AN INDEPENDENCE DAY TRIBUTE TO ONE OF THE MOST INDEPENDENT AND UNIQUE AMERICANS WE EVER BEFRIENDED -- THE LATE, GREAT BOB STUPAK 1942-2009
Editor's Note: In 2000, we abruptly changed careers by our own design. Before relocating from Ohio to Miami, we toured the nation -- interviewing legendary characters. Bob Stupak, the Casino King, stood out more than anyone else.
But he agreed to an interview only on the condition that it be published after he died. Though he was more than 20 years or senior, he had recently beaten the odds by surviving a horrific motorcycle crash. He was always lucky, so he probably figured the story would never see the light of day -- because he would somehow beat the house odds and outlive an interviewer young enough to be his son. He lost this wager, succumbing to leukemia less than a year ago.
So now his cantankerous soul can mutter in his Pittsburghese accent from the great Stratosphere in the sky "dat SOBing reporter got nothin' right about me and now that I can't sue 'eem, he's gonna print the whole #$%@ing story without recourse." The following is the whole bleeping story, frozen in Las Vegas in the year 2000:
PART 5: WIN THE WAGER OR HIT THE PAVEMENT
Little did I know, I’d soon be wagering – not so much for cash, but for the right to prolong the interview.
About a half hour into my questions, Stupak said a special tape from his huge video library would explain him to me. It was a Christmas 1995 video he made for Phyllis McGuire, when relations were strained between the Vegas Guy and the famous lady from the singing McGuire Sisters.
It showed the couple in Las Vegas and all over the world. They were at galas and special events, pictured in sun, rain, and snow. While sentimental music played, shots of Bob Stupak -- bandaged head to toe and recovering in the hospital from his death-defying motorcycle crash in March of ’95 – were spliced in.
“There are three male vocalists singing on this tape,” Stupak growled, interrupting my voyeuristic viewing of the tender and romantic Bob. “You have to name all three to stay. If you miss one, you’re done, you’re out of here.”
Hey, it was Vegas. And I was sitting in the living room of the Number One Vegas Guy. I took the challenge.
The tune was Our Love Is Here to Stay, the Ira Gershwin standard. I knew the first vocalist in a heartbeat. It was the Chairman of the Board, Stupak’s hero, Frank Sinatra.
Stupak walked back into the room and I said “It’s Frank.”
“Does Frank have a last name?,” he asked, indignantly.
“Sinatra,” I pounced.
“You still have to get two, and you’ll never get the last one,” was his response.
The second singer sounded like Nat King Cole. I wasn’t as sure as I was with Sinatra, but it’s the answer I went with.
Ever the gamesman, Stupak went Regis, asking “are you sure?” and “is that your final answer?”
“Yes, yes,” I said, so Stupak let the tape play on toward the third male vocalist, grabbed his smokes and walked into the kitchen to make a phone call.
“In time the Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble. They’re only made of clay,” the third singer crooned. “But our love is here to stay.”
The voice wasn’t as commanding as Sinatra’s or Cole’s, but it wasn’t a rank amateur’s either. I thought about the ego of my host, then remembered that using the name Bobby Star, a 19-year-old Stupak briefly had a recording contract with United Artists. Four decades later, a grown up Bobby Star was crooning. He was appealing to the heart of McGuire, a woman who had been a big Vegas star, scoring hits such as Sugartime with her sisters.
“It’s you,” I said to a stunned Stupak as he walked back into the room. It was the biggest rise I got out of him all night. I earned the right to ask more questions by correctly pegging him as the third singer in the trio of love songs dedicated to Phyllis McGuire.
The video Christmas Card/Valentine must have worked. Stupak and McGuire, 10 years his senior, are still an item.
“Am I in love?, yes,” he said. “Am I going to get married? I can’t think of a reason to.” said the twice-divorced father of three.
Stupak almost didn’t live to see Christmas 1995. On March 31, 1995, Stupak crashed his Harley Davidson going more than 60 m.p.h. in a 35 zone on a city street. The impact snapped both arms and his left leg. Stupak, who almost bled to death, broke every bone in his face.
Emergency room physicians were sure he would not live, or if he did, he’d be in a vegetative state for the rest of his life. But after five weeks, Stupak emerged from his coma. After a more than a half year of rehabilitation, he began to regain his health. The once babyfaced Stupak remains scarred from facial reconstructive surgery.
His eyes were damaged to the point where he can’t see well enough to ride a motorcycle again. He wants to ride, Stupak told me, but he’s not crazy enough to get on a bike without two good eyes. The twisted wreckage of the Harley is chained to a post at Stupak’s carport, like some kind of trophy won in his contest with death. It sits alongside display cases that once showed off a bogus $100,000 bill and other mementos from his casinos.
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