Life With The Jax Pack

There is now, of course. The Daisy swings so much that Hanson's membership fees have gone from $250 to $1,000, and there are still hundreds of people who think they have something to "contribute" and want in. Hordes of celebrities from the entertainment and sports fields are members, but hordes are not, and Hanson has taken great delight in refusing entrance to several who have tried to talk their way in. A lot of visitors do manage to talk their way in, but usually it is with a proper introduction from a Dean Martin or a Leo Durocher, or with dream girls on their arms.

The Daisy, on any given night, is a noisy, frenzied circus of the most gorgeous women imaginable, with Jack Hanson holding court at a boss table in the center of it all. It is a place where this great montage of thigh-high miniskirts and glued-on Jax pants are doing the skate, the dog, the stroll, the swim, the jerk, the bomp, the monkey, the fish, the duck, the hiker, the Watusi, the gun, the slop, the slip, the sway, the sally and the joint. Like all good Beverly Hills children, Daisy dancers never even sweat.

If one can remove one's eyes from the dance floor, there are other treats. Doing an Irish coffee at the bar will be a Peter Falk or a Tony Curtis. Shooting 8-ball in another room will be a Richard Conte or an Omar Sharif, properly galleried. Scattered around the tables in the main room, the noise room, will be the Zsa Zsas, the Joan Cohns, the Oleg Cassinis, the David Hemmingses, the Ryan O'Neals and 17 different varieties of textured-hosed teen-agers, each fully capable of saying, "Well, hi," and making it sound like, "Where's the acid?"

Compared to The Daisy, all other discotheques are slums. And, sitting there one night, a good actor named Norman Alden gazed at the dance floor, swirling with Hanson's scented, glowing human decor, and put it all in perspective with a joke.

"Oh, this crazy tinsel town with its popcorn machine for a heart. It's all alabaster and sham," he said. "Think of all those young girls, going from casting office to casting office, willing to sell their souls for a part. I can't tell you how happy I am to be a part of it."

If there is anything that delights Jack Hanson as much as being in his New World rumble at The Daisy it is the weekly Softball game he has arranged between a couple of power-loaded outfits called Raskin's Raiders and—big surprise—The Daisy.

Every Sunday they meet, engaging in a best-of-seven series', at a tiny residential playground called Barrington Field in nearby Brentwood. The diamond sits hard by a hospital—which some spectators think is prophetic—and the games are catered voluntarily by good old Manuel Tortoza from La Scala, who brings ice cream, coffee, cold drinks and popcorn. When a clutch series ends, the losers throw a party, and the following Sunday a new series begins.

When someone once suggested that Raskin's Raiders perhaps seek a different opponent for a change after they had just won a series, Producer Jimmy Harris (Paths of Glory, Lolita, The Bedford Incident), a Raider mainstay in center field, said, "What? And not get to see Tony Curtis try to pitch?"

The lineups are frequently as amusing as the games. The Raiders, who are named for Jimmy Raskin, a lumber broker and friend of Harris', has a fairly set team. The show-biz types include Harris, Actor Norm Alden at first, Actor Mike Dante at short, Actor Richard Lapore in right, Writer Bob Kaufman catching, Producer Dave (Fireman) Wolper pitching and Pancho Gonzalez at third. No one knows exactly what Jerry Bakalrian does except play left field. But the second baseman, Dr. Steve Zaks, is noted for two things. He once dated Sue Lyon, whom Harris discovered, and each year at an elaborate awards banquet he wins a prize for Unconscious Hostility, having persisted in parking his 1961 Chevrolet between two Rolls-Royces.

Jack Hanson's lineup has two noteworthy weaknesses, but everyone agrees they are lovable. One is Left Fielder Jean Leon, who owns La Scala, a wiry little man best remembered for his first game, when he showed up with five different gloves, not knowing what position he would play—or how to play it. The other is the pitcher, Aaron Spelling, a cheerleader at SMU during Doak Walker's day, who can't pitch terribly well but keeps box scores and statistics. Spelling is a TV producer now, in partnership with Danny Thomas, one who turns out shows faster than he gives up singles, and this means no one rides him too severely.