The saloon is a liar. It promises good cheer and sends sorrow.
I challenge you to show me where the saloon has ever helped business, education, church, morals or anything we hold dear.
There is no law, divine or human, that the saloon respects.
My father ran a saloon in Kenosha, Wis., which is just about as rough a living as I can think of. It was brutal; it scared the hell out of me. I was so petrified all the while I was a child, I didn't know what I was doing half the time.
I never considered acting while growing up. I just knew I didn't want to go into the saloon business: I wanted to get away from Kenosha. And once I left, never, ever did it cross my mind to go back. I went to college and thought I'd study law.
I mean, in my - and I'm not trying to do spilled milk, but in those days it was a little - I think it was much tougher, because you got an image, and you were in a saloon. And it was tough to come out of a saloon and to get in films, and to maintain an image, you know.
I busted out of the place in a hurry and went to a saloon and drank beer and said that for the rest of my life I'd never take a job in a place where you couldn't throw cigarette butts on the floor. I was hooked on this writing for newspapers and magazines.
I come from a long line of saloon keepers and proselytizers, and I draw from both sides.
