5.0 out of 5 stars The Fortune Cookie That Got Away

K.H. · December 7, 2017

It isn’t enough to say, this is the More Sugar you’ve clamored for all these years. We’ve all yearned for that second tub of slaw, and here the justly celebrated and certified pre-cloned Philip Proctor has drawn the curtain at last to reveal the flaming Ford.Has he told us too much? You’ll never know until you follow the yellow rubber line to your seat. As we begin reading this Psychic, Psurrealistic Pstory with all its rich detail, the author’s winning, humane tone (which grounds the elemental force of his quicksilver sense of humor), and with the seemingly inexhaustible cast with which the stage of his life has been peopled, the good Proctor’s head-spinning autobiographical no-regrets vignettes have us by the thrusters.My mind, too, by design owes more to the 4 or 5 Crazy Guys than my analyst could, without violating confidences, attest to, let alone relate. Had I stumbled upon the vast alien warehouse in which my several grammar schools have been tidily crated & stacked (and I know they have, I just haven’t found the warehouse yet) the awe thus inspired would scarcely vie with the candid tour of his life whereon Phil P. leadeth us.In writing his stories and novels, P.G. Wodehouse arranged his narrative so that the reader would be sure to find a laugh on every page. Mr. Proctor does this, and more; for I find not only amusement on each page, but something educative, as well. (“Unless you’re careful,” as my late Dad was wont to say, “you’ll learn something new every day.”)With all good-faith attempt not to spoil anything for anyone – nowhere else, but in Gospodin Proctor’s non-noir memoir, have I learnt: the real purpose of Soviet-era movie-houses; the flight path of Og’s pants; the true story behind “Yale Distorts”; how a theatrical professional copes with the irresistible reflex provoked by the appearance of a cross-eyed cat wrangler; just how tough Vaughn Meader’s luck was; the product which an industry paid out $650K to bury forever – “Nasal Hipstick”; and much else which propriety and fairness to the author suggests I ought to leave it to you, Gentle Reader, to buy the book and find out for your own self.All right, so I’ve absorbed a great load of learning, and was amused practically beyond human endurance in the process, but is it any use? Is anything any use? As Bartholomew Fayrsijn, the great Phleggmish philosopher and mutton confectioner argued, “Just dig a hole deep enough, and if you’re not in orbit in those dark times then, when will you ever be? Folk you, too.” Sure, you could be sealed in a steel box just like Nino, but what chance do you stand of thinking your way out again, if you don’t read this book? Twenty years later, and it will still knock you out.From here, the story is visualization. Reading this book did what I asked of it, but it did far more, and we’re still trying to put the kitchen garden back in order, a week later. What did I expect of the book? That it would fill me in on the History, Linear and Otherwise, of The Firesign Theatre; that it would instruct me in a great deal else of Philip Proctor’s activity, at least of all that has so far been declassified; and that I would know more of Phil (I call him “Phil,” though he’ll wring my neck if he catches me at it) as a person, as a Mensch, как человек, as a result. Well, seekers, I have been informed, at my hotel. I was re-grooved, without the need of being taken away, no zizzing or dripping. But if I expected a Groupon for appetizers for two and a pitcher of apple-cinnamon mojitos at Ernie’s Chock-o’-Taqueria in San Clamarón, well, I’ve got another think coming, and I can wait.If I have not yet left you with the semi-delible impression that this is the best book I have read this year, let me conclude with the straightest poop of all, an instance of instant inspiration from one of innumerable, hefty slices of life under which this literary pie plate groans so copiously. We learn that Phil’s maternal grandmother’s family, the Stivers (this is in the chapter which, in an unauthorized pirate edition, was headed “Encounter in Goshen”) were makers of furniture and coffins. In a flash, it was revealed to me: And what is a coffin, but the last piece of furniture you’ll ever need?”I read this book (I first saw it in the author’s own hands, not in vain but in Washington, D.C.), I love it – the book, not the District – and I encourage any of you who can still read, at any time when you come down out of the tree where you’ve sat to learn how to play the flute, to read it and love it yourselves.Read it, love it, read it again.Karl HenningBoston, Mass.

5.0 out of 5 stars A series of Venn diagrams to make your head spin, and a life in the day

E.T.R. · August 17, 2021

Is there anyone remotely famous in Hollywood, Goshen, and New York City whom Phil Proctor doesn't know? This dizzying and highly entertaining autobiography jumps expertly around a well-remembered and even better-spent life as Phil and co-writer Schreiber tie the pieces together, break them apart and then reweave them into one of the most fascinating memoirs of a founding member of The Firesign Theatre. Couldn't recommend this more highly.

5.0 out of 5 stars Phunny Phantastic Phil

A.N. · October 30, 2017

Phil Proctor, one-fourth of iconic, absurdist, and multilayered Firesign Theatre (and who claims to be "functionally alliterate"), takes us Forward Into the Past. Along the way he survives a bloody Chinatown massacre, sits on (a photo of) future Firesign colleague Peter Bergman's face during the Santa Monica riots, and sprays (fake?) liquid LSD on the crowd at a Firesign show. A must read for Fireheads, we get treated to all kinds of FST behind the scenes (mis)adventures, such as what happened in Bob Marley's dressing room before they opened for the Wailers. Along with many cool little known tidbits. Did you know iPhone's Suri is a Firehead?Half of FST is no longer in this plane of existence, but Phil and Dave Ossman still occasionally do shows as Firesign Theatre Or What's Left Of It. Still offering thought provoking existential questions, like this one that's been on the mind of so many recently:Can I get a little more orange in his face?

5.0 out of 5 stars It's All About the Context

H. · February 12, 2020

Firesign Theater, a durable phenomenon with origins in the 1970's, was an original: comedy recordings that could delight the listener even when endlessly repeated. The material was complex and heady; their following, deeply loyal. Discovering a throw-away gem in their layers of audio was a guaranteed endorphin spike.Equally, Firesign was not for everyone. You had to like elaborate wordplay and a decidedly satirical view of the world. And, as we are constantly reminded when we consider Firesign's professional trajectory, the show-biz aphorism - "Satire closes on Saturday" is an aphorism because it's true.Notably, many of the reviews here are a pastiche of the distinctive Firesign idiom: proudly non-linear and a bit esoteric. This book, to clarify, is not written like that...a good thing, with respect to the authors' intent, I believe.The book does, however, have great value IMO...just not maybe in the way you might imagine. Proctor and Schreiber quote a comment from back in the day, describing the circles Firesign moved in as "fame-ish". Famous-adjacent. This is the world we glimpse in Fortune Cookie.This is a very, very fun world, filled with interesting people making a living doing creative things and episodes that range from the mundane to the truly bizarre. These are working artists thrown together by time and circumstance to produce a stew called Hollywood in the late 20th century.Proctor comes across as a gracious, self-effacing gent, guided by principle even when others did not. He is the sort of chap that would be fun to hang out with...and see where an unbounded conversation might lead.

A must for fans of Phil Proctor and the Firesign Theatre!

p. · January 30, 2020

.: I was introduced to the Firesign Theatre back in 1971. The first "sketch" I ever heard was Principal Poop's speech to the students at Morse Science High School's pep rally. Principal Poop was voiced by none other than Phil Proctor, author of his (relatively) new autobiography. Where's My Fortune Cookie?I can't recommend this book any higher than possible - if that makes (grammatical) sense. If you're a Firehead, like I know I am, this book is a must for your collection. Proctor takes us back to his time as a young boy growing up in NYC, through to his time at Yale, and much, much more. I flew through this book and found myself wanting more by the time I finished it. It's well-written and peppered with many fascinating anecdotes and stories, especially the one connected to the title of the book. Cliche to say, perhaps, but if you love the Guyz in Eyeball Hats, then miss this at your own peril.