Growing Up Laughing_ My Story and the Story of Funny - Marlo Thomas [19]
When I left school, I couldn’t find any acting work. So I wound up in the basement of one of those tiny little music clubs and coffeehouses, which were trying out stand-up comedy as kind of a spacer. I thought, “Okay, I’ll try it. It’s like improvising—but all alone.” Before long, the music scene died out and comedy became more popular.
Quick joke. Guy buys a parrot that is constantly using foul language. Really horrible stuff. Finally the guy gets fed up and throws the parrot in the freezer to punish him. After about an hour, he hears a faint tapping sound from inside the freezer and opens the door. There’s the parrot, wings wrapped around himself, shivering. He says, “I swear, I’ll never, ever curse again. But can I ask you a question? What did the chicken do?”
But the funniest person in my life was my mother. Big time. I had a pillow that I kept on my couch that had this quote on it, supposedly from Sigmund Freud. It said, “If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother.” Mom looked at that pillow and said, “What does that mean?” I said, “Sorry, Mom, I can’t explain it to you without a therapist in the room.” It’s like that old saying, “Your mother pushes your buttons because she installed them.”
My mother died in 2001, a week before September 11th. That was probably good, in a way. The events of that day would have really shocked her. They would have upset her worldview that everything is wonderful.
Chapter 11
The Funny Barber
Harry Gelbart was my dad’s barber. He was a small man with a full head of black, curly hair, a thick mustache and twinkly eyes. He and my dad adored each other, and while he cut my father’s hair, they loved to tell jokes. They probably spent as much time telling stories as they did on the haircut.
I always knew when Harry was over—you could hear their howling laughter all through the house. It was irresistible. I would stop whatever I was doing and run to my father’s dressing room to be with them. I’d sit on the edge of the tub and listen to the jokes they’d tell. Harry was a great storyteller, and my dad was a great audience. So was I.
Harry had a sixteen-year-old son who wanted to be a comedy writer, and one day he asked Dad if he could help his son break into the business. My father told him to send the kid over to the studio, and he’d give him a chance to write a few gags.
Harry’s son started by hanging around the writers’ room and throwing out a few lines. Dad was impressed and began using some of his jokes. That was the beginning of a wonderful career. Larry Gelbart would go on to become a legend in the business, writing such classic comedies as M*A*S*H, Oh, God! and A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.
Some of Harry’s stories were so good they would end up in Dad’s act. Of course, Harry would tell his version in a few minutes. But my father would take the spine of the story and make a twenty-minute routine out of it. That was his trademark. And he always gave Harry credit.
Harry cutting Dad’s hair. As usual, I was right there for the laughs.
One of those stories became a Danny Thomas classic. It was about an old man and a parrot that could speak Hebrew. When I told Larry that I wanted to write about our dads’ friendship—and the way my dad used to tell his father’s stories—he said he’d once written about it, too, and emailed me his favorite part:
My father, that inveterate joke teller (not too hard to get laughs when you’re wielding a straight razor) told Thomas about a man who takes his parrot, one that happens to be a brilliant linguist, to synagogue with him on Rosh Hashanah and wagers with members of the congregation that the bird can conduct the High Holiday service better than the temple’s cantor. When the big moment comes, the parrot remains silent. Later, about to be punished by his outraged owner for the costly silence, the only thing that saves the bird’s life is when he opens