Growing Up Laughing_ My Story and the Story of Funny - Marlo Thomas [18]
My mother was outrageous funny—the only woman who ever rendered Joan Rivers speechless. Mom was once standing next to Carol Channing—who had a frozen smile that looked like Dr. Caligari’s—and cracked, “Whatever you do, Carol, never get plastic surgery.” Mom would say anything.
I used to love making my mother laugh. She was the comic influence in my life. My dad was more concerned with the acting thing. He had this great advice for me: “You want to be an actor? Then you should have a backup profession. Like welding.”
Mom would also recite these sly verses. Not the “old man from Nantucket” kind, but stuff like “I love you in blue, I love you in red, but most of all . . . I love you in blue.”
She wasn’t afraid of the physical stuff, either. She had this bit where she’d pull a rubber band out of her nose. She also wasn’t averse to taking the occasional fashion risk. She’d put on hot pants and a Harpo wig if the mood was right. The cowboy hat and evening gown was not out of her repertoire, either. She had this leopard muff—literally made from a real leopard—and a hat made from the same fur. At least, I think it was the same animal. I’m hoping they didn’t get the whole family. One time she wanted to wear these furs to a zoo benefit. I said, “Jeez, Mom, that’s like wearing a Gestapo uniform to a B’nai B’rith event. It’s gonna be a hard night, you know?”
So, yes, if you grew up with that, pretty much anything is possible.
Quick joke. How do you get an eighty-year-old woman to say “fuck”? Yell “Bingo!” before her.
I was born in Chicago, went to a private high school in Detroit, and lived in California for a while. My father was in the automobile industry, so we moved around a lot. Some comics grew up in tough neighborhoods, but not me. Where I grew up, people had their lawyers beat up someone else’s lawyer. And the neighborhood kids had imaginary agents.
But I started noticing comedians very early on. Jonathan Winters was my favorite. He could even make my father laugh. As a boy, I realized, “Wow, that’s a tough gig.”
And I’ve always admired a fast mind. I remember hearing this great story about Elaine May. She was walking across the campus at the University of Chicago, and the wind was blowing her hair straight up into a big mess. This guy walks by and says, “Hey, Elaine, where’s your broomstick?” And she says, “Why, do you need something to shove up your ass?”
Quick joke. Two old Jews are sent to kill Hitler. They’re sitting in an alleyway with grenades, rifles and bombs, and they’re all ready. Hitler’s supposed to walk by at two o’clock—but at two, he doesn’t arrive. Two-fifteen, no Hitler. Two-thirty, no Hitler. Three o’clock, no Hitler. Finally, one Jew turns to the other and says, “My God, I hope nothing happened to him.”
I was very quiet in high school. I went to an all-boys school for three years (that’ll keep you quiet). But what started it all for me was when I took an improvisational theatre class in college. After that, all bets were off—for two reasons: The teacher was a gorgeous woman who was about twenty-five years old, and all the guys were taking the class basically for her. But I also started getting laughs on stuff that I improvised. And that became addictive.
Comedians are an interesting breed of animal. We have this very bizarre combination of masochism and exhibitionism that goes way beyond acting. I suppose it’s a kind of legalized insanity, in which you’re allowed to do things that, if you did them in any other venue, you’d get arrested.
Quick joke. A guy picks up a hooker. She takes him upstairs to her room and asks him what he wants. The guy says, “Oral sex.” The hooker says, “Okay, and I want you to know I’m one of the best at that. Look at my wrist. You see that lovely diamond bracelet? Well, that’s how I got it.” The guy says, “Really?” And the hooker says, “Sure, see for yourself.” So the hooker gives the