This is a letter from Laddy's son, Bradley:
Bradley Breen Fan Club Letter, North America
May 1972
Hello, everyone:
Righteously, I am over-grooved that you are continuing to meet with each other and rap about my latest doings. If my schedule didn't demand every second of my time, you know I would be right there with you, in your living room, loving and digging every last thing you have to say.
I've been told I'm a good listener, and nothing would perk up my ears more than hearing your inner-most thoughts, especially if you have been enjoying my latest projects. As I sang in my last record which you helped make a #1 hit, it would "Thrill Me To The Bone!"
Speaking of my crazy schedule, I want to take this space to remind you that the new season of "Taylor's Tadpoles" begins on CBS on September 12th. I know that's seems like a long way off, and I hope this coming summer is the best summer of your life, but I also want to make a personal request of you: make a mental note to tune in to our new season this fall.
Lots of cool stuff is going to happen with the Tadpoles this coming year. I don't want to give away too much, but I'll agree to drop one hint: my character gets to record a pop record in the third episode, and that song will actually be released as a single at the same time. But more about that in later letters. As you know, I will be keeping in touch with you all summer.
All I can tell you for now is to WATCH! And I hope all of you can write to CBS and let them know how much you continue to love the show. If they don't hear from you, they may never know how many of you out there love "Taylor's Tadpoles." The powers-that-be depend on a system called the Neilson Ratings to decide which shows stay and go, and that system almost never includes what the cool kids like you are watching. That's why you have to write in and let them know!
I'll include the name and address of the network in this letter's envelope so you know who to reach. It's real important!
Also, I want to let you know about my very busy concert tour this summer. I know how much you dig state fairs, and I will be at just about every state fair in the Union this summer! In the coming month alone, I will be in Kansas, Idaho, Minnesota, Kentucky, and Oklahoma. And that's just the first three weeks of June! Whew! If you live in any of these states, please come by and see me sing my new single, "It's What I Want," which is currently climbing the charts thanks to you. You know how much I want to sing just for you.
Well, I guess that's it for now. I have a recording session to attend, and a script reading for a possible movie that I'll tell you about in future letters. You know how much I love to keep you posted on all my stuff!
In the meantime, thanks again for your love. Be assured that it is being returned, as I say in my new album title, in "Waves and Waves!"
Yours forever,
Bradley Breen
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Special Guest of the Bradley Breen Fan Club
For fifty dollars and perhaps a glass of red or whatever was on hand in your liquor cabinet or in your purse or in your medicine cabinet or in the lap of your pantsuit, Laddy would be more than happy to be the guest of honor at any chapter of the Bradley Breen Fan Club, official or unofficial.
Gas, tolls or even plane fare would need to be included in the deal, depending on the location, but you'll get more than your money's worth. References are available from satisfied club members as far away as Philadelphia and Lancaster County. Laddy didn't even need to advertise. His requests for appearances came strictly from word of mouth, in perfume-scented letters filled with schoolgirlish handwriting that appeared in his Atlantic City post office box.
True, he had never even held his son as a baby. Never once had a word been exchanged between them. But this fan club appearance offer was a legitimate curiousity, and these teenaged girls were so hungry for any bit of information, or even a sparking, live-wire loose connection, that everybody walked away happy. Some of the mothers, remembering Laddy himself from his own glory days, wobbled away happy, their knees weak and their privates wet. It was a win-win for everybody.
He had done four appearances so far, even after the cease-and-desist order had arrived by certified mail in the shabby Atlantic City apartment he shared with his own father, the Irish tenor and self-proclaimed "Boardwalk Baron," Seamus Breen.
Seamus, who now appeared regularly in the Monsoon Room of the Apricot Motel on Pacific Avenue, knew nothing of the pending legal action. If he knew, though, it wouldn't surprise him. Seamus did not think highly of his son, even when --especially when -- Laddy was at the top of his game, in 1959 and 1960. That's when Laddy was hitting them out the park, one Top Ten single after another.
Strangely, Seamus was never able to score a hit record ever, although he recorded plenty. He was also never ever able to make a real go of it on television (some say it was his accent). However, his nightclub act was top notch (he appeared with the likes of Jerry Lewis and Frank Sinatra at the 500 Club and became a staple attraction at Steel Pier during the war years). He never showed his bitterness onstage, but Laddy could attest that he was bitter plenty, even though he would remind people that he didn't do badly for a pipsqueak sailor right off the boat from Dublin and working his way up from a singing waiter.
It was only recently when Seamus learned of Laddy's hitching his star to his illegitimate son's wagon, a boy whose very conception in 1960 ruined Laddy's career. In a quiet but ugly moment of sheer and drunken disgust, in the tiny, airless apartment they shared, Seamus had asked Laddy where Laddy's pride was. Seamus lifted up the toilet seat to look for it in there. Laddy replied calmly that his pride was still there, but it was drowned in ale and pot and pills.
No matter. This would be Laddy's new career, since nobody else would think to hire him. He would be The Man Who Spawned Bradley Breen, and make guest appearances for a modest fee. Seamus didn't argue, since it helped pay the rent.
Laddy may not have inherited that talent from his velvet-voiced father, but he did inherit the Irish gift of gab and a penchant for the tall tale. A vist from Laddy would guarantee an afternoon of wonderful insights and personal interaction with the man who spawned Bradley Breen himself, only twelve years prior and before the disappointed eyes of a shame-filled world. And if you're lucky, Laddy would even sing one of his own old hits for you and only you, just like in the old days of poodle skirts, greased-back hair and the young, good Elvis.
Gas, tolls or even plane fare would need to be included in the deal, depending on the location, but you'll get more than your money's worth. References are available from satisfied club members as far away as Philadelphia and Lancaster County. Laddy didn't even need to advertise. His requests for appearances came strictly from word of mouth, in perfume-scented letters filled with schoolgirlish handwriting that appeared in his Atlantic City post office box.
True, he had never even held his son as a baby. Never once had a word been exchanged between them. But this fan club appearance offer was a legitimate curiousity, and these teenaged girls were so hungry for any bit of information, or even a sparking, live-wire loose connection, that everybody walked away happy. Some of the mothers, remembering Laddy himself from his own glory days, wobbled away happy, their knees weak and their privates wet. It was a win-win for everybody.
He had done four appearances so far, even after the cease-and-desist order had arrived by certified mail in the shabby Atlantic City apartment he shared with his own father, the Irish tenor and self-proclaimed "Boardwalk Baron," Seamus Breen.
Seamus, who now appeared regularly in the Monsoon Room of the Apricot Motel on Pacific Avenue, knew nothing of the pending legal action. If he knew, though, it wouldn't surprise him. Seamus did not think highly of his son, even when --especially when -- Laddy was at the top of his game, in 1959 and 1960. That's when Laddy was hitting them out the park, one Top Ten single after another.
Strangely, Seamus was never able to score a hit record ever, although he recorded plenty. He was also never ever able to make a real go of it on television (some say it was his accent). However, his nightclub act was top notch (he appeared with the likes of Jerry Lewis and Frank Sinatra at the 500 Club and became a staple attraction at Steel Pier during the war years). He never showed his bitterness onstage, but Laddy could attest that he was bitter plenty, even though he would remind people that he didn't do badly for a pipsqueak sailor right off the boat from Dublin and working his way up from a singing waiter.
It was only recently when Seamus learned of Laddy's hitching his star to his illegitimate son's wagon, a boy whose very conception in 1960 ruined Laddy's career. In a quiet but ugly moment of sheer and drunken disgust, in the tiny, airless apartment they shared, Seamus had asked Laddy where Laddy's pride was. Seamus lifted up the toilet seat to look for it in there. Laddy replied calmly that his pride was still there, but it was drowned in ale and pot and pills.
No matter. This would be Laddy's new career, since nobody else would think to hire him. He would be The Man Who Spawned Bradley Breen, and make guest appearances for a modest fee. Seamus didn't argue, since it helped pay the rent.
Laddy may not have inherited that talent from his velvet-voiced father, but he did inherit the Irish gift of gab and a penchant for the tall tale. A vist from Laddy would guarantee an afternoon of wonderful insights and personal interaction with the man who spawned Bradley Breen himself, only twelve years prior and before the disappointed eyes of a shame-filled world. And if you're lucky, Laddy would even sing one of his own old hits for you and only you, just like in the old days of poodle skirts, greased-back hair and the young, good Elvis.
Riding in Style
Had events turned not so insane, this is the kind of house Laddy would be living in right now, in the hot and bothered summer of 1972. It was a suburban split-level in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, with a TV antenna and a two-car garage and central air conditioning. Laddy confidently pulled up right into the driveway in a 1969 gold Cadallac, on loan to him for the afternoon from Chance Ladder (yes, that Chance Ladder, the former lead singer of the Romanistics, who was already hot on the comeback trail, but was a generous black man who knew that Laddy was genuine.).
Laddy drove up from his home in Atlantic City, which was about an hour's drive. Along the way, on the Parkway, he luxiouriously set the car on cruise control and listened to FM radio. Music was not the same these days, and he wasn't thrilled about the change. After all, what grown man calls himself Alice Cooper? What does Mott the Hoople mean? Black Sabbath?
Not that Laddy was an old fogey at all: he was barely thirty and still grew his sandy brown hair and sideburns long, as is the fashion for the groovy. One time, in 1959 and 1960, that hair was famous for being swept up in a pompadour. Now, it was dry and wavy and cascaded down his neck, the way Jesus looked in those watercolor paintings sold on the boardwalk.
He wore tight twill pants that flared into bell-bottoms, and cowboy boots in a variety of colors. He had a collection of floral polyester shirts in every manufacturable shade, unbuttoned to the nipples. His face was puffier than it was in his heydey, but still somewhat symmetrical and handsome, with a gold chain around his now beefy neck.
If he were registered to vote, he would cast his ballot for McGovern. And he knew where to score the best pot in South Jersey, the kind that came down from heaven and Harlem. Still, as hip as he was, good music was very specific for him, and he could not always comfortably ride the current trends. Even when he was making records, he would be the first to admit that he did not have quite the talent for a Grammy award, but he knew what was good. This, on the radio today, was not good. It was noise. It was trash. He usually kept his mouth shut about it for the fear of appearing unhip; he would wait it out.
He heard his son's hit records, though, on three different stations that faded in and out from transmitters all along points unknown in South Jersey. The boy, like Laddy, had not a good voice, but good, soft looks, those of an Irishman right off the boat. The rest of his talent was all taken care of by studio equipment.
When Laddy would walk on the boardwalk, he would see posters of the boy in storefronts. He would also see him on television, on talk shows and game shows, and on a weekly family comedy in which he played the youngest brother of a whole brood of assorted brats. The show was so sickenly sweet and phony and badly acted that Laddy could not get through it without a good, deep, strong toke and a whiskey shot.
Bradley (Laddy did not name him) looked like a chick, like all the boys look today. Skinny, with soft features and long, feathered hair, and no hips and tight jeans and big lips and large eyes. In the drug store, Laddy read 16 and Tiger Beat and Role Call, the very magazines he had appeared in himself in 1959 and 1960. Boys looked like boys then, though.
One of his son's songs was a remake of a hit fifties number called "Until You Say Yes." That was a good sign. Decent music was on its way back. It was only a matter of time. Laddy himself had said it, when the Beatles invaded this country: it was a fluke. Music would return to its former sanity. It was a long time to wait, but only a matter of time.
If Chance Ladder was suddenly getting paying gigs again, and an act as big as his son would score a huge hit with a fifties remake, then there was hope for music and hope for America and hope for Laddy.
Hopeful was how he felt as he rang the bell to the house in Cherry Hill, and he could hear a nervous rustle from inside.
Laddy drove up from his home in Atlantic City, which was about an hour's drive. Along the way, on the Parkway, he luxiouriously set the car on cruise control and listened to FM radio. Music was not the same these days, and he wasn't thrilled about the change. After all, what grown man calls himself Alice Cooper? What does Mott the Hoople mean? Black Sabbath?
Not that Laddy was an old fogey at all: he was barely thirty and still grew his sandy brown hair and sideburns long, as is the fashion for the groovy. One time, in 1959 and 1960, that hair was famous for being swept up in a pompadour. Now, it was dry and wavy and cascaded down his neck, the way Jesus looked in those watercolor paintings sold on the boardwalk.
He wore tight twill pants that flared into bell-bottoms, and cowboy boots in a variety of colors. He had a collection of floral polyester shirts in every manufacturable shade, unbuttoned to the nipples. His face was puffier than it was in his heydey, but still somewhat symmetrical and handsome, with a gold chain around his now beefy neck.
If he were registered to vote, he would cast his ballot for McGovern. And he knew where to score the best pot in South Jersey, the kind that came down from heaven and Harlem. Still, as hip as he was, good music was very specific for him, and he could not always comfortably ride the current trends. Even when he was making records, he would be the first to admit that he did not have quite the talent for a Grammy award, but he knew what was good. This, on the radio today, was not good. It was noise. It was trash. He usually kept his mouth shut about it for the fear of appearing unhip; he would wait it out.
He heard his son's hit records, though, on three different stations that faded in and out from transmitters all along points unknown in South Jersey. The boy, like Laddy, had not a good voice, but good, soft looks, those of an Irishman right off the boat. The rest of his talent was all taken care of by studio equipment.
When Laddy would walk on the boardwalk, he would see posters of the boy in storefronts. He would also see him on television, on talk shows and game shows, and on a weekly family comedy in which he played the youngest brother of a whole brood of assorted brats. The show was so sickenly sweet and phony and badly acted that Laddy could not get through it without a good, deep, strong toke and a whiskey shot.
Bradley (Laddy did not name him) looked like a chick, like all the boys look today. Skinny, with soft features and long, feathered hair, and no hips and tight jeans and big lips and large eyes. In the drug store, Laddy read 16 and Tiger Beat and Role Call, the very magazines he had appeared in himself in 1959 and 1960. Boys looked like boys then, though.
One of his son's songs was a remake of a hit fifties number called "Until You Say Yes." That was a good sign. Decent music was on its way back. It was only a matter of time. Laddy himself had said it, when the Beatles invaded this country: it was a fluke. Music would return to its former sanity. It was a long time to wait, but only a matter of time.
If Chance Ladder was suddenly getting paying gigs again, and an act as big as his son would score a huge hit with a fifties remake, then there was hope for music and hope for America and hope for Laddy.
Hopeful was how he felt as he rang the bell to the house in Cherry Hill, and he could hear a nervous rustle from inside.
Urgent Announcement from Bradley
Bradley Breen Fan Club Letter, North America
May 1972 -- Part II
Hey gang:
I can only imagine how surprised you must be to hear from me twice in one month! As you know, I always write you every four weeks without fail, and I am always sure to seal the letter with a kiss, just for you. However, something has come up that made me want to write you immediately, and it's urgent that you hear my plea!
It has come to my attention that a man claiming to be my father has been attending fan club meetings for a fee, and spinning tales about me. He claims to know me personally and that we share a history as father and son.
I am here to tell you that this man has not been given permission by me or any of my management to do this sort of thing. I am writing to urge you not to invite him to any future meetings, and to ignore any request by him to visit you.
He has not been approved by me to do this, and frankly, it's just not cool.
Your mom and dad may have told you that this man is, in fact, technically my father. Without getting into all the details, the important thing to know is that I was raised by another man who I call father. His name is John Brand, and he is my mother's husband. He is a good man, and he has been good to me.
The man who has contacted you should not be doing so. That's the reason I'm writing you, to urge you to not encourage him to visit you. He does not know me, nor have I ever met him. His stories about me, whatever they may be, are false.
I hope that clears that up. I'm sorry to send you a letter that is not filled with the usual good cheer, but I felt that this topic was important enough to warrant some attention. However, if you pay him no attention, he will go away.
Again, I look forward to writing to you next month, and as I say in my record that you helped make a hit last spring, "You Be Well."
Warmest Regards,
Bradley
May 1972 -- Part II
Hey gang:
I can only imagine how surprised you must be to hear from me twice in one month! As you know, I always write you every four weeks without fail, and I am always sure to seal the letter with a kiss, just for you. However, something has come up that made me want to write you immediately, and it's urgent that you hear my plea!
It has come to my attention that a man claiming to be my father has been attending fan club meetings for a fee, and spinning tales about me. He claims to know me personally and that we share a history as father and son.
I am here to tell you that this man has not been given permission by me or any of my management to do this sort of thing. I am writing to urge you not to invite him to any future meetings, and to ignore any request by him to visit you.
He has not been approved by me to do this, and frankly, it's just not cool.
Your mom and dad may have told you that this man is, in fact, technically my father. Without getting into all the details, the important thing to know is that I was raised by another man who I call father. His name is John Brand, and he is my mother's husband. He is a good man, and he has been good to me.
The man who has contacted you should not be doing so. That's the reason I'm writing you, to urge you to not encourage him to visit you. He does not know me, nor have I ever met him. His stories about me, whatever they may be, are false.
I hope that clears that up. I'm sorry to send you a letter that is not filled with the usual good cheer, but I felt that this topic was important enough to warrant some attention. However, if you pay him no attention, he will go away.
Again, I look forward to writing to you next month, and as I say in my record that you helped make a hit last spring, "You Be Well."
Warmest Regards,
Bradley
An Urgent Plea From A Concerned Mom
May 30, 1972
From the desk of Mona Brackett
Wife, Mom and Chief Bottle Washer
Dearest Bradley:
I'm old enough to be your mother, and I'm also old enough to know the amount of mail you receive every week and that this letter that I am writing may never see the light of day or your sparkling blue eyes.
Still, I am writing this as a mission of mercy, and as a concerned mother in the Northern Jersey area. I am asking you to show your father -- your real father, Laddy Breen -- some compassion.
You kids today talk about love and peace. You think you know what love and peace is. But you don't -- you don't at all. I am old enough to remember your father when he was as famous as you are now.
He was a beautiful boy. I was not such a beautiful girl, fat and ugly is more the word, but when I went to see him all alone at Palisades Park that summer, crying my eyes out because I did not have a boyfriend and I didn't think I would ever get married and have children (I have since had three girls, all fans of yours and members of your club). When I went to see him, he sang to me, right from the microphone on stage. He sang to me as if I was the only woman in the world, and I sat there stunned and I will never forget it. It was as if he was feeling the pain I was feeling.
True, it may be true about what they said about him: he didn't have much talent. But his talent did not lie in his voice. It was in his eyes, in his soul, in his human being.
When the scandal broke (I don't know how else to describe the news of your mother getting pregnant by him -- she was even younger than me at the time and the news was nothing less than a real shock moment). When the scandal broke, my heart was broken completely. I don't think I ever recovered.
When my girls watch you on television, I think of your real father. You need to show him some compassion then. He is on the skids, this man. He does not need you to shun him, but to love him and to do what all you kids talk about today: peace and love.
I am writing you to tell you to show your dad some mercy. And also to tell you that even though you wrote my girls a letter saying not to invite Laddy to our fan club meeting, I feel that I may just very well do it, it would be worth the fifty dollars plus gas and tolls.
I want to show him kindness. You should too. He meant a lot to me, and he brought you into this world after all, where you are able to bring happiness to a lot of young girls, and even an old one like me.
I just felt the need to tell you a little about love and the way of the world and the way things should work, especially these days. I hope you hear my plea.
I still love you and your music and your acting,
Mona Brackett
Concerned mother and one-time Laddy Breen fan and now a Bradley Breen fan
My girls too.
From the desk of Mona Brackett
Wife, Mom and Chief Bottle Washer
Dearest Bradley:
I'm old enough to be your mother, and I'm also old enough to know the amount of mail you receive every week and that this letter that I am writing may never see the light of day or your sparkling blue eyes.
Still, I am writing this as a mission of mercy, and as a concerned mother in the Northern Jersey area. I am asking you to show your father -- your real father, Laddy Breen -- some compassion.
You kids today talk about love and peace. You think you know what love and peace is. But you don't -- you don't at all. I am old enough to remember your father when he was as famous as you are now.
He was a beautiful boy. I was not such a beautiful girl, fat and ugly is more the word, but when I went to see him all alone at Palisades Park that summer, crying my eyes out because I did not have a boyfriend and I didn't think I would ever get married and have children (I have since had three girls, all fans of yours and members of your club). When I went to see him, he sang to me, right from the microphone on stage. He sang to me as if I was the only woman in the world, and I sat there stunned and I will never forget it. It was as if he was feeling the pain I was feeling.
True, it may be true about what they said about him: he didn't have much talent. But his talent did not lie in his voice. It was in his eyes, in his soul, in his human being.
When the scandal broke (I don't know how else to describe the news of your mother getting pregnant by him -- she was even younger than me at the time and the news was nothing less than a real shock moment). When the scandal broke, my heart was broken completely. I don't think I ever recovered.
When my girls watch you on television, I think of your real father. You need to show him some compassion then. He is on the skids, this man. He does not need you to shun him, but to love him and to do what all you kids talk about today: peace and love.
I am writing you to tell you to show your dad some mercy. And also to tell you that even though you wrote my girls a letter saying not to invite Laddy to our fan club meeting, I feel that I may just very well do it, it would be worth the fifty dollars plus gas and tolls.
I want to show him kindness. You should too. He meant a lot to me, and he brought you into this world after all, where you are able to bring happiness to a lot of young girls, and even an old one like me.
I just felt the need to tell you a little about love and the way of the world and the way things should work, especially these days. I hope you hear my plea.
I still love you and your music and your acting,
Mona Brackett
Concerned mother and one-time Laddy Breen fan and now a Bradley Breen fan
My girls too.
I Am Woman Scorned
From the desk of Mona Brand
June 1, 1972
David:
As my lawyer, I am currently informing you that we are up Shit's Creek. What's lacking, in addition, is a paddle.
I pride myself as a liberated woman, but in this case, I am pulling in my claws and my toes and my tongue and my chin and asking you to be a man and grow some balls and go after this Laddy Breen once and for all. For once, this is not a job for me. This deed is not mine to do.
I ask you: have you seen the fan mail from the last four weeks? Apparently not, as this Laddy Breen still roams the earth alive, with his legs and his testicles and his mouth -- that lying, lousy mouth! -- intact. This should not be. The forces of nature are out of balance. And I worked too darn hard these last twelve years to see this man take back what is not rightfully his.
Am I making myself clear? Or am I rambling?
If not, let me continue until you are fully aware of what needs to be done. The fan mail is coming in with an overwhelming response for Laddy to continue to make what he calls his "appearances." There seems to be a public sentiment for this loser. He is winning, once again, with his losing. As always, his losing makes him win. And I will not stand for it. A loser does not deserve to win. I have worked too hard to live by that rule.
You need to have him arrested. I'm not sure what laws are on the books in a situation like this. That's for you to know. And I don't know how this situation varies from state to state, but Laddy must be stopped, for the good of my child's career and for all the work I have put into creating this dream.
Laddy destroyed my dreams once. He shant do it again.
So you need to figure out how we can get Laddy out of the picture, out of my head, out of my life. Even if we have to murder him. Yes, I'm putting it in writing, David. I'm incriminating myself. Even if we have to murder Laddy Breen -- do you hear me? -- he will not continue to weasel his way into this picture. So if you don't want a dead body on your hands, you will have to figure out another way. And I mean it.
The only other crime that may fit is a pedophilia charge. Can we arrange to make that happen? Maybe he felt up a little fan-club girl. Or maybe raped a mom, just like he raped me. Maybe he murdered a woman because he got her pregnant, just like he did to me. Can we get a murdered woman to float up in the ocean, right outside that apartment house he shares with that vile old freak?
My mind is racing.
There will not be a tearful reunion among us -- I don't care if that's what America wants. I don't care if that's the logical happy ending that America wants, to make them forget about Vietnam and women burning their bras. I will not talk to the press about him. Nor will I go on television, not even on The Tonight Show, and kiss and make up with him after twelve years, as would make for good P.R. and the logical happy ending.
Even for good P.R., I won't do it.
I remain out of the picture and behind the scenes, as always. I want to maintain my mystique as the woman Laddy wronged so many years ago. I am like Jackie O: an enigma.
I have no interest in the spotlight. It's only all for my son. But I'll be damned if Laddy is going to boogie on over to steal some of that light.
I'm also going to contact our P.R. company. They have been coasting way too long on Bradley's success. They act like they have a heaven-given right to rep him, and they barely lift a finger to do anything. They don't have to. I've been doing all the work until the wheel started rolling. But now, it's a different story. I have to call out the big guns. This must be squashed. And it will.
I don't care if you tell me that I should not put my thoughts in writing. I know you think of me as dangerous, a loose cannon. That's simply not the case. I am not the live wire in this situation. Laddy is, that opportunist Laddy Breen. My analyst encourages me to write when I am feeling angry. Writing out my emotions is the only way I can express myself. The rest of the time, I am a rock, and you know that.
I am not an irrational person. I am a cool, confident businesswoman, hear me roar. I rarely get this upset. You have never seen me this upset, and you have no idea what I am capable of in this delicate frame of mind.
Do what needs to be done, David, for once. There are other lawyers out there who would kill to represent Bradley Breen. Literally.
Mona
Attorney David Styne burned this letter immediately after reading it. He stuck it in an ashtray, along with his Viceroy, and put a lighter to it. Thoughtfully, he watched it burn.
June 1, 1972
David:
As my lawyer, I am currently informing you that we are up Shit's Creek. What's lacking, in addition, is a paddle.
I pride myself as a liberated woman, but in this case, I am pulling in my claws and my toes and my tongue and my chin and asking you to be a man and grow some balls and go after this Laddy Breen once and for all. For once, this is not a job for me. This deed is not mine to do.
I ask you: have you seen the fan mail from the last four weeks? Apparently not, as this Laddy Breen still roams the earth alive, with his legs and his testicles and his mouth -- that lying, lousy mouth! -- intact. This should not be. The forces of nature are out of balance. And I worked too darn hard these last twelve years to see this man take back what is not rightfully his.
Am I making myself clear? Or am I rambling?
If not, let me continue until you are fully aware of what needs to be done. The fan mail is coming in with an overwhelming response for Laddy to continue to make what he calls his "appearances." There seems to be a public sentiment for this loser. He is winning, once again, with his losing. As always, his losing makes him win. And I will not stand for it. A loser does not deserve to win. I have worked too hard to live by that rule.
You need to have him arrested. I'm not sure what laws are on the books in a situation like this. That's for you to know. And I don't know how this situation varies from state to state, but Laddy must be stopped, for the good of my child's career and for all the work I have put into creating this dream.
Laddy destroyed my dreams once. He shant do it again.
So you need to figure out how we can get Laddy out of the picture, out of my head, out of my life. Even if we have to murder him. Yes, I'm putting it in writing, David. I'm incriminating myself. Even if we have to murder Laddy Breen -- do you hear me? -- he will not continue to weasel his way into this picture. So if you don't want a dead body on your hands, you will have to figure out another way. And I mean it.
The only other crime that may fit is a pedophilia charge. Can we arrange to make that happen? Maybe he felt up a little fan-club girl. Or maybe raped a mom, just like he raped me. Maybe he murdered a woman because he got her pregnant, just like he did to me. Can we get a murdered woman to float up in the ocean, right outside that apartment house he shares with that vile old freak?
My mind is racing.
There will not be a tearful reunion among us -- I don't care if that's what America wants. I don't care if that's the logical happy ending that America wants, to make them forget about Vietnam and women burning their bras. I will not talk to the press about him. Nor will I go on television, not even on The Tonight Show, and kiss and make up with him after twelve years, as would make for good P.R. and the logical happy ending.
Even for good P.R., I won't do it.
I remain out of the picture and behind the scenes, as always. I want to maintain my mystique as the woman Laddy wronged so many years ago. I am like Jackie O: an enigma.
I have no interest in the spotlight. It's only all for my son. But I'll be damned if Laddy is going to boogie on over to steal some of that light.
I'm also going to contact our P.R. company. They have been coasting way too long on Bradley's success. They act like they have a heaven-given right to rep him, and they barely lift a finger to do anything. They don't have to. I've been doing all the work until the wheel started rolling. But now, it's a different story. I have to call out the big guns. This must be squashed. And it will.
I don't care if you tell me that I should not put my thoughts in writing. I know you think of me as dangerous, a loose cannon. That's simply not the case. I am not the live wire in this situation. Laddy is, that opportunist Laddy Breen. My analyst encourages me to write when I am feeling angry. Writing out my emotions is the only way I can express myself. The rest of the time, I am a rock, and you know that.
I am not an irrational person. I am a cool, confident businesswoman, hear me roar. I rarely get this upset. You have never seen me this upset, and you have no idea what I am capable of in this delicate frame of mind.
Do what needs to be done, David, for once. There are other lawyers out there who would kill to represent Bradley Breen. Literally.
Mona
Attorney David Styne burned this letter immediately after reading it. He stuck it in an ashtray, along with his Viceroy, and put a lighter to it. Thoughtfully, he watched it burn.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Laddy Breen Makes The Scene (Overview)
Laddy Breen was a top teen idol on the music scene in 1959. However, his youthful indiscretions, including the furor that resulted from his impregnating a young fan, destroyed his career and reduced him to a minor rock-and-roll footnote.
Now, in his thirties in the summer of 1972, lonely Laddy aimlessly wanders the decaying boardwalk of a pre-casino Atlantic City in a drug-induced daze.
Those few who barely remember him can only pity him. Everyone else keeps their distance, including Laddy's father, the once-famous Steel Pier singer Seamus Breen. Seamus is too busy licking his own wounds: he once hob-nobbed with Sinatra and Martin and Lewis at the 500 Club, but now barely eeks out a living in a small motel lounge for a smattering of drunken, ungrateful patrons (Seamus being the most drunken and ungrateful of all).
Soon, however, Laddy's destiny will change. To his dizzy amazement, he discovers that the beat goes on: his long-lost, illegitimate son is now a teen-idol in his own right, churning out major hit records, starring in a top-rated situation comedy, and appearing on posters, lunchboxes and talk shows.
The boy is managed by his mother, who had been the star-struck young girl Laddy had impregnated so many years before. Today, however, she is quite liberated...and sharply business-minded...and bitter.
Laddy devises a plan to return to his former glory, reunite with his son, rekindle a romance with the boy's mother, and give his father one last shot at the big time. This resolution spurs him on a strange journey of last chance. It's a high-stakes gamble that takes place long before gaming comes to Atlantic City.
Laddy's quest shoots him like a pinball, from suburban teen fan clubs to abandoned hotels to The Mike Douglas Show. Along the way, he meets Elvis Presley, long-haired-freaky people, his own former fans, youth for Nixon and a legendary rock and roller who may not be who he claims he is. It all culminates with, naturally, an illegal stage production of Jesus Christ Superstar.
Check back weekly and see how Laddy's story -- and redemption -- unfolds.
Now, in his thirties in the summer of 1972, lonely Laddy aimlessly wanders the decaying boardwalk of a pre-casino Atlantic City in a drug-induced daze.
Those few who barely remember him can only pity him. Everyone else keeps their distance, including Laddy's father, the once-famous Steel Pier singer Seamus Breen. Seamus is too busy licking his own wounds: he once hob-nobbed with Sinatra and Martin and Lewis at the 500 Club, but now barely eeks out a living in a small motel lounge for a smattering of drunken, ungrateful patrons (Seamus being the most drunken and ungrateful of all).
Soon, however, Laddy's destiny will change. To his dizzy amazement, he discovers that the beat goes on: his long-lost, illegitimate son is now a teen-idol in his own right, churning out major hit records, starring in a top-rated situation comedy, and appearing on posters, lunchboxes and talk shows.
The boy is managed by his mother, who had been the star-struck young girl Laddy had impregnated so many years before. Today, however, she is quite liberated...and sharply business-minded...and bitter.
Laddy devises a plan to return to his former glory, reunite with his son, rekindle a romance with the boy's mother, and give his father one last shot at the big time. This resolution spurs him on a strange journey of last chance. It's a high-stakes gamble that takes place long before gaming comes to Atlantic City.
Laddy's quest shoots him like a pinball, from suburban teen fan clubs to abandoned hotels to The Mike Douglas Show. Along the way, he meets Elvis Presley, long-haired-freaky people, his own former fans, youth for Nixon and a legendary rock and roller who may not be who he claims he is. It all culminates with, naturally, an illegal stage production of Jesus Christ Superstar.
Check back weekly and see how Laddy's story -- and redemption -- unfolds.
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