind face. He had big, deep eyes and an easy smile that made you want to earn his friendship. Which is exactly what I set out to do.

Jeff and I were classmates in the education program at Lewis and Clark College in the fall of 1983. I was working toward a secondary English teaching certificate; Jeff was in the deaf education program. One day after ed psych, I approached Jeff and introduced myself. He stuck out his hand, told me his name, and invited me to join him for coffee at the student lounge across campus.

We were soon friends, and after a few meetings outside of class we learned that we had something else in common besides the ed program: we were both drummers. When I asked Jeff if having a fake left leg made drumming difficult, he said it wasn't really a problem because it was just his hi-hat foot, and operating the hi-hat pedal wasn't that difficult.

Eventually I felt we were good enough friends that I could ask him how he'd lost his leg. His answer was the stuff of nightmares.

One spring evening, Jeff told me, when he was an eighth grader at Western View Middle School in Corvallis, Oregon, he and some friends found a ladder propped up against an outside wall of the school and decided to climb up on the flat roof. Once on the roof, they thought it'd be fun to do something they'd heard was popular with college kids and adults: streaking. Taking off all one's clothes and running a short distance, preferably without getting caught.

So Jeff and his friends took off all their clothes and streaked across the roof of Western View Middle School.

Unfortunately, the not getting caught part didn't turn out so well. Unbeknownst to the streakers, a teacher was working in his classroom late that evening and heard the commotion on the roof. The teacher went outside and started circling the building to see if he could find the source of the noise. When he spotted the streakers, he yelled at them, "Hey you kids, come down from there!"

Rather than heading back toward the ladder to climb down and turn themselves in, Jeff and his friends decided to run toward a side of the roof where they thought they could jump off and run away. Jeff was the first to jump off.

He was also the last to jump off.

As he was falling toward the ground, some twist of physics or fate conspired against him and threw him backwards, toward the side of the building. And there, unfortunately, on that particular side of the building, was a big plate-glass window.

Jeff fell backwards through the window, shattering the glass—and slicing his left leg almost completely off.

"Your shock and pain must've been horrific," I said to Jeff.

"Almost as bad as my embarrassment," he replied. "Remember, I was naked."

Oh, yeah. Naked. And bleeding to death.

Jeff and his mostly severed leg were rushed to the hospital, where surgeons determined that the leg was too damaged to reattach. He would need a prosthetic.

Ten years later, Jeff was enrolled in the education program, aiming to become a teacher of the deaf. I, on the other hand, was looking toward a new career (following my three-year stint as production manager for Claymation film producer Will Vinton) as a secondary English teacher.

After we finished our respective programs, I landed a position teaching English and U.S. history at Highland View Middle School in Corvallis—the home of Western View Middle School, where Jeff had lost his leg. Jeff, meanwhile, found a job in Portland. When I informed him I was now living in his hometown, he said he'd come see me next time he was in Corvallis to visit his parents.

A few months later, when Jeff came to see me at my new home, I finally got a chance to see how he was able to play the drums. He was pretty good, and it appeared to me that his fake leg didn't hinder his hi-hat prowess one iota. In fact, after seeing him play with that leg, I decided to practice a bit more so as not to be outplayed by a monoplegic.

Jeff and I got together one or two more times after that, and then we lost touch with each other, likely because of our respective jobs, relationships, and the physical distance between Corvallis and Portland.

A few years later, I was one of several teachers chaperoning a weeklong trip to Washington D.C., with 64 Corvallis eighth-graders. One of the other teachers, Chuck Wenstrom, happened to teach history at Western View Middle School. I told him I knew a guy who, when he was an eighth-grader at Western View, went streaking with some friends on the school roof one night and lost a leg when he jumped off and fell backward through a window.

I was completely unprepared for Wenstrom's reply. "I was the one who told Jeff and his friends to come down off the roof," he said. "But I didn't mean for them to jump off. They were supposed to climb back down the ladder they used to get up there. You can't imagine how badly I felt about Jeff losing that leg."

He was right: I couldn't imagine. And neither of us could imagine how Jeff felt.

I'll never forget Jeff's kind face and easy smile, and I'll always wonder whether they were, at least in part, a product of the pain he had to endure and the obstacles he had to overcome as a result of his accident. If so, it was perhaps the best possible outcome of one of the worst imaginable tragedies.

Jeff, wherever you are and whatever you're doing, I wish you happy trails. On safe ground. With your clothes on.

That time I fell off a ski lift

Ever wonder how it would feel to fall off a ski lift?

I used to—until it happened to me.

I was 18 and a freshman in college. In fulfillment of my "Physical Education" requirement, I had enrolled in a downhill skiing course, which consisted of eight weekly lessons, every Saturday, on the slopes near Timberline Lodge on Mt. Hood.

At over six feet tall and with unusually long legs and a short torso—in other words, a high center of gravity—I'm not well built for skiing. But for the first five weeks of class, I held my own and managed to keep from falling or doing anything terribly embarrassing. I usually skied with my dorm RA (resident assistant), Ron Starker, a nice guy with a good sense of humor and a great laugh. We were friends then and still are today. (You'll soon understand why I felt it important to establish that up front.)

On the sixth Saturday, Ron and I were riding the ski lift together, as usual, and looking forward to skiing on our own for a change, without the instructor. The instructor had told us she thought we were good enough to take on one of the more challenging slopes by ourselves, and we were determined to prove her right.

As the ski lift approached the jump-off point, Ron and I got ready to exit our chair and set off on our adventure. But then something happened. As Ron stood up and dismounted the chair, the chair bounced back up and smacked me in the butt, causing me to lose my balance just as I was trying to dismount. I remember seeing Ron ski off to safety as I was tumbling backward and down, down, down into the snow-lined depression around the base of the massive steel turnaround pylon.

I landed on my back in the snow—just enough snow, apparently, to break my fall and not my back. I wasn't sure if I was dead or alive, but my eyes were open and I could feel my limbs, so I figured there was a good chance I had survived the fall, although I wasn't sure how.

The ski lift stopped, and frantic faces started appearing all around the rim of the pylon hole, peering downward at me. One of them asked if I was OK, and I said "I think so." I really wasn't sure, because I had, after all, FALLEN OFF A SKI LIFT. Do people survive such things?

Within what seemed like seconds, the Ski Patrol showed up. (Ironically, just two years earlier my rock band had played a Ski Patrol benefit dance at Timberline Lodge. Maybe these guys were among the attendees—and beneficiaries?) Within a few more seconds, they somehow managed to send a couple of guys down into the hole with a stretcher, strap me onto it, and hoist me up to the surface. I told them I felt fine, but they wanted to make sure I hadn't broken anything or suffered a concussion or internal injuries. So I waited patiently (what else could I do?) while they checked me over...and over...and over, with two dozen faces—including Ron's—peering anxiously down at me.

And with the ski lift motionless above me, full of people wanting to get started skiing.

It was excruciatingly embarrassing.

Finally deemed intact, I was released from the stretcher and got back on my feet. I think there was some applause, but I'm fuzzy on the details after this point because I was 100% focused on just getting the hell out of there. I strapped on my skis, nodded to Ron that I was ready to go, and off we went toward the slopes.

The easy slopes.

A Timberline Lodge skier who probably didn't fall off the ski lift.
(Photo: tripadvisor.co.uk)

My Claymation ad

Here's an ad I designed for the company I worked for at the time, Will Vinton Productions. It appeared in an issue of Variety sometime around late 1979 or early 1980. The scene is from the documentary Claymation. "Outrageous" was the one word uttered (by a bullfrog) in the 8-minute Claymation film Mountain Music (1975); and "Between feature productions" referred to the just-released The Little Prince and Friends (an 84-minute "feature" compilation of Rip Van Winkle, Claymation, and The Little Prince, narrated by Alistair Cookie) and our planned but never completed Metamorphos Man.

To my knowledge, we never received a single call in response to this ad. However, within a few years, Vinton was doing virtually nothing but TV commercials (California Raisins, M&Ms, etc.). Maybe it was just a delayed reaction? : )

Susan Orlean and me

In the late 1970s, long before she became a staff writer for The New Yorker and a bestselling author of such nonfiction books as Saturday Night, The Orchid Thief, and The Library Book, Susan Orlean worked for the Portland, Oregon, newspaper Willamette Week. That's when I met Ms. Orlean, who was in her early 20s at the time—just as I was. I met her through my job as production manager for Claymation film producer Will Vinton Productions. Ms. Orlean had called Will to ask if she could interview him, and Will had passed her on to me, as he occasionally did in such situations.

I called Ms. Orlean and set up a time for us to get together for lunch at a popular Northwest Portland restaurant called The Wheel of Fortune (later renamed Ezekiel's Wheel, probably to avoid copyright infringement). I had no idea what Ms. Orlean wanted to talk about, but I was game for anything.

Anything, that is, except what she ended up wanting to talk about: skeletons in Will's closet.

She wanted dirt.

It wasn't that I was unaware of such skeletons or dirt (although the few examples I was aware of were relatively benign); it was that I was unwilling to help this ambitious and assertive young muckraker to tarnish my boss's—my friend's—reputation, for the sake of bolstered newspaper sales or a Pulitzer (ha ha).

So I was a bit peeved when Ms. Orlean's intent became clear, and matters were not improved when, after we had finished lunch, she looked at me expectantly and said, "I'm not sure how these things work; do you pay, or do I, or...?"

Me, pay? I thought. For an interview you requested?

I managed to utter something about how maybe Dutch would be best, and she reluctantly agreed. I guess in those days Willamette Week didn't pay its hungry young writers very well. We paid our checks, said our goodbyes, and that was the last I ever heard from her. And no story about Will ever appeared in her newspaper. I guess since I hadn't given her what she came for, she decided not to write anything. Which was fine with me.

When I got back to the office and related my experience to Will, he just smiled and said, "Ah, one of those."

Two decades later, I'm driving down I-5 and listening to NPR. Susan Orlean is on, reading an excerpt from her nonfiction book, Saturday Night.

She's good. Her book sounds good. No skeletons, no dirt. She's destined for greatness, I think, shaking my head and smiling to myself.

Maybe I should've bought her lunch?

Susan Orlean

My trip to the Academy Awards

In early 1978, I was working part time as a production assistant for Claymation film producer Will Vinton Productions while finishing up my senior year of college. The film we were working on was a 27-minute version of Rip Van Winkle, based on Washington Irving's 1819 short story. Despite screenwriter (and Will's wife) Susan Shadburne's almost miraculous transformation of the story into something significantly more engaging and relevant than Irving's quaint, time-worn tale, I remained unconvinced that the film would transcend mediocrity. When I shared that opinion with Will, he responded rather forcefully: "This movie is going to win so many awards, you're going to be blown away."

He was right.

We finished the film in late 1978, and immediately started sending it out to film festivals around the world. It won at least a bronze and sometimes a silver or gold in virtually every one. Then we screened it at a theater in Los Angeles just before the December 31 deadline to qualify it as a potential Academy Award nominee (still a long shot, I thought)...and waited.

Nominated!

On February 20, 1979, James M. Roberts, the Executive Director of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, sent Will a telegram notifying him that Rip Van Winkle had been nominated for an Academy Award.

I was, as Will predicted, blown away.

A scan of a photocopy of the telegram Will Vinton received notifying him that our Claymation short film Rip Van Winkle had been nominated for an Academy Award.

As the nominee, Will would automatically get two free tickets to the Awards—one for himself, and one for Susan. Additional tickets, we soon learned, might be available for purchase by other members of the crew. We waited with bated breath for further word, and eventually it came: we would get six more tickets, at a cost of $20 each.

Cool. Except for one thing: there were not six, but seven of us (besides Will and Susan) who wanted to go to the Academy Awards. We would have to draw straws.

As luck would have it, I drew the short straw. I would not be going to the Academy Awards. Booo!

However, fate had another idea in store for me: after pondering for a few days whether he really wanted to attend the Awards, animator Barry Bruce decided against it. He would sell me his ticket. At cost.

I was in eighth heaven. I had watched the Academy Awards ever since I was a kid, but I had never dreamed of attending—and now I was not only going to attend, but I would be there as a member of the crew that had produced a nominated film. I couldn't even wrap my 23-year-old brain around such an incredible stroke of luck.

Then reality started kicking in. As a recent college grad with bills to pay and a student loan to start paying off, I didn't have much disposable income. I would have to come up with about $200 more to help me cover the tux rental, plane ticket, hotel room, and food. I decided, against my better judgment, to ask my conservative (read: frugal) parents, who had rarely, if ever, lent money to any of their four kids. Fortunately, they were almost as excited as I was about this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and they agreed to the loan. I was on my way.

A scan of a photocopy of my ticket
to the Academy Awards.

As the ticket said, the event was to be "formal," meaning...what? Don't wear your torn jeans, frayed T-shirt, and holey Pumas? To me, "formal" was what I had to wear to church every Sunday when I was a kid—slacks, a white shirt, and a clip-on tie. But I had been to a couple of proms, and "formal" for them meant a tuxedo. And virtually every man I had ever seen on the Academy Awards was dressed in a black tux, so I figured I had probably better not stray too far from the norm. On the other hand, did I want to look just like everyone else?

Not a chance. I decided against renting a black tux. Instead, I rented a brown one.

Big mistake. I failed to consider how conspicuous I might feel, being the only guy at the Academy Awards not wearing black. But for the moment, at least, I was reveling in my token act of rebellion.

Hollywood!

We all decided to stay in the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, which had been the site of the first Academy Awards, in 1929. It was old and rustic and the beds were uncomfortable, but we liked the history—and the relatively low rates. Music composer/producer Bill Scream (his "professional" name) and I shared a room.

The night before the Academy Awards show, Will arranged for some of us to join the producers of another nominee in the Animated Short Subject category, Special Delivery, for drinks at the Beverly Hills Hotel, a faux classy old pink building. Accompanying the Canadian producers of the film, Eunice Macaulay and John Weldon, was Marshall Ephron, the former host of a satirical TV show called The Great American Dream Machine, which I used to watch on Oregon Public Broadcasting (our local PBS station). Even though these folks were "the enemy"—one of our two competitors for the Oscar—we got along famously (almost famously?) and enjoyed their intelligence, wit, and graciousness. We decided not to hate them if they won.

The next morning, Will, Bill, and I drove to the house of an animator friend of Will's, John David Wilson (who had animated the opening credits for Grease) and his wife, Angel. After a pleasant but otherwise uneventful visit, Bill declared to me on our way back to the car that he was in love with Angel—who was, admittedly, quite angelic. But married. (Sorry, Bill!)

The Academy Awards!

Once back at the hotel, we all got dressed in our tuxes and then met outside by the pool for a photo. The driver of the limousine was kind enough to take a moment and shoot this goofy snapshot just before we all piled into the limo (yes, all eight of us) and headed across town to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, where the Awards ceremony would be held.

Left to right: Executive Producer Frank Moynihan (of Billy Budd Films, New York), his wife Annie, music composer/producer Bill Scream, animators Don Merkt and Joan Gratz, screenwriter (and Will's wife at the time) Susan Shadburne, Will, and 23-year-old me (in total shock and awe). Not in attendance: animator Barry Bruce and music composer Paul Jameson. (Photo by limo driver)

I shot this photo of Will and Susan just after the above photo was shot. Cute couple, eh?

Will Vinton and his wife, Susan Shadburne, just
prior to the 1979 Academy Awards ceremony.
(Photo by Rick Cooper)

On the way to the Pavilion, the streets were lined with curious spectators, straining to get a glimpse at their favorite movie stars inside the limos as they passed. It was both thrilling and a little weird being inside one of those limos, seeing people's excited, hopeful faces and not wanting to disappoint them. And of course we inevitably did disappoint them, because we were nobodies. Impostors.

Nobodies and impostors having the time of our lives. At one point during the drive-by, Executive Producer Frank Moynihan, the eldest and arguably most responsible member of our entourage (he was a former priest), slyly took off his jacket and spread it across the window closest to him so no one could see inside—resulting in mayhem outside, as onlookers strained even more desperately to see the obviously ultra-famous person inside who didn't want to be seen. It was a performance worthy of an Oscar for best comedic moment.

The limo driver parked the big car in an underground parking structure just across the street from the Pavilion, and we all piled out and headed up the stairs toward our next gauntlet: the red carpet, lined on both sides by hundreds of excited, hopeful fans seated on—or standing on—bleachers. There were movie stars and celebrities ahead of us and movie stars and celebrities behind us, so it was reasonable, I suppose, for the crowd to assume we must be movie stars and celebrities. Which was really kind of a sad joke, I thought, not only because we weren't movie stars and celebrities, but because even if we miraculously were to win the Oscar for Best Animated Short, we would still be nobodies because who cares about the stupid Best Animated Shorts, which are just the Academy's lame attempt to appease small-time filmmaker wannabes, who really just need to go back where they came from and leave Hollywood to the actual filmmakers?

None of us harbored any illusions about who we were, what we did for a living, where we did it, and what big-ass impostors we were, infiltrating the Academy Awards like teenagers sneaking in the exit doors of a theater to catch the latest installment of Star Wars. We didn't belong there, and we knew it. But as long as we were there, we were going to savor the moment, ignore what anyone else thought of us, and maybe have even a better time than all the ultra-serious, image-conscious, career-centered folks who belonged there. 

Once inside, we split up and headed in different directions to find champagne, explore the Pavilion, people watch, or, in Will and Susan's case, connect with friends from Will's previous trip to the Awards in 1975, when he won an Oscar for Closed Mondays. Myself, I stuck close to the entrance, where I not only had ready access to all the champagne I could inhale (hey, we might lose), but I could watch all the famous people enter the Pavilion. Now it was I who was the excited, hopeful onlooker.

The only difference being that I was wearing a tux. 

A brown tux. 

In a sea of black tuxes. 

Noticing this now, and realizing for the first time how I did, in fact, stand out, I felt my cheeks flush. I felt not only like an impostor, but like a grotesquely inappropriately attired impostor. What in hell was I thinking when I decided to rent a brown tux? 

There was nothing I could do about it now, and probably no one cared anyway (assuming anyone even noticed), so I decided I might as well forget about it and just enjoy myself. Back to my people watching—and inhaling champagne (maybe this'll help me feel better about wearing this stupid tux!).

What people was I watching? Well, just a few feet to my left was Yul Brynner, chatting away with Mia Farrow. And coming through the doors and down the red carpet toward me were Robin Williams, Steve Martin, Robert Wagner, and Natalie Wood (the latter of whom would tragically die by drowning just two years later). Frankly, it was a little overwhelming, this gangly, geeky kid, standing there amidst this constellation of big stars. It was all I could do to try looking like I belonged.

And the Winner Is...

You know when you watch the Academy Awards and the cameras show mostly people in the front few rows? That's where the nominees sit, while everyone else is relegated to the nosebleed section. So, as the producer of Rip Van Winkle, Will (and Susan) got to sit with all the luminaries, while his crew (yours truly and the rest of us) sat up in the balcony, pretty much out of camera range. Just in case, however, I kept a big, shit-eatin' grin on my face, because I knew my parents and a few friends were watching, and if a camera did happen to tilt up my way, I wanted to look like I was having a grand old time.

Which, in fact, I was. Until the winner of Best Animated Short was announced. The Oscar went to our new friends from Canada for their truly wonderful, creative little gem, Special Delivery. It's a good thing we had shared drinks the night before, so there would be no hard feelings. But still...losing smarted a little.

A Few More Stars

On our way back to the limo, I spotted a few more movie stars: Christopher Reeve (who had starred in the 1978 blockbuster Superman), Maggie Smith (who had just won an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress in California Suite), and Jon Voight (who had just won an Oscar for Best Actor in Coming Home). At this point, Will and Susan were off to the Governor's Ball while the rest of us took the limo to a restaurant somewhere in Hollywood for a late dinner. The only thing I remember about the restaurant was that the waiter—a handsome dude who looked like he would rather be acting—threw all our flatware noisily on the table in a big pile and said something like, "You look like the kind of folks who prefer to do it yourselves." We all laughed politely, not wanting to further upset him. After that, we headed back to the hotel and tried to calm down enough to catch a few winks before flying home in the morning.

It wasn't easy. I don't know about everyone else, but my head was still spinning from all the excitement—and disappointment. I think I slept a total of about ten minutes that night.

Back to Reality

Even though we "lost" (nearly everyone I spoke with afterward said to me, "Well, you won just by being nominated!"), I was still floating several feel off the ground when we returned home. My head was so high from the experience that even if my feet were on the ground, I couldn't see them. And that wasn't a good thing, because my head had a tendency to float with the clouds as it was. Much as I tried to persuade myself that everything was fine, that my head and feet would come back to earth eventually, I was in serious need of some grounding. And being a 23-year-old dude with an abundance of testosterone and a booster shot of confidence, I naturally sought that grounding in, um, somewhat risky behaviors. And I'm not talking about drugs here (although alcohol helped lubricate more than a few of my encounters). 

Fortunately, no permanent harm came to anyone as a result of my last gasp of adolescence, but eight months later I was married (and nine years later, divorced—and, finally, I would say, grounded).

One last fun thing happened as a result of the nomination: my hometown newspaper, the Lake Oswego Review, published an article about me in their semi-monthly supplement, The Lake Oswegan Magazine. It didn't help get my feet back on the ground, but it did, perhaps, make some of my former classmates wish they had been nicer to me on the playground (I'm looking at you, Craig Gordon!). Of course, now that they can see the color of the tux I wore to the Academy Awards, the taunting will start all over again... : )