Growing Up Laughing_ My Story and the Story of Funny - Marlo Thomas [45]
Alan: Right, and all because of that need to please. That urge. Funny people—really funny people—will be funny under any circumstances. Someone can just lift their eyebrow or make a little shift in their tone, or get a look in their eye, and you’ll fall down laughing. And that’s because they want to be in a pleasant frequency with you. It’s like you’re both tuned into the same thing, and you’re dancing together. And through that funniness, the two of you can share a moment of pleasure that you can’t get any other way. An intimacy.
Marlo: Intimacy. Dancing. Killing. A funny business, this comedy business.
Alan: You bet.
Chapter 22
Comedians in Their Dressing Rooms
George Burns, Milton Berle, Sid Caesar—any of the nightclub comedians I grew up with—could be found before a show in his dressing room, waiting to go on, sitting in his starched, white tux shirt, black satin bow tie, and . . . a pair of shorts. They never put their pants on till the last minute. As my dad used to say, “People eating dinner don’t want to look up at a guy with a crumpled crotch.”
I loved that about those guys—such respect for the audience. And they all made it look so easy, as they’d stride out on stage to their theme songs, looking happy, snappy and eager to entertain you.
Well, it’s not easy. That performance you’re watching as you sip your cocktail or enjoy your meal has been carefully measured, honed, worked and reworked until it feels good enough to present to you.
Traveling around the country doing two shows a night, six nights a week, requires a huge amount of energy and Superman guts. You’ve got to have guts to go out there all alone, take a diverse group of strangers, spellbind them, and bring them together as your audience.
My father always reminded me of a matador. Often when he was telling a story, he would make a turn, spin off course and back himself into a corner—seemingly a dead end. I’d wonder how he’d ever get back, and then he’d masterfully whip the cape of his wit, make another turn and bring the house down.
I once had a pair of cuff links made for him with matadors on them, and on the back, I had engraved one word: “Olé.”
One night at a party at our house, Bob Newhart told a story about a comedian in his dressing room, waiting to go on. He gets a knock on his door, and when he opens it, there’s a lovely looking woman standing there. He can see she’s a little nervous.
“I am so sorry to disturb you,” she says, “but I just had to let you know that I saw your show last night, and I can’t tell you how much you did for me.”
The woman gulps a breath.
“You see, I lost my husband six months ago and I have been so blue ever since. I’ve really felt I had nothing to live for. But last night my friends dragged me out of the house, saying it would be good for me, and they brought me to see your show. Well, I laughed like I have never laughed before. Really, you were so wonderful, you took the sadness right out of me. And I just wanted to thank you from the bottom of my heart. You saved my life. So I just thought if there’s anything I can do for you—I mean, I know you must be lonely on the road away from home. Well, I live nearby and I’d love to make you a home-cooked meal. I also have some very good wine. And, well, frankly, I’m a little lonely, too. So if you’d like to stay over, I have a beautiful negligee I could slip into. We could have a very lovely night together.”
The comedian looks at her for a moment and then says, “Did you see the first show or the second show?”
Chapter 23
A Phone Call with Mr. Warmth—Don Rickles
If there’s one thing that proves how many generations of comedy Don Rickles’s career has spanned, it’s that he still wears a classic tuxedo on stage. When’s the last time you saw that in a comedy club? I smile whenever I see Don, because he reminds me of all the comics I grew up with who thrived in the early days of Las Vegas. But Don was unique among them. He had chosen the most difficult and dangerous way of trying to make people laugh—by insulting them. And they loved it. They still do, tipping