 |
The ever-wacky Dr. Zoom was played by George Ross, later
a KPTV salesperson. |
An
Interview
with
Dr.
Zoom
Behind
The
Mike
by
Charlie
Hanna
"Unt
haf
you
had
your
noodlebone
checked
today?"
queries
Dr.
Zoom,
local
television's
wildest
looking
kid
show
character.
The
kid
murmurs
"NO"
and
Dr.
Zoom
wiggles
his
Groucho
Marx
eyebrows.
He
places
the
business
end
of
the
world's
least
reliable
stethoscope
on
the
grinning
youngster's
head.
"Now
ve'll
find
out
what
you're
thinking,"
enthuses
Dr.
Z.
The
"doctor"
rolls
his
eyeballs
as
he
listens
intently.
Then
there
is
the
squawk
of
recorded
geese
filling
the
studio.
"Geese!
Iss
dat
vat
you
were
thinking
about,
geese?"
exclaims
the
energetic
Dr.
Z,
and
lets
out
a
fantastic
cackle
of
laughter.
This
sort
of
thing
has
been
going
on
at
KPTV
for
four
years
now
and
there
are
still
as
many
adults
as
children
getting
a
kick
out
of
Dr.
Zoom.
As
for
the
doc
himself,
he
seems
to
get
more
kick
out
of
it
than
anybody.
For
a
long
time
I
thought
this
muddled
medico
with
the
phony
mustache
and
hilarious
hair
style
(parted
straight
down
the
middle
and
floppy
on
the
sides)
was
a
masquerading
Gene
Brendler,
KPTV
staffer
and
"12
in
the
Morning"
host.
"That's
what
people
think
even
now,"
Dr.
Zoom
told
me
over
lunch,
after
his
hour-long
noon
show.
He'd
traded
his
ridiculously
long,
baggy
white
coat,
rubber
stethoscope
and
graying
tennis
shows
for
a
dark
business
suit,
executive
horn
rim
glasses
and
a
pure
Portland
accent.
Zoom
transformed
spoke:
"Brendler
was
in
a
supermarket
just
a
couple
of
days
ago
and
a
lady
stopped
him
with
the
'Hey
I
know
who
you
are'
hit.
Brendler
got
all
set
to
blush
appropriately
when
this
gal
says,
'You're
Dr.
Zoom.'
Brendler
probably
could
have
killed
me
right
then."
George
Ross,
a
1950
Grant
High
School
graduate,
an
ex-paratrooper
sergeant
in
the
82nd
Airborne
Division,
and
build
not
terribly
unlike
a
fully
armed
Sherman
tank,
laughed
gleefully
over
his
soup.
Ross
no
more
resembles
Brendler
than
Brendler
looks
like
Charles
de
Gaulle.
Brendler
is
not
Dr.
Zoom,
and
neither
is
De
Gaulle.
George
Ross,
partner
and
operator
of
a
sober-sided
collection
agency,
is.
 |
Dr. Zoom makes a personal appearance, to
the delight of his
many fans. |
Television
takes
two
hours
of
his
day
five
days
a
week.
He
arrives
at
the
studio
at
11
a.m.,
confers
with
the
engineer
on
the
sound
effects
he
may
need,
gets
his
props
in
order
and
then
turns
himself
into
Dr.
Zoom,
a
name
his
wife
suggested
when
she
glanced
at
a
box
of
cereal.
The
day
I
visited
the
show,
Ross
sandwiched
12
commercials
and
three
"plugs"
into
one
cartoon-loaded
hour.
Dr.
Zoom
can
be
a
very
funny
man,
but
there
was
little
time
for
it
that
day.
When
the
cartoons
were
on,
most
of
the
time
Dr.
Z
was
dashing
in
and
out
of
the
studio
getting
things
ready
for
the
next
commercial.
But
there
was
time
for
"Naomi"
his
invisible
piano
player,
to
crash-land
via
recorded
airplane.
She
played
background
music
while
Dr.
Zoom
read
his
"Hello
Dere's"
to
fans
who
had
written
in.
He
also
promises
his
letter
writing
audience
a
picture
of
himself
"suitable
for
idolizing
and
framing."
George
Ross
played
football
in
school,
but
he'd
never
messed
with
show
biz
at
all.
Yet
when
KPTV
staff
members
(several
of
whom
had
gone
to
Grant
with
him)
needed
a
new
kiddy
show
character,
they
called
George
in
to
help
them
create
one.
Because
George
Ross
had
the
reputation
of
being
a
very
funny
guy.
 |
|
TV Guide ad from August 3, 1964. |
And
so
Dr.
Zoom
was
born.
He
lasted
six
weeks.
Ross
figured
the
doc
was
dead
and
buried,
but
Dr.
Zoom
fooled
him.
The
station
brought
him
back
to
life
shortly
afterwards,
and
Zoom
has
been
Zooming
ever
since,
currently
in
the
noon-time
period.
"I'm
not
working
opposite
any
other
kid
shows
at
noon.
I
understand
I'm
rated
second
highest
in
that
period.
Sure,
kids
are
in
school
then,
but
quite
a
few
of
them
turn
me
on
during
the
lunch
hour
in
the
cafeteria
or
someplace.
"It's
the
cartoons
that
draw
the
kids.
Popeye
cartoons
are
the
ones
that
are
real
hot.
It
costs
a
wad
of
money
just
to
lease
a
series.
At
the
kind
of
money
the
station
has
to
pay,
you
can't
blame
them
for
running
them
again
after
a
period
of
time.
Ross
was
born
and
reared
in
Portland,
as
were
his
grandparents.
He
doesn't
want
to
leave.
And
he
wouldn't
mind
if
television
were
a
bigger
part
of
his
life
than
it
is
now.
The
collection
agency
takes
up
the
major
share
of
his
time.
(By
the
way,
if
this
guy
calls
to
collect
a
bill,
pay
it.
When
I
say
he's
built
like
a
tank,
I
mean
a
tank
that's
been
exercising
an
awful
lot).
He
an
his
family,
including
a
son,
8,
and
a
daughter,
7,
live
in
Lake
Oswego.
The
Oregonian,
November
22,
1965
