Rickles' Book
Authors: Don Rickles and David Ritz
B
IOGRAPHY
Divided Soul: The Life of Marvin Gaye
Faith in Time: The Life of Jimmy Scott
UTOBIOGRAPHY
Brother Ray
(with Ray Charles)
Inside My Life
(with Smokey Robinson)
The Rhythm and the Blues
(with Jerry Wexler)
Rage to Survive
(with Etta James)
Blues All Around Me
(with B.B. King)
Guide to Life
(with Sinbad)
From These Roots
(with Aretha Franklin)
The Brothers
(with the Neville Brothers)
Reach
(with Laila Ali)
Guillaume
(with Robert Guillaume)
Howling at the Moon
(with Walter Yetnikoff)
Elvis by the Presleys
(editor)
Messengers: Portraits of African American Ministers
What I Know For Sure
(with Travis Smiley)
OVELS
Search for Happiness
The Man Who Brought the Dodgers Back to Brooklyn
Dreams
Blue Notes Under a Green Felt Hat
Barbells and Saxophones
Family Blood
Passion Flowers
Sanctified Blues
(with Mable John)
SIMON & SCHUSTER
Rockefeller Center
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Copyright © 2007 by Wynnefield Productions, Inc.
All rights reserved,
including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form.
S
IMON
&
SCHUSTER
and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Designed by Joseph Rutt
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rickles, Don.
Rickles’ book / Don Rickles with David Ritz.
p. cm.
1. Rickles, Don. 2. Actors—United States—Biography. 3. Comedians—United States—Biography. I. Ritz, David. II. Title.
PN2287.R53A3 2007
792.702’8092—dc22 2006038948
ISBN: 1-4165-3983-2
ISBN: 9781416539834
All photgraphs from the collection of the author.
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
FOR MY BARBARA
Thanks from Rickles to:
My wonderful children, Mindy and Larry, my grandsons Ethan and Harrison, and my son-in-law, Ed.
Eliot Weisman, loyal friend and world���s best manager. He had to be. He managed Sinatra. Eliot, thanks for being there when I needed you. That’s something I’ll never forget.
Bill Braunstein, my business manager forever. He inherited the job from his dad, Jerry. Bill keeps our bills straight, and we’re grateful.
Tony O, exceptional road manager. Man of quiet authority and great skill. He loves telling everyone that I’m a show-business legend. And I respect him because he never lies.
Joe Mele, my musical conductor, who taught me tempo and was crazy enough to convince me I could sing.
Paul Shefrin, my publicist. He inherited the job from his dad, Gene. Thanks for keeping my name alive all these years.
David Rosenthal, thanks for approaching me and Eliot with this book idea. And thanks for setting up a great relationship between David Ritz and me.
David Ritz, a true partner.
Mel Berger, thanks.
Thanks from Ritz to:
Emperor Don Rickles, David Rosenthal and David Vigliano.
Roberta, Alison, Jessica, Henry, James, Jim, Pops, Charlotte Pearl, Alden, Elizabeth, Esther, my beautiful nieces and nephews. Alan Eisenstock, Harry Weinger, Richard Freed, Richard Cohen.
Two guys meet on the street.
“You read
Rickles’ Book
?” asks the first guy.
“What’s the title?” asks the second.
“Rickles’ Book.”
“You told me. But what does he call it?”
“He calls it
Rickles’ Book.”
“Why?”
“He couldn’t think of a title—that’s why.”
W
e start out in the fifties in Vegas.
It was a different Vegas back then. Men wore suits and ties. Women wore gowns. I was desperate for any kind of female—a dog, a horse, anything.
I hadn’t hit it big, but I was getting by. I was single and in heat, and scoring with the girls wasn’t my greatest talent. On this particular night, I managed to convince some young lady to join me for dinner. She was no Gina Lollobrigida, but she was alive. If I couldn’t score this time, I was ready to put Spider in the rest home. (You can guess who Spider is.)
This young lady was wearing a pink dress covered with dead flowers, but she had a set of lamps on her that could light up highway traffic.
I took her out for dinner, then drinks afterward.
“Can we go to the Sands?” she asked.
“Where else?” I said.
The Sands was swanky, the hottest spot in town. Frank Sinatra was headlining at the Sands. In those days, the place had strolling violinists and hors d’oeuvres in the lounge. We sat in a corner and I ordered champagne. (You can bet it wasn’t Dom Perignon.) You could hear the clinking of glasses. You could see this was class. My date could see that Sinatra and his entourage had just arrived and were seated in a roped-off section.
“My God,” she said. “There’s Frank Sinatra! Do you know him?”
“Do I know him? We’re like brothers.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Wait here, hon,” I said, trying to sound suave. “I’ll be right back.”
I got up and approached Frank’s party. He was with Dinah Shore and some other celebrities. His security boys took one look at me and turned to the boss. “It’s Rickles,” they said.
Frank was hitting his favorite, Jack Daniels, pretty good.
“Bullethead!” said Frank. That was his term of endearment for me. “Bullethead,” he repeated, “how you doing?”
“Can I talk to you for a second, Frank?”
“Sure.”
I leaned over and whispered, “Frank, I need your help. I’m with this gal and I could impress her big-time if you’d come over and just say, ‘Hello, Don.’ That’s it, Frank. Two words, ‘Hello, Don,’ and everything will be beautiful.”
“For you, Bullethead, I’ll do it.”
“Gee, thanks, Frank, you’re a pal.”
I walked back to the table and, filled with confidence, raised my glass of champagne to toast the lady. “You are something special,” I told her. “You have real class.” I thought she bought it.
Meanwhile, I was praying, God, let this thing happen.
It didn’t happen right away. A minute passed. Then five. Then ten. My heart was beating fast. My right leg was vibrating. Finally, Frank got up and made his move. Slowly he walked over to our table.
My date was beaming. I was beaming. Frank was beaming.
“Don,” he said. “How the hell are you?”
I took a deep breath, counted off a beat, turned to him and, in my loudest voice, said, “NOT NOW, FRANK—CAN’T YOU SEE I’M WITH SOMEBODY!”
The violins stopped.
The clinking glasses stopped.
Everyone stopped talking.
Everyone stared at us.
Time stopped.
And then, God bless him, Frank fell down laughing.
Two minutes later, two security guards and a couple of Frank’s pals came over, picked me up, and carried me over their heads and out of the Sands.
I never saw the gal again.
Frank thought that was a riot, and I went home and made love to my pillow.
The kid from Jackson Heights.
