It's So Hard To Type With A Gun In My Mouth (18 page)

BOOK: It's So Hard To Type With A Gun In My Mouth
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Now I have to figure out what lie I'm going to tell my cousin. Streisand was sold out? She cancelled the show? There was a fire at the arena.  I KNOW!!!! "Sheila, you're gonna die without seeing Streisand." I told her how much the tickets were and with the plane fare out from Boston it would have been a three thousand dollar concert. Sheila says... "Besides, the DVD will be fourteen dollars."  Surprise, Sheila, the DVD was eighteen.

 

I am happy to tell you 12 years later she is still with us, she battles her daily  demons but she's is on the road to recovery. We love her and support her and keep her in our thoughts.... but I'll be fucked if I'm going to spend $1875 dollars to see Streisand sing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

JUNE 21, 2006 -
JAN

 

Today is June 21st and 30 years ago today my life took a joyous and tragic turn.

 

I was planning to go on the road with Fred Willard and "THE ACE TRUCKING COMPANY" but my wife was eight and a half months pregnant with our first child. I didn't want to leave her but we needed the money. Her parents were coming out on Monday to be with her while I was on the road.  I would leave the next morning. We picked up my in-laws at the airport , they were pleasant, small-town folks who thought of themselves as Cosmopolitan. But they were Cosmopolitan like I'm African.

 

We were renting a town house at the time and three minutes after we walk into the unit, my wife says, "My water is breaking." And runs to the bathroom. Her parents are here twenty-five minutes and her water breaks. "Strange" I think. Her mother was a smoker, as was my wife, and they both began puffing away like a steam wheeler going down the rapids. It must have been ten minutes later when the first contraction came. I got on the phone and called the hospital "We're coming in.".  I called our friend Sonny who had just had a baby one-month prior. "I'll be right over." And we all sat around waiting for the contractions to come every five minutes.

 

It wasn't twenty minutes when Sonny showed up. She was all excited and was telling Candy what to expect. And just like a scripted movie it followed the same course as Sonny's delivery. The contractions were coming more frequently and were more severe. Candy and I had done natural childbirth class. I was her birth coach. "Breathe, honey." "You breathe. I want drugs." 

 

It was time to get to the hospital. Candy and I were in the front seat, Sam and Sybil in the back seat and Sonny was way in the back, where the groceries go. Sam, Sybil, Steve, Candy, Sonny. If anyone had a lisp we would have been drenched. Sonny was like a Magpie she was talking so much. I can't remember a word  she said with the exception of, "This is the longest day of the year." I thought she was referring to the amount of effort it took to have a child... a long day's work; later I would learn that, in fact, it was the summer solstice and the longest day of the year. I thought it was fitting that my child had been given more time to enter the world than anyone else.

 

We get the hospital and the contractions are like 3 minutes apart. They rush us up to the delivery room where Candy is put into stirrups and prepped for the birth.  The nurse points and says, "See that? That's your baby's head."  And in a classic neurotic father's reaction I look at the one half inch of visible baby skull I can see and say, "Does it look normal?"

 

Within three hours it was all over. I had a 5 pound 4 ounce baby boy. He was early and small. A factor later determined by his mother's two pack a day cigarette habit. They handed him to me wrapped in a white blanket and Candy picked her head up off the delivery table to ask, "Whom does he look like?"  I remember thinking "What a strange thing to ask".  But I answered, "He looks exactly like you." And he did. He had her pouty lips and narrow nose but the question seemed so out of place. Not "Is he normal?" or "Does he have all his toes?" But "Who does he look like?"

 

They took the baby from me and cleaned him up. I ran to the phone to call relatives back east. "It's a boy." Everyone was over the moon with happiness. I was walking around like I was in a dream. I had a son. Jan. I wanted to name him Zack Michael but the nurse said, "Zack. You can't name a child Zack."  She said, "Jan is a great name." I had a friend in college Jan Seeburg and so Jan it was. Zack was derived from Zev Buffman who was a producer at the time. I was always creative...no?

 

Before I left for the road, I stood at the nursery window looking at my son, The picture of him in the crib is burnt into my memory forever. I can even see the baby next to him. "Cabeza" was the name. I remember seeing my son and thinking, "I'm a father; me, worthless, unimportant me. I'm actually a father." Liz Torres shows up and we laugh over the Cabeza baby. Cabeza means "head" in Spanish and all that baby had was a huge head... and a mustache.  But my baby was beautiful. A perfect specimen, the finest child ever born. My son, Jan. And I remember making him a promise, standing there at the nursery window. "I will be there for you. I will be the father I never had. I will love you. You will never be alone."

 

One year and two months later I learned I was not his father; that my wife had been having an affair; that my best friend had been sleeping with my wife. My world didn't shatter it exploded in a nightmare of torture. My sanity was put on permanent hold. My drug and alcohol use escalated. 

 

What ensued was a bitter divorce battle that cost me everything financially and emotionally. My attorney was Howard Weitzman of O.J. fame; "No court is going to make you pay child support for a child you are not the father of."  ( I had gone to College with Henry Winkler. Henry was married to Howard's ex-wife, Stacy.) Howard did a magnificent job defending my position but California law was unbending 30 years ago and I was forced to pay child support for 18 years... and I did... never missing one payment, not... one. 

 

But each month I wrote that check it reminded me that I failed in the most important job of my life, fatherhood.  I was a shell. And in the next four years I would become a raving alcoholic. So much so that a friend finally said, "I'm taking you to AA".

 

That was 25 years ago... his birthday was 30. Gary, my agent, was with me, "Time heals all wounds." I remember thinking, "I don't want to hear that bullshit." But 30 years later I'm here to tell you, as in everything,  Gary was right. 

 

JULY 4, 2006 -
FRANKIE AVALON

 

When you're a new comedian, and I was once upon a time, there are two things you need: material and stage time. To get these you drive anywhere and stand on anything that resembles a stage. I did that one night about 30 years ago. I was breaking in new material, which for me is the hardest thing I have to do. I don't know if what I've written is funny and I don't know where the laughs are...it's like walking in a field of land mines.   Torture.

 

I found the most out of the way place I could find to break in new material. It was a place on Lankershim way, way out in the San Fernando Valley.  It's to The Sunset Strip what Fargo is to Paris. No one goes there but locals.  It was perfect.  I could break in new material and if it bombed, who'd find out... some farmer.

 

I get to the club and there are only about 20 people in the audience. Actually, this is even better for my purpose. Just standing on a stage and saying the words gives me some idea where the laughs are and with a small crowd my judgment fears are reduced. The show begins and I watch as comic after comic goes into the toilet. The audience just was not responding to anyone. It's my turn. The laughs are thin... very, very thin. But I don't care because I'm only there to break in new stuff. About half way through my set a couple is seated center audience. I can't see their faces but I see their silhouettes. I abandon my act and start drilling these people for coming in late. "Man, what kind of a shit life do you have to come late to this dump?" "Lady, if this is a first date run for your life cause this high roller had the entire Strip to take you to and he brings you here." The audience is laughing. It was on this night I started to develop my improvisational style of talking to the audience between fixed pieces.

 

The couple loved it. And at one point I cover my eyes like an Indian scout to see who these latecomers are. And I say. "Holy fuck. It's Frankie Avalon. I drive 2 hours out of town to break in material and effing Frankie Avalon is sitting in the audience. This is my luck. Who are you sitting with the head of NBC and William Morris? That would be my luck, I'm bombing in the valley and these assholes come to see my show. " The audience goes wild. They are laughing and screaming. I go on my tirade, "I can't believe this. There isn't even a effing beach within fifty miles and Frankie Avalon shows up?" Frankie is screaming louder than anyone.

 

The show ends and I don't do so badly. I'm exiting the stage Frankie reaches out and pulls me closer to him. "Really enjoyed you."  I thank him and run for my life. Why? I am embarrassed I think I've bombed. Who judges me badly? Me.

 

About two years later I'm working at "The Show Biz" owned by Murray Langston, the unknown comic. It was more of a show biz hangout than a real club. Frankie Avalon comes in with his wife, turns out Frankie was a friend of Murray's.  He sees me and comes right to me, "Man, you are so funny. We told everyone about you. How you took a dead audience and brought them to life" Huh? Me?

 

I do my set and it's really strong. Frankie congratulates me. He can't get over how I've grown and how much funnier I am.  Two months later my agent gets a call, would I open for Frankie Avalon at the Blue Max in Chicago. With great honor I accept the gig.

 

The Blue Max was in the Hyatt Hotel at the Chicago Airport. It was a wonderful hotel for travelers, a nightmare for entertainers. Why? It was so far out of Chicago you could do nothing. There was no transportation, no movies, no shops...nothing. You were stuck in no man's land... but the club was wonderful. It was a little Vegas show room a la the hay-day of Vegas. It was run by guys in Tuxedos and was extremely professional.

 

The day I arrive I run into Frankie in the lobby. I shake his hand; "You know this is surreal for me. You see me bomb and now I'm opening for you." Frankie could not have been nicer. He tells the story to whomever was standing with him and tells them "I knew this kid was gonna be someone."

 

We open that night to a packed house and rave reviews. Frankie is happy, as am I. Because we were stranded at this hotel, Frankie and I hung out a lot.  I learned he was just a normal guy with a great sense of humor and a very small ego. Let me tell you a story I witnessed with my own eyes. Frankie was being interviewed by one of the Chicago papers. They sent a limo for him and he asked me to come. Now you have to understand, this is not done...the headliner does not take the opening act along on HIS interview. This is HIS time to shine, not the opener, but that's how Frankie was... a very giving man. 

 

We're standing in the restaurant lobby waiting to be seated and a woman rushes in from the street. She takes her coat off and hands it to Frankie. "I'm late for my reservation. Henderson party of three." And she stands there. Frankie smiles and says let me see what I can do and goes to the hostess. The woman gets seated. Where do you find people like that in show business? You just don't.

 

(THIS IS GOING TO BE A LONG ONE. THE MEMORIES ARE FLOODING BACK.)

 

Ok, on the same gig Frankie asks me if I wanted to go to a wedding with him. A wedding? "Yah, the boys invited me to a wedding." "What boys?" "The Chicago boys."  He had been invited to a Mafia wedding in Chicago and that is an invitation you don't refuse.  So two guys pick us up. Guys? Gorillas. They must have been 8 feet tall, and yet they had a gentle side. They were the Sopranos.  We're in the back seat and the goons are up front. Frankie is chatting with them. I'm being very, very quiet. Frankie is joking and says, "Ya ever whack anybody?" And my face must have blanched because Frankie kicks me. The guys up front look at Frankie in the rear view mirror. We never got an answer but I knew it was "yes".  After writing this memory I will be found in the witness protection program.

 

We get to the wedding and it was like nothing I have ever seen. The people were wonderful. I danced with an elderly lady who swore I was a "pisone" despite the fact I told her my last name repeatedly.  The images of this wedding stayed with me for years... and then I saw, The Godfather. I said, "Holy shit. I was at that wedding."  The movie had recreated the scene to a "t". It was then I recognized the genius that is Coppola.

 

The gig ends and Frankie remains my friend. I'm out to his house a couple of times. I get to know his wife, Kay. It's truly a great experience.  There are moments when I have to pinch myself. I'm sitting in Frankie Avalon's house. But again, he was just a guy who happens to sing and be in movies. He's not an egomaniac... he's just Frankie.

 

I guess it had to be sometime later when Frankie invited me to his country club. It was an exclusive club in Burbank in the shadow of Warner Brothers.  And I think it was the 4th of July. It was Frankie, Kay and I. The club was magnificent and Frankie was taking me around introducing me to people.  We were standing by the pool when a guy comes up to Frankie. "Hey, Frank, how the hell are ya." Frankie greets the guy and we stand there a beat. Then, out of nowhere, the guy says, "Ya know why I love this club. No N-word, No Jews."  Frank whips around to me. I do not know what to do. I have never faced this kind of bigotry head on. I just smile. I can tell Frankie wants to die as he shuffles me away from the guy. "Asshole." Is all he said.

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