Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
The Double Life of Moe Dalitz
Morris B. "Moe" Dalitz in 1982, at age 83.
Moe Dalitz and his Cleveland buddies rescued the underfinanced and incomplete Desert Inn, which celebrated one of its early anniversaries with the "cutting" of a giant birthday cake.
(UNLV Special Collections)
The King wore khaki when Moe Dalitz and other DI brass greeted the singer as a celebrity guest in late ¹50s. From left are Dalitz, Elvis Presley, dancer Juliet Prowse, Wilbur and Toni Clark, Cecil Simmons, and, standing at rear, Joe Franks.
(UNLV Special Collections)
Consider that no mean feat, as Dalitz died in 1989 and in life was a private man. Dalitz gave few in-depth interviews in his lifetime, but much was written about him.
Las Vegas history is filled with characters who lived double lives. The life of Moe Dalitz is perhaps the best example of a gambling man existing in sunshine and in shadow.
His story might have been penned by Horatio Alger had he written scripts for "The Untouchables."
Early in his life, Dalitz was a bootlegger and racketeer mentioned in the same breath as Meyer Lansky and Benjamin "Bugsy" Siegel. In Cleveland, one longtime member of law enforcement would tell the Kefauver Commission, "Ruthless beatings, unsolved murders and shakedowns, threats and bribery came to this community as a result of gangsters' rise to power." Dalitz was considered part of that rise.
Given the nation's fascination with organized crime, fueled in no small part by Hollywood and blood-soaked banner headlines during Prohibition's many whiskey wars, early in his life Dalitz reached something akin to a celebrity status as a runner of rum and operator of roadhouse gambling parlors from Cleveland to Newport, Ky. If Dalitz never achieved Lansky's moniker of "financial genius of organized crime," it was not because he was less successful.
Unlike Lansky, whose inability to shake off early-won infamy forced him into the shadows throughout his life, Dalitz made the improbable transition from underworld figure to legitimate citizen. If local police detectives and FBI men suspected Dalitz of wrongdoing during his latter years, they dared not whisper such criticism without ample evidence. By the time Dalitz reached his prime, his financial empire and formidable string of businesses were legitimate.
It didn't start out that way.
Morris Barney Dalitz was born Dec. 24, 1899, in Boston. The son of a laundry operator, Barney, Moe grew up at his father's side. The family moved to Michigan when Moe was still a child, and his father opened Varsity Laundry in Ann Arbor, which served University of Michigan students. Although he would become known first as an illegal liquor and gambling racketeer, Moe was a successful laundry operator throughout most of his life. It was a labor action associated with his laundry business that introduced Moe Dalitz to Jimmy Hoffa, future president of the Teamsters union, the labor organization that one day would be responsible for lending Nevada gamblers the millions it would take to build the first wave of casino resorts in Las Vegas. Dalitz was attempting to keep his laundries from organizing and, according to author James Neff, at one point hired Mafia thugs to make his point.
Once he became associated with mob muscle, a door opened and Dalitz gravitated toward the lucrative and dangerous Prohibition-era liquor trade. All the while he took profits and invested them in legitimate businesses in Detroit and later in Cleveland, where law enforcement noted that he had become associated with the Mayfield Road Gang.
In fact, by the 1930s his list of legitimate businesses was impressive. Dalitz held an interest in the Michigan Industrial Laundry Co. in Detroit and the Pioneer Linen Supply Co. in Cleveland and percentages in the Reliance Steel Co. and the Detroit Steel Co. And there was Milco Sales, Dalitz Realty, Berdene Realty and the Liberty Ice Cream Co. He even owned a piece of the Chicago & Rock Island Railroad.
Unlike common rumrunners, who wound up either dead or incarcerated, Dalitz was not a simple man. His operation ran Canadian whiskey in trucks floated on barges across the Great Lakes.
During Cleveland's liquor wars, where local mob factions battled for market share, Dalitz came away unscathed. By the repeal of the Volstead Act, he had opened a series of illegal casinos with names like the Mound Club, Pettibone Club, the Jungle Inn, the Beverly Hills Club and the Lookout House.
"How was I to know those gambling joints were illegal?" Dalitz once quipped to a friend. "There were so many judges and politicians in them, I figured they had to be all right."
In the 1940s Dalitz served his country more than cards, dice and clean shirts. He also served in the Army, rising to the rank of second lieutenant. But when the war ended he found himself reluctantly returning to an increasingly complex business life at home. Stated bluntly, the heat was on across America as law enforcement and high-ranking politicians vilified illegal gamblers and their ilk as a societal scourge.
So Moe Dalitz did what any gifted businessman in his racket might have done. He migrated to Las Vegas, where casino games were legal and gamblers were men to be respected. At the time, Las Vegas and Havana vied for dominance as legal gambling centers. Dalitz dabbled in Cuban casinos, where his friend and bootlegging ally Meyer Lansky had invested many millions, but was more impressed with what was happening in the Silver State.
Dalitz led a group of Cleveland investors, including Sam Tucker, Thomas McGinty, and Morris Kleinman, first in the purchase of the then-incomplete Desert Inn, which opened in 1950. Dalitz not only was an experienced casino man, but he also understood that gamblers wanted more than green felt. He also gave them greens, developing the Desert Inn Country Club and creating the Tournament of Champions golf tournament, which focused a positive national spotlight on Las Vegas.
A year after the Desert Inn opened, Sen. Estes Kefauver focused another kind of spotlight on gambling. The Kefauver hearings concerned themselves with the phenomenon of gambling and organized crime in America, as well as with promoting the political careers of senators who portrayed themselves as mob-busting Puritans. Dalitz appeared before the Kefauver committee and more than held his own.
KEFAUVER: "As a matter of fact, you had been making a great deal of money in recent years, so I suppose from your profits from one investment you would then go ahead and make another investment. Now, to get your investments started off you did get yourself a pretty good little nest-egg out of rum running, didn't you?"
DALITZ: "Well, I didn't inherit any money, Senator ... If you people wouldn't have drunk it, I wouldn't have bootlegged it."
The critics came and went, but Dalitz kept on building his financial empire and paying his taxes. (In a lifetime of nefarious activity allegations, Dalitz was indicted twice. Once in 1930 in Buffalo, N.Y., for bootlegging. Once in 1965 in Los Angeles for tax evasion. Both charges were dismissed.)
In 1958, Dalitz and his associates used millions in Teamsters loans and dollars borrowed from Louis Jacobs' Emprise Corp. to take over the Stardust from a group led by Jake "The Barber" Factor. The new crew of efficient casino men turned the Stardust into a winner by expanding the number of rooms and the gaming area and adding a Parisian-style floorshow.
Dalitz shied away from interviews, which sooner or later usually led to hard questions about his notorious days in the rackets. But he was not without a sense of humor and his own sense of imagemaking.
"When I left home it was during Prohibition in Ann Arbor, Michigan, and I went into the liquor business while it was illegal," Dalitz once told a local reporter. "Then when the Repeal came along, we went into the casino business in Kentucky and Ohio where it was illegal. I learned everything I know there."
If readers didn't know better, they might think Dalitz led an almost colorless life.
To a friendly interviewer from "The Saturday Evening Post," he gave his spin on the phenomenon of gambling: "Let's say gambling isn't moral. Neither is drinking to excess. I think Las Vegas has given people lots of fun. Sure, some will get hurt. But listen, they can go to Atlantic City and get into more danger in a crap game than here, where there's supervision."
By 1962, there was plenty of supervision to go around. Dalitz had long since become a major player on the Strip and in Las Vegas business development in general. He was a 13.2 percent owner of the Desert Inn. His longtime partners, Morris Kleinman and Ruby Kolod, each held a similar percentage. Wilbur Clark, the Desert Inn's co-founder who was not originally a member of Dalitz's Cleveland group, held 17.1 percent but had no real decision-making power.
By then, Las Vegas business leaders were impressed with Dalitz and marveled at his success. But in their diatribe on the evils of Las Vegas gambling, "The Green Felt Jungle," authors Ed Reid and Ovid Demaris were less impressed.
"In a recent interview, Ed Reid was stunned when Dalitz burst into tears," Demaris and Reid wrote.
" 'Why, why,' he implored, his arms rising in supplication, the tears streaming from his hard little eyes, 'why are they persecuting me?' "
" 'Who?' Reid inquired."
" 'Them. All of them! I've fought hoodlums all my life. What are they trying to do to me?' "
The conclusion of Reid and Demaris echoed the opinion of law enforcement: "He was a sanctimonious little mobster from Cleveland ..." they wrote in a chapter lambasting Dalitz for his old ties and notorious friendships. "He is still a hoodlum in conscience and mind, but his heart has weakened."
But Dalitz was far more complicated than that. At a time many of the state's gamblers remained inactive politically, Dalitz was a driving force behind Pat McCarran, one of Nevada's most powerful U.S. senators. It was Dalitz who pushed McCarran to publicly fight a devastating federal tax on sports betting, eventually reducing a wagering surcharge to a paltry quarter of 1 percent from more than 10 percent.
Through his longtime friendship with Hoffa, Dalitz had a quiet but formidable influence on loans to Las Vegas businesses from the Teamsters Central States Pension Fund. Law enforcement investigators long speculated that one word from Dalitz could secure millions in low-interest financing.
Dalitz used his clout with the Teamsters to build more than casinos. He and his partners used a $1 million Teamsters loan in 1959 to build Sunrise Hospital. Other dollars flowed into golf course and shopping mall development during years in which most lending institutions laughed at entrepreneurs from notorious Las Vegas.
Did he also maintain his old roots to the rackets?
More than one FBI informant and government witness would allege he did.
"The Cleveland Mob maintained strong ties to Las Vegas and worked at making new ones," Neff wrote in his investigative work on the Teamsters, "Mobbed Up." "The Mafia's ruling commission had declared Las Vegas an open city, so each crime family was entitled to stake out different casinos as their exclusive territory. The Cleveland family got in early with the Desert Inn. Its principal owner, Moe Dalitz, served as an informal referee in territorial disputes among the different Mafia crews, as Jackie (Presser) informed the FBI in 1978."
By the late 1970s, Dalitz was considered a senior member of Las Vegas casino society, but also the subject of several damaging pieces of investigative journalism, not the least of which was a Penthouse magazine article titled "La Costa: Syndicate in the Sun." Using government sources, the story detailed the development of La Costa, the posh spa community near San Diego and left the impression that Dalitz and his fellow investors were men of less than savory repute. A defamation suit filed by Dalitz, Allard Roen and Irwin Molasky was eventually settled with a letter of clarification.
By then, Dalitz' suitability was being questioned by image-conscious Nevada gaming authorities.
"Moe was always such a gentleman," Las Vegas advertising executive and longtime Dalitz friend Marydean Martin said. "He gave back to the community. When the Maude Frazier Building (at UNLV) was built, it had no furniture. He bought all the furniture and didn't want anybody to know about it. He was that kind of person.
"Moe almost never complained, but he was feeling down. He said, 'I'll bet your grandpa drank whiskey,' and I said that he did. 'I'm the guy who made the whiskey, and I'm considered the bad guy. When does the time ever come that you're forgiven?' "
"I said, 'I don't know.' It was one of the very few times he ever said anything about it."
Las Vegas cab company owner and former Stardust Hotel general manager Herb Tobman knew Dalitz well.
"He never turned me down for anything charitable," Tobman recalled. "I was in awe of meeting him. As far as I'm concerned he was a great man ... Moe's charity is legendary around this town. There has never been a greater influence on this city."
Dalitz was named Humanitarian of the Year by the American Cancer Research Center and Hospital in 1976. In 1982 he received the Torch of Liberty Award by the Anti-Defamation League of B'nai B'rith. In 1979 he set up the Moe Dalitz Charitable Remainder Unitrust, a million-dollar fund to be divided upon his death. When Dalitz died a decade later, 14 nonprofit organizations split $1.3 million.
His contributions to the growth of Las Vegas are priceless.
This undated photo of Benjamin Siegel was probably taken after his acquital at a murder trial.
(Los Angeles Public Library)
The Flamingo under construction, about 1946.
(Courtesy Flamingo Hilton)
After Bugsy Siegel's death, the Flamingo came into the hands of a new crop of wiseguys. Poolside at the Flamingo, left to right, are Israel "Icepick Willie" Alderman, Joe Rosenberg and Gus Greenbaum. Greenbaum presumably ran afoul of mob mavens ; he was murdered along with his wife in Phoenix.
(Las Vegas News Bureau/LVCVA)
It was June 20, 1947. Siegel had escaped the stifling Las Vegas heat for the cool shadows of the Moorish-style house at 810 Linden Drive in Beverly Hills. He'd just returned there from Ocean Park after a late dinner at Jack's-at-the-Beach. Settling onto the chintz sofa in the living room, a copy of the Los Angeles Times before him and his trusted pal, Al Smiley, a few feet away, the dapper Siegel was the picture of confidence.
He was probably as self-satisfied as a sociopath with a blood-soaked portfolio could be. After his Flamingo's disastrous grand opening on Dec. 26, 1946 -- the strains of Jimmy Durante's one-liners and Xavier Cugat's band fading amid the word that the casino had lost a fortune -- the shiny new Las Vegas resort was reopened March 27 and was finally turning a profit. That fact was almost certain to quiet the whispered rumors from New York and Miami Beach that his days as a Las Vegas casino mogul were numbered. Even his hell-raising girlfriend, the fiery Virginia Hill, was in Europe and out of shouting distance.
At age 41, Ben Siegel had carved out a notorious name for himself in the annals of organized crime and in Las Vegas history as well. Somehow, he had managed to walk between the raindrops and avoid conviction on a plethora of crimes ranging from bootlegging to murder. If he had not become a silver screen gangster, which his closest friends believed he secretly wanted to be, he had accomplished the next best thing: He had become a genuine gangster with movie star looks and had surrounded himself with the Hollywood glitterati.
In a few seconds, his name would become permanently etched in the American psyche. When people thought of Las Vegas, they would always think of Benny Siegel. Not because he had turned the Fabulous Flamingo into the snazziest carpet joint in Sin City, but because, at that moment, an assassin wielding a Army-issue carbine aimed at the back of Siegel's carefully coifed head and blew his brains and one of his pretty blue eyes all over the living room. Smiley was untouched. The shooter was never identified.
Siegel's .30-caliber send-off not only made headlines from L.A. to London, it linked the handsome psychopath forever with the fortunes of Las Vegas.
In a town with more than its share of wiseguy misfortune, what makes Siegel's demise so special? For that matter, what makes the infamous Bugsy worthy of a place in the pantheon of local historical figures?
Several things, really.
In an odd way, Siegel was better for business in death than in life. Had Siegel lived a long time, he might have ended up respectable or in the penitentiary. Had he died of a heart attack or the gout, he might have become a footnote in time.
Instead, he died violently and, in a sense, got to live forever.
Through the years, Siegel has been credited for everything from putting the glow in neon to inventing Las Vegas. The fact the Flamingo wasn't even his idea tells you something about how myths are made.
The Flamingo was the creation of Billy Wilkerson, a Hollywood nightclub owner and one of the founders of "The Hollywood Reporter." Wilkerson had plenty of big ideas and no shortage of friends in the underworld. The Flamingo was to be his crowning glory. By the mid-1940s, it was an unfinished dream deferred.
Bugsy was not only a wealthy man in his own right and a big-time earner for his mob friends, but he had access to all the money the New York, Chicago and Miami Beach underworld could generate. Numerous published accounts of Siegel's status rank him as one of the most respected and feared names in the syndicate. He carried the sort of clout that was capable of persuading tightwads like Charlie "Lucky" Luciano and Meyer Lansky to invest in his desert dream. And they did.
Siegel and the boys bankrolled construction of the Flamingo with $1.5 million, but in the months following the end of World War II, materials were scarce. The job immediately ran over budget.
It didn't help that the four-floor Flamingo was built like a fortress, a testament to Siegel's paranoia. The thick concrete walls were reinforced with steel acquired from Naval ship yards. Siegel's top-floor suite was riddled with trap doors and escape hatches, one leading to a getaway car in his private garage. There were gun portals and hallways leading nowhere. The Flamingo was a physical manifestation of Bugsy Siegel's troubled brain.
But it also was filled with the sort of posh amenities never before seen in Las Vegas. Siegel not only poured big money into carpets and fixtures, he spared no expense on a pool, tennis courts and riding stables. Siegel's idea, his first Las Vegas attorney, the late Lou Wiener Jr. once said, was to create a real resort capable of not only attracting the Hollywood set, but also to give gamblers a variety of diversions from their inevitable losses at the tables. Siegel envisioned adding a championship golf course to the Flamingo, but his plans were interrupted.
Theft at the Flamingo construction site was legendary, a big part of the reason the hotel ultimately cost $6 million, an incredible figure for the times. "A lot of characters, I think, duped him," Wiener said. "They'd go through the front gates with materials and drive out the back." But at least one author suggests Siegel's own sticky fingers were responsible. Says Richard Hammer in his well-researched "Playboy's Illustrated History of Organized Crime:"
"Siegel was not only a flop as an impresario, but, Lansky said, he was a thief as well. Lansky had learned that Miss Hill was making frequent trips to Europe, depositing several hundred thousand dollars in cash in a numbered account in Switzerland; the cash had come from the Flamingo's building fund.
"Nobody, not even an old trusted comrade like Siegel, steals from his underworld friends and gets away with it. Siegel's execution was ordered, but first he would be given time to prove that his Nevada dream might actually come true."
It is possible, too, that Siegel's Hollywood profile became so high that he became an embarrassment to his associates. He was a silver-screen sycophant and groomed the acquaintance of major players such as Jack Warner, Cary Grant, Barbara Hutton, Jean Harlow and every hoodlum's favorite actor, George Raft. American gangsters learned how to walk by watching George Raft on the screen. They learned how to talk by listening to his snappy, wiseguy patter.
"He was a frustrated actor and secretly wanted a movie career, but he never quite had nerve enough to ask for a part in one of my pictures," Raft once said of his pal.
Las Vegas history buffs know Siegel as the man who developed the Flamingo, but few appreciate just how big a hoodlum he really was. Born in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn in 1905, as a boy Siegel befriended Meyer Lansky. Together with a gang of teen-age toughs known as the Bug and Meyer Mob, they provided protection and efficiently performed a string of contract killings on behalf of the city's bootlegging fraternity. By the time World War II broke out, Siegel and Lansky had made the post-Prohibition transition from illegal whiskey running to illegal bookmaking, numbers running and gambling. Siegel lived at the Waldorf Astoria and traveled in a bullet-proof limousine with the requisite pair of torpedoes posing as bodyguards.
After coming West to oversee the Capone mob's successful takeover of the race wire business, Siegel's infatuation with Hollywood began to show -- and his profile began to rise dangerously high. At the same time he was muscling in on illegal gambling throughout Southern California, buying percentages of small Las Vegas casinos, clipping Tony Cornero's S.S. Rex gambling ship, and strong-arming his way into the Agua Caliente racetrack in Tijuana as well as a California dog track, Siegel was busy being seen in the company of Harlow and Raft and many other stars. Continental race wire sales to Las Vegas sports books alone generated $25,000 a month, according to "The Green Felt Jungle," and Siegel bought into the Golden Nugget and Frontier at a time his pal Lansky was picking up a piece of the El Cortez.
Siegel was one of the schemers behind opening a pipeline of narcotics trafficking from Mexico to the United States, and he raked a percentage of the profits from the largest prostitution ring in the West. If it moved in the netherworld of illegality, Benny Siegel got his pinch.
Siegel's temper was legendary. No one dared call him "Bugsy" to his face, and anyone with a smart aleck comment about his height or thinning hair was likely to get his teeth knocked down his throat. To some local observers, Siegel's maniacal chest-puffing set the pattern for several generations of big-shot casino moguls.
Las Vegan Herb McDonald, then a young assistant general manager at El Rancho Vegas, met Siegel through Billy Wilkerson. For a short time, McDonald knew Siegel only as a casino man.
"We played gin rummy, and I won 28 bucks," McDonald said in an article in Nevada magazine. "When I saw Ben Siegel again, he asked me when I was going to give him a chance to win some of his money back. I said, 'Any time you think you're good enough.' "
A short while later, McDonald learned Siegel's true background as a member of the board of Murder Inc.
"My knees buckled," McDonald said. "Had I known that, I would have lost it."
But Wiener knew Bugsy as an intense character who was not without a charitable streak. Siegel was a soft touch for the Damon Runyon Cancer Fund.
"When he got killed, you wouldn't believe how many employees broke down in tears," Wiener recalled. "He was very generous with the help and very well liked. He was good to people. He was good to me and my wife."
But others knew Siegel as a textbook paranoid.
"He used to go down to Los Angeles about every two weeks," said the Flamingo's first engineer, Don Garvin. "He'd have me change the lock on the door of his room almost every week. He and Virginia would sit out in the hall while I worked. He was a little leery. It got to where I would pretend to change it and hand him the same key."
But, in 1947, no amount of caution could prevent the boys from disciplining one of their own.
Wallace Turner put it bluntly in his break-through 1965 book, "Gamblers' Money:"
"Siegel was murdered reportedly to effect a change in management. There are those who firmly believe that this killing of the hoodlum Siegel irrevocably set the pattern for Las Vegas' development as a gambling center. The Mob was in, these observers hold, and the Mob has stayed ...
"In a sense he was the Christopher Columbus for the Mob; he went exploring and found the New World in the desert. But Siegel failed to adapt. It is possible that he became confused between the two ways of doing business and thought that because his name was on so many pieces of paper he really owned the Flamingo Hotel. He was wrong."
Today, the Flamingo Hilton is one of the larger casino resorts in the world. It has long since shed its association with Siegel's kind, but management saw fit to honor the Flamingo's founder with a bronze plaque and a small rose garden not far from the original site of the Flamingo's first pool.
What is Siegel's legacy?
"I think what it shows more than anything else is the public's fascination with gangster-type characters," Flamingo publicity director Terry Lindberg said. "(His death) turned a man who was basically not a historical figure into somebody who was a lot larger than life."
Others give Siegel more credit.
UNLV Public Administration Department Chairman William Thompson: "It's folklore, it's mythology ... His death let the world know we had casinos ...
"It was important that we turned the corner and quit being just a cowboy town and became a resort town. He was responsible for that."
It is a sentiment echoed by UNLV history professor Hal Rothman, author of "Devil's Bargain: Tourism in the Twentieth-Century American West."
"The most important thing about Siegel is he raised the ante here," said Rothman. "He had an idea, however bizarre, of what class was. As we become a resort destination, we actually owe him more and more."
Las Vegas historian Frank Wright: "His death was a great advertisement for the city of Las Vegas in a sense. It certainly brought attention to Las Vegas and created a sort of sense of illicit excitement about Las Vegas."
Ever a defender of the image of his old friend, Wiener credited Siegel with setting a standard others are still trying to match.
"He was one of the most progressive businessmen I've ever met," Wiener once said. "Had he been alive today, he probably would have had the first 3,000-room hotel in Las Vegas."
But Ben Siegel was not meant for such a tame fate. By spilling his blood, he lives forever in Las Vegas history.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
1. George Read – the one who voted against independence
At age 15, Read began studying the law, and he was admitted to the Philadelphia Bar in 1753, when he was only 19 years old. Before he had even passed the bar exam, however, he was entrusted with numerous legal responsibilities under the tutelage of well-respected Pennsylvania lawyer John Moland. Like many of the other Founding Fathers, he stood in opposition to Parliamentary measures like the Stamp Act in the 1760s. But for more than a decade he publicly maintained the belief that the colonies’ interests and Britain’s interests could be peacefully reconciled.
When he was elected to the first Continental Congress on behalf of Delaware, it looked as though his voice would be drowned out by two far more liberal delegates, Thomas McKean and Caesar Rodney. However, Rodney’s asthma and skin cancer kept him out of the legislative body a good deal, which empowered Read enough to endanger Delaware’s participation in the revolution (see #2 below).
Once the revolution had begun, Read defended his state admirably, raising money, troops and supplies to assist the counter-invasion war effort.
2. Caesar Rodney – the one who barely made it
Rodney was one of three delegates to the Congress from Delaware, along with George Read and Thomas McKean. But owing in part to his illnesses, Caesar spent most of his time outside of the capital, usually attending to military duties as a brigadier general in the Delaware militia. He was leading an investigation into Loyalist activity in Sussex County when, on the evening of July 1, he received a dispatch from McKean: on July 2, the delegates were going to vote on whether or not to sever ties from Britain. Read and McKean were deadlocked in their stances on independence – if Delaware was to be a part of the movement, Rodney’s vote was needed to break the tie.
Leaving from his home at midnight, Rodney rode all night through a thunderstorm to the capital. The precise details of Caesar’s Midnight Ride have been skewed a bit as the story entered the folklore – Rodney either arrived at Independence Hall just as the debate was ending or while the vote was already in progress. All versions of the story have the same dramatic ending, though; Rodney entered the hall, unkempt and covered with mud, and announced, “As I believe the voice of my constituents and of all sensible and honest men is in favor of independence, my own judgment concurs with them. I vote for independence.”
This is a pretty nifty story, to be sure. But Rodney may also be remembered for what John Adams said about him: “Caesar Rodney is the oddest-looking man in the world.”
3. John Witherspoon – the one who coined “Americanism”
According to the president’s biography on the Princeton website, he was “a man of strong convictions,” but introduced students to ideas with which he had publicly disagreed. He is remembered as a dynamic intellectual who brought the thinking of the Scottish Enlightenment into the mainstream in the colonies. Indeed, his ideas have a direct link to the nation’s history, since the students who graduated during his tenure included one president (James Madison), one vice-president (Aaron Burr), 60 members of Congress and three Supreme Court justices.
But even though he had only a meek presence in the political sphere, Witherspoon was the person who coined the term “Americanism” in an essay on language. When John Adams visited Princeton in 1774, he met with Witherspoon and was seriously impressed. The future president of the U.S. said the college president was “as high a Son of Liberty, as any man in America.”
On a less historical note, Reese Witherspoon, who played Elle Woods in the Legally Blonde movies, is a direct descendant. John would surely be proud.
4. Robert Morris – the one who went from prince to pauper
As George Washington faced down a war that at times looked hopeless, Morris toiled in and out of Congress to help keep the country’s finances afloat. In addition to borrowing money from the states, he sponsored troops on his own on occasion, taking out personal loans and sending them the army’s way. It was Morris who acquired the loan from France that financed Gen. Washington’s Yorktown campaign.
As the Superintendent of Finance under the short-lived Articles of Confederation, Robert demanded that he should personally purchase all Army and Navy supplies and once again fell back on his own checkbook to help stabilize the fledgling country’s budget.
After declining Washington’s offer to be the first Secretary of the Treasury under the new Constitution, Morris became a senator for the state of Pennsylvania. To his detriment, he also began speculating, on overextended credit, in the south and in the District of Columbia. Knowing he couldn’t pay off his debt, he tried to flee creditors, but to no avail. He wound up in debtors’ prison for three years. Upon his release in 1801, his wealth and property had dissipated and, for the next five years until his death, the once-rich Morris lived in poverty.
Grover Cleveland's 'Mamma Mia' Love Child
Grover Cleveland is mostly known for being the only American president to serve two non-consecutive terms... not so much for being one of several possible fathers to an illegitimate son.
During his first campaign for the presidency in 1893, it was revealed by supporters of Republican James G. Blaine that Cleveland had paid child support to Maria Crofts Halpin. But things weren't as clear-cut as they seemed. Cleveland was one of several men who had been involved with Halpin, including Cleveland's friend and law partner Oscar Folsom.
No one knows who the real father of Oscar Folsom Cleveland was, but it's thought that Cleveland took responsibility because he was the only bachelor among them. Apparently Halpin really got around.
To add an extra layer of weirdness to the situation, Cleveland ended up marrying Oscar Folsom's 21-year-old daughter, Frances, 2 years after taking office in 1886. He was 49 at the time. This was not considered a scandal. One can only hope Folsom and Cleveland were clear on who fathered the girl.
RAY CHARLES: LOOKING BACK
As his 80th birthday approaches, a look at the life and legacy of the late Ray Charles.
"I just do what I do." That's what Ray Charles told Billboard in June 2002 when asked to assess his role in music history. Of course, Charles' self-effacing response belies a groundbreaking career and a legacy that endures today, as fans look toward celebrating what would have been the legendary artist's 80th birthday Sept. 23. Looking back at Charles' storied career, what comes to mind is the phrase "musical genius." In Charles' case, that's no hype.
In 1954, the artist's melding of gospel and blues yielded the pioneering hit "I've Got a Woman"-and forged an indelible imprint on R&B, rock and pop. His earthy, soulful voice graced a steady stream of classics after "Woman," including "Drown in My Own Tears," "What'd I Say," "Hit the Road Jack," "Unchain My Heart," "I Can't Stop Loving You" and "Georgia on My Mind."
Video below: Ray Charles performs "Hit The Road Jack" in São Paulo, Brazil on September 22, 1963.
Video below: Ray Charles performs "Then I'll Be Home" in Montreux, Switzerland on July 19, 1997.
Just as at home on the Hammond B-3 organ as he was on the piano, he also landed at the top of Billboard's R&B, pop, country and jazz charts-and even the dance chart, collaborating with childhood friend Quincy Jones and Chaka Khan on "I'll Be Good to You."
His final recording, 2004's "Genius Loves Company," made history when it won eight Grammy Awards, including album and record of the year for his pairing with Norah Jones on "Here We Go Again."
But what many may not know is that the inimitable Charles was also a genius when it came to the business side of music. In the early '60s he negotiated a rare feat after leaving Atlantic Records to sign with ABC-Paramount: ownership of his own master recordings. He also established his own labels. Tangerine (his favorite fruit) came first, which later evolved into CrossOver Records.
A songwriter who penned nearly 200 songs, Charles also operated his own publishing companies, Tangerine Music and Racer Music. For these entities, Charles and longtime manager Joe Adams designed and built the RPM International office and studios on Washington Boulevard in Los Angeles. The Ray Charles Memorial Library will open in the building this fall.
Charles also found time to manage the careers of other acts, including Billy Preston and '70s R&B group the Friends of Distinction. And way before it was de rigueur for artists to do, Charles set up what became a foundation to help needy children with hearing disabilities and later on support education.
He was an amazing human being," says Jones, 77, who became friends with Charles when both were scrappy teenagers in Seattle. "A true innovator who revolutionized music and the business of music," he adds. "Growing up, we only had the radio; no Michael Jackson, Diddy or Oprah. So it was hard to imagine today's entrepreneurial world. But that didn't stop us. We spent a lot of time talking and dreaming about things that brothers had never done before."
"He really was a genius," says singer Solomon Burke, a former Atlantic labelmate. "He did things the way he wanted."
Charles was born Ray Charles Robinson Sept. 23, 1930, in Albany, Ga. As many learned through actor Jamie Foxx's Academy Award-winning portrayal in the 2004 film "Ray," Charles became blind by age 7 and orphaned at 15 while growing up in northwest Florida.
In eight years at a state school for the blind, the young Charles learned how to read and write music. Leaving Florida in 1947, he headed for Seattle ("Choosing the farthest place he could find from Florida," Jones says), where he notched his first hit two years later as a member of the Maxin Trio, "Confession Blues."
Even then, Charles was an enterprising individual. "He had his own apartment, record player, two pairs of pimp shoes, and here I am still living at home," Jones recalls with a laugh. "His mother trained him not to be blind: no cane, no dogs, no cup. His scuffed-up shoes... that was his guide and driving force. He was the most independent dude I ever saw in my life. Ray would get blind only when pretty girls came around."
Signing with Atlantic Records in 1952, Charles as a West Coast jazz and blues man recorded such songs as "It Should've Been Me" and label co-founder Ahmet Ertegun's composition, "Mess Around."
Then he connected in 1954 with "I've Got a Woman," which set off a chain reaction of more hits capitalizing on his bold gospel/blues fusion. But Charles was just getting started. In 1958, he performed at the Newport Jazz Festival, accompanied by a band that featured such jazz cats as saxophonists David "Fathead" Newman and Hank Crawford. Further bucking convention, he recorded "The Genius of Ray Charles," a 1959 release offering standards on one side (including "Come Rain or Come Shine") and big band numbers on the other, featuring members of Count Basie's orchestra and several arrangements by Jones.
Video below: Charles' 1966 Coke commercial, "So Tired."
Leaving Atlantic for ABC-Paramount, a fearless Charles recorded the seminal "Genius + Soul = Jazz" album in 1961. A year later, his earlier dabbling in country music grew serious with the release of the million-selling "Modern Sounds in Country and Western Music."
Complemented by lush strings and a harmony-rich choir, he scored with covers of Don Gibson's "I Can't Stop Loving You" and Ted Daffan's "Born to Lose"-and spent 14 weeks at No. 1 on the Billboard 200.
For a black man to do this in 1962 was unheard of," says Tony Gumina, president of the Ray Charles Marketing Group, which handles the late artist's licensing affairs. "He was trying to sell records to people who didn't want to drink from the same water fountain as him. But this was one of his greatest creative and business moves: to not be categorized musically and cross over. Though he never worried about it, he was resigned to the fact that he might lose some core fans. But he thought he'd gain far more in the process."
Gumina was operating his own promotion company working with state lotteries when he met Charles in 1999. The two teamed up on a series of commercials for various state lotteries and also introduced a line of Ray Charles slot machines also accessible to the blind.
"Everything he did had a business acumen to it," says Gumina, who cites Charles' liaison with manager Adams as a pivotal turning point. Originally hired to be Charles' stage announcer, former radio DJ Adams segued into overseeing production of the singer's shows, lighting and wardrobe.
Together the pair designed and built Charles' L.A. business base, RPM International (Recording, Publishing and Management) studio. When he began recording there in 1965, the label rented the studio from him, so he made money on his recordings before they were even released.
To save money on travel expenses, Charles purchased an airplane to ferry his band around to gigs. A smaller plane was also acquired so that Charles could wing in to, say, New York to record a couple of songs before flying back out in time for a show.
"He understood the entertainment business enough to know that you may not be popular forever," Gumina says, "and you need to maximize your product. At the same time, he had as much fun as any rock star but without the sad money stories. There was a time to work and a time to play, and he knew the difference. He didn't have a bunch of homes or a large entourage. That's why he was able to save $50 million before he died."
Calling Charles an "incredibly smart man," Concord president John Burk says he learned a lot from the ailing singer while he was recording his final studio album, "Genius Loves Company."
Video below: Ray Charles performs "It Ain't Easy Being Green" in Trentnton, NJ on Nov. 7, 2002.
Going through "some sticky deal points, he was amazing," Burk recalls. "He had the whole agreement in his head. Without referencing any material, he knew all the terms we proposed and had the deal done for the album in two discussions."
Creatively, Burk says Charles was an artist dedicated to delivering "a true performance from the heart. Part of his creative legacy was his approach to singing. He opened the door to vocal improvisations, changing how people perceived you could sing a song. Many singers today are influenced by him and they don't even know it."
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