The one with the Sultan of Oman and Bob Hope
A Larry story in two parts
Today is Father’s Day in the U.S., so I’m sharing a story about my father, Larry. Actually, this post contains two stories. A twofer! The first story is about a gig Larry did for the Sultan of Oman. The second story is about one of about a dozen USO shows Dad did with Bob Hope. Both stories are linked by a rare gift and a joke that took nearly a decade to payoff, which is why Dad loved to tell these stories together.
While you may not have known Larry, you’ve almost certainly heard his work. During his career, Larry did the sound for the Academy Awards, the Super Bowl, the World Cup, the U.S. Presidential Debates, the Olympics, U.S. Papal visits, Liberty Weekend, and the inaugurations of Ronald Reagan, George Bush Sr., Bill Clinton, and Barack Obama. Most of those shows can be found on YouTube, I think. But you can also hear Larry’s work whenever an NFL referee speaks to the crowd (it was Larry’s idea to put wireless mics on refs), or when you visit Disneyland and watch The Main Street Electrical Parade (Larry’s sound design).
Toward the end of Dad’s life, he talked about writing a book, but he never got around to putting pen to paper. Larry was never one to sit still. He loved being in the center of the action. In that way, his dream gig was always same—whatever show the whole world was watching was the show he wanted to do.
I’m different from my father in that way. I don’t want the entire world to be my audience. I prefer smaller, more intimate rooms, like a book or a newsletter. For that reason, my Larry stories live behind a paywall. They’re too personal to share with everyone, and too special, to me anyway, to open up to the noise of the World Wide Web.
But I don’t want to keep anyone who want to from hearing a Larry story. If you can’t afford a subscription, just email me at michael.j.estrin@gmail.com. I’ll give you a backstage pass, no questions asked. Seriously, I’m happy to do this!
The Sultan of Oman
Dad comes home one day. He’s on cloud-nine. He’s just booked a huge job in Oman. Something about the Sultan’s birthday party. Maybe it seems weird to us that Dad, who does big events like the Olympics and the Oscars, would do a birthday party, but a gig is a gig. There’s just one question: where is Oman?
I’m 11. Allison is 9. We get out our globe.
“The Middle East,” Dad says.
We spin the globe, find the Middle East. But we can’t find Oman. It’s not a big nation, so cartographers don’t exactly focus on Oman.
“Do they have money, Larry?” Mom asks.
Allison and I continue looking for Oman.
“Are you kidding? Huge oil money. Huge.”
“I can’t find it,” I say.
“Me neither,” Allison says.
“Kids, get the Atlas,” Mom says.
We get out the Atlas. It’s a big book with a lot of pages, but eventually we find Oman. It’s a lot easier to see Oman on the page. Oman borders Saudi Arabia, UAE, and Yemen.
That night at dinner, Mom asks about Dad’s safety. There is no U.S. embassy in Oman, so Dad and the other Americans working on the show will register with the British embassy. Mom doesn’t love hearing that, but something else really makes her nervous.
“Larry, you’re going to be the only Jew in the country.”
“No,” Dad says. “I’m going to be one of two Jews in the country. One of the producers is Jewish.”
Dad actually finds this funny, Mom not so much. Of course, Dad has done shows in dangerous places before. USO shows with Bob Hope in Vietnam and Beirut, for instance. Those shows had an extra pyrotechnics element—live gunfire and artillery. A birthday party for a Sultan in a country with very few Americans and only two Jewish people is a walk in the park, to Dad anyway. He’s not nervous. He’s excited! Even though I’m just a kid with no real sense of how dangerous the world can be, I know this: Mom’s fears tickle Dad, just a little. Our father has a strange sense of humor.
“Linda, they’re not going to let anything happen to us,” Dad says. “This show is a really big deal for them. The Sultan wants to impress his friends. It’s a celebration of him and the whole country. That’s why they hired a first-class international team.”
Mom knows Dad is very good at what he does. He’s the best in the world, she tells everyone. But she doesn’t believe Dad’s claims about this being a safe gig. For one thing, Mom doesn’t trust the Sultan as far as she can throw him. But her real concern is that some terrorist group that hates the Sultan almost as much as they hate Jews or Americans will try something. After all, a big show is a big target.
“Just don’t tell anyone you’re Jewish, Larry.”
“Linda, they know I'm Jewish. I'll be fine.”
Dad spends the next couple of months in pre-production meetings and trying to figure out how to ship gear halfway around the world. Then the day Dad has been waiting for—the day Mom has been dreading—arrives. We take Dad to LAX to catch a flight to Muscat, Oman. He will be away for the next four months.
Long trips like this were common for Dad. But he always figured out a way for us to talk on the phone every day—a ridiculous luxury in the 1980s. For the Oman trip, Dad worked it so that he would call us every day from the production office. I can’t remember what the local time was for Dad, but the calls reached Allison and me in the middle of the school day. Thankfully, our elementary school was run by a woman who was both fantastic educator and a very understanding human. Each day that semester, Allison and I would leave class, go to the principal’s office, and talk to our dad on the phone.
Our conversations were probably all mundane stuff. I told Dad about playing sports with my friends, whatever book I was reading, and a million other things. He told me that the Sultan was so wealthy that he had Baskin-Robbins ice cream flown in three times a week. He also told me that the labor force was mostly immigrants from Pakistan. The Pakistanis would lug heavy gear through the sand on their backs. They made flatbread every morning and asked Dad to join them for breakfast.
“The bread is so fresh and delicious, Michael. And the Pakistanis are very friendly.”
I wish I could remember more details from those calls, but mostly I remember thinking Dad was right there in the thick of my life. I missed him, of course, but it was sort of normal in our family for Dad to be away for long stretches. I know that horrifies some folks, but what can I say? Thanks to Dad, the Estrin family learned how to hack the whole social distancing thing way before it was fashionable.
Time goes by. Allison and I lose teeth, make new friends, and do all the things kids our age do. Dad knows every detail of your lives by heart. Fifteen minutes per day doesn’t sound like much, but when it’s just a father and his kid on the phone, the distance and time can work to your advantage in ways that maybe aren’t so obvious when you take proximity for granted.
Then, one day Dad calls the house. It’s late at night, but he asks Mom to wake us up. The show was a huge hit. Dad is over the moon. It’s what I call a Larry high. No drugs, no booze. Just a pure rush of FUCKING-A AWESOME SAUCE that accompanies the end of a perfect live show. A live show is a thing didn’t exist before, then a group of talented and eccentric people work their asses off to will it into existence, then it unfolds, like magic, in front of the audience’s eyes. One show only. A once in a lifetime experience. For show people like Dad, that’s the high, and there’s nothing else like it.
Dad tells us all about the show. Thousands of dancers and performers. Fireworks. Lights and music. It’s a big show, like the opening ceremonies of the Olympics, except it lasts for days, with parties all over the country. But it’s also a birthday party for one man, so in my head I picture flights of 747 airplanes landing at some desert airport, offloading pallets of ice cream cake. When I grow up, I decide I want to be a Sultan.
About a week later, Dad returns home. It’s a long flight, but he’s still on a high from the show, and he’s thrilled to see us. We go to Jerry’s Famous Deli, which isn’t as famous as the name suggests. This is what we usually do when we pick Dad up from LAX. For one thing, Jerry’s is open 24 hours a day. Also, it’s tough to get Jewish deli in places like Oman.
“So, listen,” Dad says, a giant brisket sandwich on the plate in front of him. “The Omanis were really happy with us, and they’re giving us all bonuses.”
Bonuses? In Dad’s line of work bonuses are unheard of. It’s more common, sadly, for the client to stiff you on final payment, but that’s another story.
“They lined up the senior members of the production staff,” Dad explains. “And the Sultan comes to see us. He wants to thank us for a job well done. And he says, we can each have one gift.”
Allison and I are in awe. A Sultan—whatever that is—talking to our dad. But Mom is skeptical.
“What did you say, Larry?”
“Well, everyone said that it wasn’t necessary. But the Sultan insisted. I think everyone felt weird asking. So, the Sultan started by telling the two executive producers that they’d get new BMWs.”
“What?” Mom asks.
“Yeah. Top of the line Beamers.”
“Are we getting a new car?” Allison asks.
“I get the BMW,” Mom says.
“I didn’t want the car,” Dad says.
“OK, what did you get?” Mom asks.
“Well, other people got top-of-the-line Rolex watches. Or cash. Ten grand.”
“Tell me you took the cash, Larry.”
“No,” Dad says.
“Larry, you always take the cash. Are you an idiot?”
Dad smiles. Maybe it’s the smile of a fool, but certainly not an idiot.
“So, I went last. The Sultan comes up to me. He tells me the sound was perfect. The sound is a very big deal to him because he sang a song that we recorded. He’s not the best singer, but we made him sound great. He loved it.”
“Larry, what did you ask for?”
“Well, the Sultan says I can have anything I want. Literally, your wish is my command, that kind of thing.”
“What. Did. You. Tell. Him.”
“Well, I told him that he had a beautiful country and that they really made me feel welcome, like an honored guest.”
I can tell Dad is rubbing it in, teasing Mom a little about her fear that something bad would happen to him.
“All of this true,” Dad continues. “I got to see the whole country, because we setup satellite shows all over the place. And I really did have a great time there. Maybe the other people didn’t feel that way, but I loved Oman. My only regret is that you guys weren’t with me.”
“And?” Mom asks. “What is the bonus, Larry. What did you ask for?”
“I told the Sultan that it was my dream to have my son’s Bar Mitzvah in Oman.”
“Oy,” Allison says.
“What?” Mom asks. “Don’t be an idiot, Larry. What did you really tell him?”
“I told him I wanted to have Michael’s Bar Mitzvah in Oman.”
“Larry, I’m surprised he didn’t have you killed,” Mom says.
“Are you kidding? The Sultan roared with laughter. Then he said, you shall have your wish.”
“Am I having my Bar Mitzvah in Oman?”
“No,” Mom snaps.
“Maybe,” Dad says. “It’s certainly an option. I’ll talk to the Rabbi.”
“So, you didn’t get anything, Larry?”
“No,” Dad says. “I got this.”
Dad takes out his passport and shows us a piece of paper that looks like an official Omani government document.
“What the hell is that?” Mom asks.
“It’s a certificate of non-objection,” Dad beams.
“Huh?”
“It means that for the rest of my life, all Persian Gulf nations have to let me in, without a visa.”
“You fucked up, Larry. What about the money, the BMW, the Rolex? You could’ve had anything you wanted, but you settled for a farkakte piece of paper?”
“This is better,” Dad says. “I’m the only one who got this. I’m an honored guest!”
Dad tells this story for years. Every time he tells it, Dad laughs just a little harder at the punchline. With each telling, Mom shakes her head just a little harder at Dad’s costly joke.
Bob Hope
A few years, later Iraq invades Kuwait. I am fourteen, Allison is twelve. We don’t understand geopolitics, but as soon as George H.W. Bush says, “this aggression will not stand,” Dad’s phone rings. America is sending troops overseas. Where the troops go, the USO goes. Where the USO goes, Bob Hope goes. Where Bob Hope goes, his sound man, Larry, goes.
Of course, Mom isn’t happy about Dad going to a war zone. He tells her their safety will be guaranteed by the U.S. military. That doesn’t calm Mom down, though. A USO show is a good target, after all. Plus, Saudi Arabia, like Oman, is another one of those countries with very few Americans and even fewer Jews. Also, USO shows don’t pay particularly well. To Mom, this gig is meshuga. But Dad lives for these kinds of shows, so there’s really no debating the matter.
Bob Hope and his team land in Saudi Arabia in the middle of the night. It’ll take 24 hours to process everyone’s visas, they’re told, so the crew is ordered to stay in their rooms at a hotel in Riyadh.
“Fine by everyone,” Dad later explains. “We’re exhausted. It’s not easy to sleep on a noisy C-130 all the way to Saudi Arabia.”
But one member of the team isn’t happy—Bob Hope. He wants to go out, get something to eat, do some shopping.
“So Bob is in the lobby,” Dad says. “He’s yelling at an American colonel and a Saudi colonel. They are telling him there’s zero chance anyone leaves the hotel in the next twenty-four hours. Bob is yelling like you wouldn’t believe. He’s telling them that he wants to yell at some generals.”
Dad has seen Bob yell before. He shrugs and goes to his room to get some rest, knowing that sleep will be at a premium for the next couple of weeks.
“Half-hour later, there’s a knock at the door,” Dad says. “It’s a Saudi army officer in full dress uniform. I’m talking dressed to the nines. Right away, I’m thinking, what did I do? But I didn’t do anything. I’m a little foggy from the jet lag, but I realize that this Saudi army officer is apologizing—to me! ‘Mr. Estrin, we’re so sorry we made a terrible mistake. You do not need to wait for a visa. Please accept our apologies. We have a car and driver for you. Anywhere you want to go. You are our honored guest.’”
At this point in the telling, Dad beams. He was known for his shit-eating grins, but the grin that accompanies this narrative beat is the mother of all shit-eating grins. It is the shit-eating grin of a man who has waited YEARS for a joke to pay off.
“My certificate of non-objection from Oman,” Dad explains. “So, I get dressed and go downstairs. Now, Bob is yelling at some generals, but the answer is still no. Well, it’s no for everyone else, but not for me. I’m an honored guest! So, I walk over to Bob so he sees me. I wave goodbye, just to rub it in.”
Bob Hope blows a gasket.
“‘How come my sound man gets to leave, and I don’t?’ Bob wants to know.”
Dad explains the situation to Bob. Yes, Bob Hope is comedy royalty. He is the headliner for the USO’s biggest show. He personifies USO shows in the 20th century. But Bob Hope is not an honored guest, as far as the Gulf states are concerned.
“But Larry is Jewish,” Bob Hope deadpans.
The American military people look nervous. The Saudi military people don’t seem to care. But Larry laughs his ass off. And that makes Bob Hope laugh his ass off. Then Dad leaves Bob behind in the lobby to yell at the generals some more.
“Where did you go?” I asked Dad once.
“What do I know about Riyadh? I asked them to give me the grand tour, and so they did. It was fabulous. I got to see the whole city, had a lovely meal, and did some shopping.”
“What about Bob?”
“He had to stay in the hotel. Bob Hope knew a lot of world leaders, but he didn’t have the kind of connections I had with the Sultan of Oman.”
“Was Bob Hope pissed?”
“Yeah, a little. But not really. Not at me, anyway. The whole time we were there, Bob kept talking about how the Saudis love his Jewish sound man. Anytime we needed something, Bob would say, tell ‘em you’re with the Sultan of Oman, Larry. It became a running gag of sorts. The joke really kept up crew morale in some very difficult moments.”
“But I don’t get it. What was the fun of eating and shopping alone?” I asked Dad.
“Michael, how often do you get a military escort to go anywhere you want to go in Saudi Arabia?”
“I don’t know. For most people, probably never.”
“Exactly,” Dad said. “Life’s too short to pass on a good opportunity, Michael. You make your fun wherever you find it.”
Thanks for reading this Larry story! I hope you enjoyed it! Normally, I’d ask you to share this story with your friends, but since it’s locked behind a paywall, that doesn’t make much sense. Instead, you might consider giving the gift of Situation Normal.
Stick around and chat!
No discussion questions for this one, but if you have any questions about this piece, just ask.
Michael, you know I love your Larry stories. Thank you for the explanation on why you don't want to write the book. I never thought of it that way. I truly wish I had been able to spend more time with your dad. I know it was a while agao, but I am sorry for your loss.
Fantastic! If I recall, comparing yourself to the Sultan of Oman, or dropping Sultan of Oman in reference to someone really important was something people said when I was a kid. Did Bob Hope use that as a one-liner in one of his shows? I swear I've heard it before. Or, you know, #simulation.