It's So Hard To Type With A Gun In My Mouth (29 page)

I go to Vons and buy 278 dollars worth of frozen food, that's six shopping bags of steaks, chops and popsicles.  One small corner of the freezer was almost full. This thing was like the plant in Little Shop of Horrors... "Feed me Seymour."  I went back again and bought another 100 dollars worth of food. I got it almost half full. However I now had enough frozen food for an expedition to Antarctica.

I loved my new freezer and would visit it in the garage often to take out a steak or a chicken or a half a cow. It made me feel good knowing I had created a little bit of heaven for myself. Then summer came. The garage heated up... the freezer would crank up. The hotter it got, the longer it cranked. It wheezed and puffed all hours of the day and night. Then, my electric bill came. I saw lots of zeros and all in the wrong places.  The little freezer that could had increased my electric bill by about 125 dollars. Who knew heaven was so expensive. I took everything out of the freezer and put it into the kitchen freezer. I unplugged the monster in the garage and threw a tarp over it. It looked like I was storing a coffin.  And that's how it sat for two and a half years.

Oh it didn't go to waste. I used it to saw on. I used it as a table. I groomed the dog on it. It was perfect height when you had a garage sale. If you laid it on its side the kids could use it as a clubhouse. A Mexican family hid there from immigration. They held the Israeli Palestine Peace talks in it.  I brought it to the Marina and sailed around Cape Hope in it. I'm telling you, it did not go to waste.

Finally it became apparent that I had totally fucked up and was not going to use this escapee from the Ice Age. I put an ad in the newspaper. All it said was "brand new. 28 cubic foot freezer for sale" I expected families to call... wrong. Institutions called. Colleges, hospitals, food chains... prisons!!! What the fuck had I bought?  I finally sold it to the highest bidder, a catering company that told me they hoped they had enough food to fill it. 

And that's my insane life, me trying to find happiness at any cost... only to get the cold shoulder once again.    (tee-hee)

NOVEMBER 21, 2006 -
GARY

Last night I watched RENT on pay per view. I had no idea what it was about. I thought it was going to be like HAIR. You know, Rent/Hair, rock musicals, it's all the same, right? Anyway, it really moved me and it made me want to tell you about someone who I lost 30 years ago next November. 

When I was first starting out in show business it was imperative I got an agent who believed in me and would fight to get me work. Sounds simple but it's almost impossible. The business is tough, agents don't have time and some just don't have the inclination to develop new talent, it's easier to work with established stars.   The quest to find representation was endless but it all changed for me in the blink of an eye.

It was a smoky Saturday night at the Improv in Los Angeles. I was standing in the hallway and a figure approached me from out of the darkness.  I didn't know this man but he had a smile on his face and seemed pleasant. He extended his hand, "Hi, I'm Gary Weinberg. I saw you at the Comedy Store a couple of days ago, it was the first time I laughed in two weeks." I sort of shook my head in a humble kind of "stop you're embarrassing me" way. "I'm with I.C.M., do you have an agent?"  (I.C.M. was the biggest agency in town at the time and getting an agent there a coup.) "No, I don't have an agent." "Good. Would you come in to see me tomorrow? I'll have my secretary set up an appointment." And he hands me his card and walks back into the shadows.  It was as simple as that. 

The very next day Wanda calls to set up the appointment and I'm sitting in his office, with all the pictures of stars on the wall but I'm not hearing a word he's is saying. I'm in shock. I think I hear, " You could be a big star, I think you're talented, I think..." whatever. Within four days there is a contract in my mailbox and I'm signed to the agency.  Three years of struggle... working for Photomat, as a gardener, in an antique store... never a waiter! I had some dignity.  And now the doors were opening. It was a very exciting time.

What usually happens after you sign with a big agency is the agent forgets about you and you get lost in the roster of   huge stars. But that didn't happen with Gary. I was immediately sent out on interviews. I was working at the Comedy Store one week and flying to Lake Tahoe to open for Kenny Loggins the next.  Gary was unstoppable, people would come up to me, "Man, does your agent love you."  And they would tell me how he fought to get me in to see this producer or that casting director. It was unheard of. I was the envy of all my comedian friends.

You have to understand how worthless I felt at that time. Somehow I managed to pull myself through that pile of muck and make a life for myself. Gary was making my career.  I wasn't so much as grateful to Gary as I was in awe. Most entertainers are selfish people who think only of themselves.  I was different, when you feel so worthless and someone works so hard to make you a success, you can't take it for granted, you have to repay him.  It's only right. And I repaid Gary the only way I knew how, with unconditional friendship. I made sure he knew how much I appreciated what he was doing and made myself available if HE ever needed ME.  I adored this man; he was my big brother, my muse, my mentor, my best friend.  We spoke at least once a day... he was the friend I always wanted the brother I never had.

Now, Gary was a fantastic businessman.   It was Gary who taught me how to buy real estate. But I always knew that I could never achieve what Gary had or make as much money or... did it matter, I wasn't going to be a good as Gary? Gary was buying houses and flipping them. He was making millions, so much so it finally came to a point where he didn't need to work for I.C. M. and he quit. I knew it would be the end of my career. No one else really cared about me, only Gary. I remember making a conscious decision to remain his friend even after he left the agency. It was sort of my way of saying thank you.    The last thing he did before he left the agency was make sure I got signed to a huge Management firm. They picked up the ball where Gary had set it down and used their power to get me even more work. So his parting gift to me was to insure I would work even if he wasn't there to guide my career.

Once I started working I was in and out of town regularly. Gary and I spoke but the conversations became shorter and were further between. He never left my mind though. He was still my brother.  And then, one day, I realized that I hadn't spoken to him in several weeks. I called him. There was no answer. And so I called and called and called and finally left a message on his machine, "If I don't hear from you tomorrow, I'm calling the police".  And the next day the call came. "I'm sick".  I ran to Cedars. He was so sick that day, he asked me to leave.  "They don't know what's wrong with me. My immune system is shutting down? It's me and 17 other guys at UCLA." is all he could say.

And over the next several weeks I watched as he got better and worse and better and worse. The doctors didn't know what was wrong with him; the disease didn't even have a name back then.  He was sent home and had 24 hour care. One night he called me, "My nurse can't stay the night."  I was there in five minutes. I slept on the sofa in the living room and checked on him during the night. In the morning he was sitting up in bed, "God I feel better. I'm going to be fine now."  And I left.

About a week later I called Gary to see how he was doing. There was a message on his answering machine. "I've gone to Florida to be with my parents." I called immediately and was told Gary was in the hospital with Cancer throughout 90% of his body. I knew the end was near and I started making deals with God but none of them worked.  He died on Nov. 18, 1981 and a little bit of me died with him. I had lost my brother, my mentor, my muse and my best friend. I didn't care about my career. I only cared about the loss of my dearest friend. I remember standing at the kitchen sink holding on to the counter as my knees buckled under me. I had never experienced such grief before or since. Later in therapy I learned I was crying because I didn't believe in myself and had just lost the only person who I thought did.

The years passed. I had my ups and downs... a divorce, a nervous breakdown...another nervous breakdown, several failed relationships... but my friendship with Gary never faltered. I could not forget this friend, this champion of my talent. And when I did not become a superstar, I felt I had let Gary down.

Now here's the very strange thing. About 7 years ago I was walking through my Bel Air home. It has a bridge that goes over the living room, which leads to the great room. When I bought this house it was a total re-do. I stole it because of the condition and then spent the next two years restoring it.  I was standing on the bridge admiring my work when it suddenly hit me. I had done what Gary had taught me. I hadn't even been aware of it. His example had sunk into my subconscious; even in death he was my teacher.   But, then I knew in an instant I hadn't done it alone... Gary had been with me all the way. He had guided me, protected me and helped me to prosper and I knew he had been there to help me, to guide me, to protect me just as he always had been.

I had a major mudslide at my home. The day of the slide I had been sitting at my desk. I got up to walk down the hall when the back of the house exploded. I don’t know why I got up. I just did but if I had been sitting in that chair, I would have been killed.  What made me get up at that very instant?  Who guided me out of harms way? Some say luck but I say I have a guardian angel... his name... is Gary.

Please, don't see RENT it'll just depress the shit out of you!

AUGUST 3, 2006 -
MIAMI

My agent, Gary Weinberg, had been booking my little tush all over the country. I was green but I was learning and doing well everywhere. He called me and said, "I just booked you at the Doral in Miami."  "Cool" I thought. "When you get there, give my parents a call.",  he says... and I do.  Here is the first thing his mother says to me. "Why did he book you there? You're gonna bomb."  (Long silence) (Whispering voice)  "Thinner".

I get to Florida and my Aunt picks me up at the airport, first mistake. It begins. "Have you called your mother? Why haven't you? Do you want your mother to die of a broken heart?" I'm not in the city five minutes and the guilt has already started. There must be a guilt school these women go to. My Aunt drops me off at the Doral; the car is three feet from the curb. A bellman takes my bag from the car to the curb and sticks out his hand. While he's doing that a second bellman takes my bag from the curb to the front door where a third bellman is waiting to take it inside. "WAIT A MINUTE!!" I scream. "Am I going to have to tip one of these guys every six feet?"

The show is that night. (Thinner) I have never worked Miami before. (Thinner) I arrive at the hall at the designated time.  The MC approaches me and tells me I'll be going on in twenty minutes. I  start my pacing and in twenty minutes the MC enters the stage. "Ladies and Gentleman, Steve Bluestein". That's all he said. A light smattering of applause can be heard. I begin... (Thinner)  NOTHING. Gary's mother's words come back to me. "You're gonna bomb."  I continue talking... nothing. The sweat begins to pour. (Calista Flockhart thinner) I try improv.... nothing. I talk to the audience...nothing. I do my twenty minutes and get off. They never noticed I left the stage.

I'm thinking, "I wonder if there's a gun shop in the hotel." I'm standing at the elevator when a man comes up to me. "Hey, kid, nice show." I just smile.  "I'm Joey Villa." I know the name; he's a Vegas comedian.  "You can't fight the fork." "Huh?" "They were eating dinner when you started. You can't fight the fork."  And this stranger, this comedian from another era, sits me down and tells me the following. "First of all they were sitting at round tables. Half the audience had their back to you. Bad. Second, they were serving dinner. You can't work when people have food in the mouths, they can't laugh. Third, comedy needs focus and their focus was on their food not you. And, your intro sucked. That MC did nothing to help you. Your act is good. I know comedy and you're a funny kid, but they tied your hands... NEVER LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOU AGAIN."  And he shakes my hand and goes back inside.

To this day I will not work if there is food on the table, I won't work to round tables and I will NOT work in Miami. And if it's a round table of food in Miami...forget about it. But not for the reasons you think. About 12 years later I get booked at the Comedy Club in Miami Beach. The manager of the Miami club is a lady who worked at a club in Newport Beach. She had been the manager of the that club and the story goes that she  had gone out after work with two of the waitresses to grab a bite to eat. There had been an auto accident and the two girls were killed, a horrible thing to experience. It's alleged the manager, who was sort of a tart looking woman, carried around the guilt of those deaths and began to self-destruct. She left California and opened a club in Miami. She called me and I was booked.  I had always liked this woman; she was over the top but fun to be with. Besides I wasn't going to marry her, only work for her.

It was a two-week gig.

WEEK ONE

The shows were going very well. We were sold out every night. The crowds were wonderful. The management seemed happy.  Then the club manager tells me "We're going to do a publicity show for your second week. All the TV and press will be there. Will you do it?" "Sure, where?" "At Children's Hospital." "Wait. You want me to do comedy in a children's hospital?" "Not in the hospital, in the auditorium for the doctors and the staff." "OOOOOH" That seemed strange but I agreed. 

The day of the show she drives me to the hospital. As we're walking in she says, "There's been a change. We're not doing the show in the auditorium." "Oh, where are we doing it?" "Here" And she walks me into the children's ward complete with oxygen tents, plaster casts and dying children. "YOU WANT ME TO DO COMEDY IN HERE????" We get into a heated debate. I tell her all the reasons why I can't do the show here and she says, "If you don't do it, the boys at the club will be really pissed." "What boys?" and she pushes her nose to the left.

So I'm standing on a milk crate in the Leukemia ward of Miami Children's Hospital doing comedy.  The audience is composed of doctors, nurses, parents and sick children. You have no idea how I wish they had been eating dinner at round tables.

I know I cannot do my act under these conditions so I pull out, from the dark reaches of my mind, a children's improv exercise I learned at Emerson and work with the kids that way, all the time making funny asides to the parents.  Right in the middle of the set a boy to my left begins to cough. He coughs and sputters, his screen goes blank, alarms go off and fifteen nurses start pounding on his chest.  Suddenly there is a blip on the screen, they settle him down and all eyes go back to me.    "Thank you! Good night!"

I'm out of the room and into the car. I am really upset.  That night is the end of the first week. I am to be paid as per my contract... but there is no check. Despite repeated promises, there is no check the next night or the night after , when I open the 2nd week.

WEEK TWO

I open the second week. I have not been paid for the first week and I have been forced to do a comedy show for free in a children's ward... in front of TV cameras. I am not happy.  However, I have faith that they will come through and I open the second week.  I'm doing the show and I'm talking to the audience. There is a guy on the ring and I start talking to him. "What do you do?" And he says, "I'm the chef here." And I say, "Did you get paid this week?" and he says "NO".  This sets me off on a twenty-minute tirade about not getting paid. I said, " I think the hotel is in trouble. I asked for towels and the maid said I had to share mine with room next door."  The place went up for grabs. The more they screamed the funnier I got. I started talking about the hotel and the show at the hospital and not getting paid.  The audience was laughing with the kind of energy that spurred me on. It's like throwing gasoline on a fire. Now I'm getting angry. The angrier I get the funnier it gets because I pull out all the stops. I have worked many years and there are magical nights... this was one of those nights. Nothing I said was wrong. The audience was not laughing they were convulsing. And the more they convulsed the funnier I got, I was a snowball going down hill and there was no stopping me.

I finished the show and to my surprise there was my roommate from freshman year in college Mark Hurwitz, my roommate from senior year, Jon Stierwalt and my cousin Susan, her husband and kids. Susan was standing on her chair screaming, as the audience demanded an encore. I did a few more minutes and got off stage thinking this is one for the books.  The manager comes running up to me, I think, to congratulate me. Instead she takes me under the arm and says, "Get out of here and get out now. The boys are furious about what you said about the hotel." "HUH?" "Honey, I'm telling you. Leave. Run. Get out."  It's like a B movie. And she pushes me out the door.

I go to Jon Stierwalt and tell him "The Mafia is after me."  We   run up to my room and, like a Marx Brother's comedy, we are packing and throwing clothes in suitcases and bumping into each other and I'm shitting a brick. I check out surrounded by Jon and his wife Ronnie, who are protecting me like I'm the Pope.  We get to the car and they take me to an "undisclosed location". I never hear from the club again, I never get paid, I NEVER WORK MIAMI BEACH AGAIN.... EVER.

And... that's why I hate the Jews in Miami.   Hey, wait a minute! That wasn't the Jew's fault...it was the Mafia. OK. I don't hate the Jews in Miami...I hate the Mafia.

                             August 4, 2006 –
JON STIERWALT

I met Jon when I transferred to Emerson from University of Miami. He was like no one I had ever met. He had an energy about him that charged the air. His laugh was contagious. He was Elmer Gantry, the most charismatic person on earth… and the fastest talking fast talker east of the Berkshires. This man could talk you out of your dentures.    He was the charmer of all charmers, the Svengali of all Svengalis; he was the warmest, most fun loving human being who ever came into my life and still is.

I loved this guy the moment I met him. I remember he and I sitting in my car on Beacon Hill sharing with each other why we weren’t getting laid. No one had ever been that open with me and I decided that night we would be friends forever… and… we are.

Jon fell in love with Ronnie Adler, the most beautiful girl at Emerson. She was Jewish, Jon was not. She was quiet; Jon was out going. She was serious about school; Jon considered it a lark. Of all the couples who got engaged at Emerson, they were the two who we all knew would end up divorced. With the exception of maybe two, they remained married the longest and proved us all wrong.

After getting married, Jon and Ronnie lived in Queens with their dog Rello, named after the character Jon played in the Emerson Musical…Fiorello. The three of us had wonderful adventures in New York but I was destined to move to California and Jon had gotten a job as a salesman. In true Jon fashion he bought a mobile home and began traveling his territory; in true Ronnie fashion she supported his decision. We didn’t see much of each other for maybe ten years as we both traveled the road and then one night, out of the blue, he called and we picked up like it had been ten minutes instead of ten years. With some people there is no space or time, that’s how it was with Jon and me.  There was no need to explain where we had been, we were just glad we were back together.

We all went on our merry way for years, Jon and Ronnie had a daughter, Nichole, and we saw each other when our paths crossed. There was always the Christmas card or the birthday call. We remained tight and in each other’s lives. And then one night I got a call from Jon. “OK, I’m not going to pull any punches. Ronnie has lung cancer and has been given three months to live.”  It was like someone took a baseball bat and hit me on the side of the head. “Oh Jon” is all I could say.  He told me the entire story of how her illness began, of how he had fought with a doctor who brutally told his wife of her impending death instead of breaking it to her gently. This was a new Jon. He was captain of his ship and it was going down… but he was staying at his post. He is and was a remarkable human being.

I stepped up my connection with Ronnie, sending her flowers and cards as often as I could. And it went on like that for a couple of months. And then during one of my weekly calls I said to her, “Ronnie, I think I’m going to come and visit you.” And without hesitation and with a distant sound in her voice she said, “Yes. Come.” There was a finality in those words that made me determined that I would be by her side soon.   That was on a Friday. The following Monday I was in my car and Diane, a mutual friend from Emerson, called on my cell “Steve, Ronnie has 48 hours. Come to Florida.”  “WHAT! I just spoke to her.” “Come to Florida” is all she said and hung up.

I pulled into my driveway crying. I ran inside and called American. “I want the first plane to Fort Lauderdale, please.” I was booked in five minutes and called Jon. Nicole would pick me up at the airport. I had not seen her since she was six but when she pulled up curbside, I got in the car without even asking. She had Ronnie’s stunning face and Jon’s blonde hair; she was and still is a magnificent beauty. I knew who she was. It’s how a mother seal knows her pup on the beach with ten thousand other pups. Ya just know. 

On the drive to Jon’s house Nichole tells me Allan and Diane are coming in from Washington DC. Toni and her husband are coming in from Miami. Someone was flying in from Boston.  Friends were coming in from all across the country to be with Ronnie. And… we were all staying at Jon’s house.

Jon had done well as a salesman; he had purchased this wonderful Key West style home just outside of Palm Beach. It had a huge great room and five bedrooms so everyone would have a room.  Except me, I slept on the sofa. And the vigil began.

Now you have to know this about Jon and I. We love to laugh and I love to make him laugh. And despite the situation that brought us together that’s what we did non-stop for the entire time we were together. Laugh. It all started when Jon realized he didn’t know what bank the safety deposit box was in. Ronnie was in a coma in the next room… and she was the only one who knew.  I say to Jon, “We’ll have to wake her.” And all nine of us go into Ronnie’s room and sit on the bed. “Ronnie, honey. Wake up dear. Jon needs to know where the money is. Ronnie? Wake up.” This goes on for hours. Nothing. Nichole comes home. Jon screams, “Nichole. Get in here.” She runs in “Wake your mother.”  And without a beat she crawls into bed with Ronnie and cuddles up to her. “Mommy, it’s time to get up.” There’s something about a mother’s bond with her child because the sound of Nichole’s voice woke Ronnie.  Diane pushes Nichole out of the way. “Ronnie, where’s your safety deposit box?”  Ronnie looks at Diane and says, “I don’t know where the fucking box is.” and lapses back into a coma.