These comments are lifted from a 2016 email chain...

From Mike Slosberg On Sep 12, 2016

We landed in Boston. I don't recall the exact year––mid-sixties, I'd guess. It was winter, for sure, since Jed and I and a few others, names long forgotten, had just landed in Boston "chasing" snow in order to film snow tire commercials for Goodyear. The client—difficult in the best of times--would invariably hold off approving our storyboards until the very last minute. It was their annual sadistic ritual, which made it almost impossible to find enough of the cold, white stuff to shoot in. But we'd come to Boston since a snow storm had been predicted. Of course, it was a mild evening with clear skies when we arrived. The following day was now predicted to be the same. (Finally finding the snow is another story, for another time.) So there was little to do but check into a hotel and have dinner. What to eat? In Boston? A lobster, of course! And Jed, the perpetually famished Brit had never, ever had one. Ever! So we went to the most famous place in Boston…the place where the best lobsters go to die. Durgin-Park. The folks at DP had been cracking claws since 1827 and Jed—the exuberant gourmet that he is—could hardly contain himself. Once seated, we ordered Jed one of the largest—maybe two and a half pounds, at least. He was "HUZAHING" all over the place and within minutes, bib firmly in place, was glassy eyed and covered in melted butter––hands so slippery he could hardly pick up the massive glasses of beer he was inhaling at an alarming rate. The crock of baked beans and mounds of corn bread were knocked off in a blur between claws cracking and more beers being ordered. When the smoke had cleared, the table had attracted other patrons and several of the wait staff––all gazing in awe and clucking their appreciation for this mad Englishman who had gone where others dared not go…to levels of sheer gastronomical enjoyment that is rarely heard of, let alone actually witnessed. The restaurant…no restaurant…would ever have enough napkins to clean him up and we practically had to hose him down when he finished, lest he ruin the interior of our rental car. We were all so full we could hardly walk, yet I feel certain, had we not left when we did, Jed would have gone for seconds. Ah what a difference fifty or sixty years can make when it comes to one's digestive track. Mike

John Emmerling's reply: On Sep 13, 2016

A wonderfully told Jeddish tale—I can picture him up to his elbows in that boisterous butter-slathered scene. The year was probably winter of 63 or 64. I had returned to SF office from Army recall in Oct 62 and during my absence Hanley brought Goodyear creative onboard. I left SF office in July 64 and you guys worked your Go, Go Goodyear magic in between those dates. So… has to be 63 or 64. Back to DP: if Jed had begun his tradition of carrying the Red Book, then his drawing of that evening should be pulled out, scanned, and posted on Facebook along with your facile text. Everyone on this email is, of course, aware that by now Jed has hundreds of Red Books stored away unseen in an attic or basement. Even so, it won't be hard to find the particular book with that Durgin Park sketch. Just sniff around the stacks for the faint odor of rancid butter. John PS: May I humbly suggest that Jed's English family & friends consider undertaking an important and historic mission: The Jed Papers Organize a Scanning Party and scan every page—of every Red Book. Then publish those tens of thousands of pages online. Think of the treasure you will be giving to the world! And there is no question: The Jed Papers will cop a Pulitzer.

I still have the jedsredbooks.co.uk Maybe some day:-)