My August calendar looked like that of someone who could do some filling in. I called up the art director, Sam Viviano, whom I'd known for many years, and told him I'd be interested in being one of "The Usual Gang of Idiots" for the month.
"Really?" he said, as best I can reconstruct the conversation. "I'll get back to you," he added before getting off the phone.
This was quite an improvement over my two previous attempts at idiotdom. The first was in 1969, when as a 14-year-old reader of MAD, I had sent in a pun-filled drawing that I dubbed "my idea of the century!" One month later, I got MAD's response. "Pat," said a balloon coming from the Alfred E. Neuman watermark on their letterhead, "Here's our rejection slip of the century!"
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| A 1969 submission of mine included puns on body parts, such as: ears of corn, chest nuts, shoulder blade, pit stop, heart burn, knee cap, and more hilarity. |
It took me another 27 years before making my second attempt. This time, now a professional illustrator, I messengered some sample sheets up to their offices. Three days later, I got a call from then art director Jonathan Schneider.
"Patrick?" he called out over his speaker phone. "Were you up here last night?" As the conversation progressed, I soon realized that someone had tried to break into their offices, and he was trying to find out if it might have been me.
I managed to clear myself, but then made the mistake of asking if there might be a future for me as a MAD magazine illustrator. "Stuff's too cute!" he said, then hung up.
In spite of these setbacks, I still wanted to be part of the only thing I can think of that influenced my doing what I'm doing today. Luckily, the third time was a charm.
"Pat," Sam Viviano said when he called me back the next day. "You're our idiot!"
My first day a MAD was pretty uneventful. So was the second. That was good, I had two goals for my five-week stay at MAD. The first was to do good work. The second was to not make any big screw-ups.
Actually, looking back now, my only real blunder came during the second week when I gave senior editor Joe Raiola a toy called Mega Mike. Its speaker could broadcast Joe's bad jokes all the way down the hall. On top of that, it had sound-effects buttons that provided clapping and laughter. Luckily, Joe left for a hiking trip in Maine the next week, and I was off the hook.
As friends, family, and acquaintances began finding out about my MAD stint, there was an almost universal reaction — a chuckle, accompanied by what I can only describe as an animated glint in their eyes. It seems just about everyone has fond memories of growing up with MAD magazine.
Their first question would then usually be: "Are they really wacky?" Well, they were very funny, but mostly they were a real nice bunch of people who seemed a little surprised I was enjoying working there as much as I was. In fact, one of the editors, Dave Shayne, cornered me one day and said, "Could you try and not be so happy? It bugs the hell out of those of us who are bitter and cynical."
Towards the end of the third week, as I was working at a drawing table in the main art room, Jacob, MAD's summer intern and occasional tour guide, brought in a family visiting from Florida.
Since MAD veterans Lenny Brenner and Tom Nozkowski weren't in that day, the group wandered over to see what I was doing. I told them I was erasing pencil lines on some Dave Berg's "Lighter Side of..." artwork that had just come in. They thought this was fascinating. I took them over to the computer to show them how the magazine was put together. They were thrilled. When I found out their son was an aspiring artist, I encouraged him to stick with it, then gave him a sheet of free MAD stickers. They couldn't have been happier as they moved on — they'd met a "real MAD person." I thought that was it, but a few minutes later the transfixed Floridians were back.
"Uh, we were wondering ..." the wife said somewhat hesitantly. "Could we take a picture of our son with you?"
"Your son with the guy who's been here three weeks?" I thought "Sure!" I said. They took the picture, thanked me several times, and then left without asking who I was. I kept wondering what they'd say when they showed their friends the picture. And it it dawned on me — my red hair, dumb grin, gap between my two front teeth, been around for about 45 years. They'd be showing off a picture of their son with Alfred E. Neuman.
The fourth week saw the exit of production artist Marla Weisenborn, who would be returning in several weeks as Marla Wyche if she survived her honeymoon in the jungles of Costa Rica. I was made to feel a part of things when I was included in her going away champagne and Doritos snackfest in the conference room. At the end of the festivities, there was talk of saving the remnants of her cake for my last day, but luckily Jacob the intern left later that week, and editors Charlie Kadau and Amy Mavrikis finished it off in his honor.
When my final day did come, both MAD and I were pretty satisfied with how it had worked out. For my part, I'd gotten a free Alfred E. Neuman mouse pad, some refrigerator magnets, and a few issues of the magazine. As for the staff, they'd gotten several of my maze books, some sound-effects devices and, in editors Nick Meglin and John Ficarra's case, a customized snow globe and a tube of FA! peach-scented hand cream.
When Sam Viviano returned from vacation and heard this, he demanded his rightful share of tribute (for his daughter, he claimed), but I didn't hand it over until I got a free lunch out of it.
