Growing Up Laughing_ My Story and the Story of Funny - Marlo Thomas [51]
On . . . playing the room (any room)
I went to jury duty not long ago, and what happens is, when famous people show up, they’re put in a separate room and told, “Look, you’re not going to get on a jury because everyone knows who you are. But we’d like you to get up and speak to the bailiffs and court officers and the different people who work in the courthouse.” So that’s what they did with me, and I did really well. I remember turning to someone and saying, “I’m killing with these court officers.” I’m sort of shameless that way.
But it doesn’t matter where you are—you could be at a wedding, you could be waiting for a subway, you could be with a bunch of three-year-olds at a birthday party. You’re always aware when you’ve got a good audience.
I got married in the Catholic Church, and my wife and I were up on the altar. It was a pretty formal ceremony, so we had to kneel. The priest, who was a friend of mine, was giving the sermon at the wedding Mass, and he started to joke around a little with the audience. All of my friends were laughing—and it was hell for me. I was kneeling up there thinking, This is a great room and I’m forced to kneel here and not say a word. It was like some kind of punishment in the afterlife.
On . . . comedy snobs
My least favorite thing about comedy is the occasional snobbery. People often say they want their comedy to be meaningful and intelligent. But I say: Comedy is hard. And if you’re really making people laugh, you’re probably doing something good, so don’t think about it too much.
When I first got my show and nobody knew me, people made assumptions about me. They’d look up my past and say, “Oh, he went to Harvard, so he’s going to be a very erudite, serious, Dick Cavett kind of guy. He’s going to do intelligent comedy.” But why put labels on comedy? I like giant ostriches. I like absolute silliness. I love that almost cartoon childish sensibility. That stuff can be funny and still be smart.
My dad is the perfect example of this. When he was a resident in medical school, he always stayed up late. So he’d watch Steve Allen’s Tonight show. Or Jack Paar. And he loved Johnny Carson. And what’s funny is, my dad is this really brilliant guy—a highly intelligent scientist—but he’s always just loved to laugh. And so I learned early on that being funny doesn’t necessarily mean being stupid.
On . . . coming home
My parents still live in the same house I grew up in, and they still have that same kitchen table we all used to sit around. Whenever I go home—and here I have a national television show, I’ve been around the block a few times—I’ll sit at that table with my sisters and brothers and my parents and find myself trying to score again. It’s like going home to that little court that you used to play on. You’d think I wouldn’t need that anymore, but I do.
DID YA HEAR THE ONE ABOUT . . .
An old Irishman, Paddy, is about to go to his eternal reward.
He looks at his grieving friend, Mike, and says,
“I have one last request, Mike.”
“Anything, Paddy,” Mike says. “What is it?”
“In me kitchen pantry you’ll find a 100-year-old bottle of
whiskey. When they put me in the ground will you
pour it over me grave?”
“I will, Paddy,” Mike says. “But would you mind
if I passed it through me kidneys first?”
Chapter 26
The Bow
Like many nightclub performers, my father would acknowledge the presence of a star in his audience. “Stand up and take a bow,” he would say to the celebrity. I’d seen this ritual countless times since I was a child. In 1966, after I had become That Girl, I was in my father’s audience at the Sands Hotel, when I heard him call out from the stage, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special star in our audience tonight. Miss Marlo Thomas, please stand up and take a bow.”
For the little girl who had watched her Daddy hone his act so many