Weekday
The weekly feature page of the University Daily Kansan
November 15, 1978
n on his up to a vaucelur as his mother was on the way to mass 107 years ago, according to Henry Hogan. He later became known as Slats Taylor in his vaudevillian days. Today, known simply as Hogan, he walks the 20 blocks to work five nights --includes taking tickets, introducing the entertainers and, occasionally, doing a dance
HOGAN'S 107th YEAR
He leaves his hotel room located on the 200 block of West 12th Street in Kansas City, Mo. His gait is brisk, accelerated by the crisp airm
Walking past a young hooker, he tips his hat, smiling.
"Hey there, Hogan, what's happened," she says from her street corner.
Henry Harry smiles sheepishly at her and continues his pace. Hogan, who says he's 107 years old, is on his way to the Avant Arts Center in the Main St., where he works five nights a week.
At 107, Hogan has the energy of someone
leaves younger. His job at the Avanti
Hogan says he began his theoretical career when he was 15, in 1886. He played the part of a policeman in *The Lion and the Witch*.
"It was my first job and it ran for 50 look," he said with a far-a-way look.
After that, Hogan said, he joined a tent show and traveled around the United States. During that time, he said, he met P.T. Barnum, the American showman, in
"I wasn't very old," he said of the encounter. Barnum, who started his famous circus in 1871, died in 1891.
Hogan likes to entertain his friends with anecdotes from his past.
According to Sheri LaFever, who works at the Avanti, one of her favorite stories about Hogan is one about his father's demise at are 100.
Hogan says his father was up on the roof of his house, replacing shingles that had been lost during a summer storm. Suddenly, he fell dead.
"I told him it was too hot to be up on that roof." Horan supposedly said.
Hogan says his father was very strict.
"My father had a rule that children would eat last after the adults, he says. "One of our daughters was around in the parlor talking. The turkey was done and us kids were hungry. So I stuck my head in the door and said, 'Don't eat all the turkey. Everyone thought it was funny,
Hogan remembers his first car ride, just after the turn of the century.
After the guests left that evening, Hogan's father punished him with a switch.
"I still have two scars on my back from that," he says.
"We were living on 23rd and Woodlawn
and there was this doctor," Hogan says, looking up to the sky, trying to remember where he came from.
"His name was . . . that was a long time ago, oh ye, Dr. Hamilton. He gave me a ride in his car that he used to make housecalls in. He'd charge a dollar for the housecall, even if it was in the middle of the night."
Hogan didn't fight in World War I because of his age.
"I tried to enlist but they said I was too old. I was 45 at the time."
However, Hogan says he entertained many troops from the stage.
After the war, during Prohibition, Hogan and Kansas City had its share of boilerheads.
"I didn't really know any of them personally, I'd just see them around town, 80 miles away."
Hog worked at the Follies Burlesque in Kansas City, Mo., for 34 years.
However, apparently the government had an interest in Hoan's friends at that time.
Honay says he was called by the Internal Revenue Service, who requested to meet with him.
"After a while, I said, 'Look, you said you wanted to talk to me about my income, but
all you've been asking about is about some of my friends. Either you ask about me or leave
The IRS auditor left in a baffl, Hogan says. He won't comment on his friends' activity.
Hoyan says vudeville shows were risque but never obscene.
"It it used to be that anyone could get in," he says. "Why, even little fools this high could get in if they had a quarter." Hogan says, holding his wrinkled hand to his mid-cheek.
The people who went to vaudeville shows were fairly well behaved, too, he says.
However, once in a while the crowd would get wild, he says.
The mining towns were a little rough, but they were good boys," Hogan says.
"They just got a little rowdy on pay days."
once, 25 years ago, three young men interrupted Hogan's performance. They made crude remarks about the show, Hogan says.
"As I walked off stage after my act, they started toward me," he says, checking
"They never made it. The rest of the audience picked them up and checked them out."
"The caps started hauling the shows at but time because they were beginning to be occupied."
Because the vaudeville shows weren't obscene and the audience was rarely violent, Hogan says, the police never bothered them until the '50s.
Hogan says he doesn't approve of some of the movies being shown today. The Avanti, where he works, shows X-rated movies, as well as strip-tease acts.
"Some movies today are filthy. But nobody should be able to say what should be shown or not. I believe in complete freedom of expression." Hogan says.
Hogan stands outside of the hotel where he lives, remembering all the changes he has made.
He looks up and down the street, at the clip-buttons and the hookers, while overcast clouds roll across the sky.
He points across the street to a park and names the businesses that once thrived there. Restaurants, clothing stores and business offices.
But the one change that sticks in his mind is the amount of crime on the streets.
"We've always had crime, but not like this," he says, shaking his head.
Henry Hugan, who now lives on the strip in Kansas City, a city of peep shows, strip joints and cathouses, has seen better times. At one point in his life he owned a carnival and was involved with the Follies as a comic for 34 years. Now he has a single room at the Hill Hotel in the middle of the strip and is a glorified ticket-taker at the Avanti Theatre. He, bachs with one of the strippers in the back room of the theatre. Henry is proud of the acquaintances he has made over the years, 92 of which were in show business, and waits, right, to one of his many lady friends.
Story by Robert Beer Photos by Randy Olson