Rubber Balls and Liquor (24 page)

At first, I thought all of this raging disinterest had to do with my lowly
presenter
status, but then I realized it was just me. There were other presenters walking that red carpet, stopping to pose for pictures or talk to reporters, but if it looked to a member of the press like I might stop or even slow down he or she would make a motion to suggest that I keep moving.

One of the other presenters that night was Sam Kinison, but for some reason everyone was paying attention to
him
. Nothing against Sam, who was of course a brilliant comedian. This was before he died. After he died, he was too busy to be a mere presenter at the Emmy Awards. Also, he was no longer such a brilliant comedian. His timing was off, if you want to know the truth. On this night, though, his pending appearance was the talk of the production meetings. He was just a presenter, like me, but he was still the center of attention, even though his tuxedo was not nearly as handsome as mine. Everyone was worried he would say or do something to disrupt the show, but it wasn't Sam they had to worry about. It was me, the impish Jew.

The awards show people, the network, the producers … everyone was so worried about crazy Sam Kinison, but I was stealth. That is how I roll, apparently. (Mind you, this was news to me, but I was happily surprised.) Under the radar, that's where you'll find me, I've learned, and if you can't find me there be sure to check under the kitchen table, or perhaps the bed. These nervous entertainment executives didn't see me coming, which is usually how I like it when I come (note, please, the family-friendly spelling), and there had been a few things on my mind that I wanted to get off my chest.

What was troubling me was this: Pee-wee Herman. Specifically, I was troubled about Pee-wee's troubles with the law. Remember, this was around the time he'd been arrested at a porn theater in Florida, for the simple crime of doing what people are supposed to be doing at porn theaters in Florida. It's part of our unwritten social contract, that we confine our semipublic acts of masturbation and self-flagellation to the semidarkness of our local porn theater, where that type of behavior belongs. (If it works out that you're able to confine your alleged misconduct to a strip mall in Florida, so much the better.)

Our pal Pee-wee was only doing his part, showing a childlike curiosity in sexual matters, and what happened? Well, no sooner than you can say, “Gee, that guy on the screen must shave his balls,” Pee-wee was getting arrested for playing with his pee-wee.

(Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

(But then, neither could Pee-wee.)

Predictably, this was front-page news. Every news and entertainment program led with a mug shot of Paul Reubens, looking solemn and unrecognizable and abashed, which is not a description you often see in this context but now that I'm a writer I figured it's okay to branch out.

(Gotta love that guy who invented the thesaurus … he's got a different word for
everything
.)

The arrest photo ran in every major newspaper in the country. It even made
People
magazine. It wasn't the most flattering picture—a potential career ender, if you asked me, and I happen to be something of an authority on career-ending moves. With his long hair and beard, Pee Wee looked a little like Christ, if Christ had been arrested in Florida for jerking off in a local porn theater, although now that I think of it I can't imagine Mr. Christ ever found himself in such a circumstance. I'll have to ask Mel Gibson. I understand he knows about such things.

To make matters worse, Pee-wee tried to talk his way out of it. He said to the arresting officer, “But I'm Pee-wee Herman,” thinking maybe this might get him off.

(I know, I know … I've backed right into an obvious joke, something along the lines of
Yeah, as opposed to the other thought he'd just had that was supposed to get him off
, but it's not like me to stoop or pander, at least not without proper lubrication.)

That was just about the worst thing he could have said. The
absolute
worst thing he could have said would have been, “But I'm Gilbert Gottfried.”

Which would of course have begged the natural follow-up question, from the entire vice squad, delivered in unison: “Who?”

Back to the Emmys. Before the show, I did a mike check, but Mike wasn't there.

(Again, sorry. Sometimes I just can't help myself.)

The sound check went fine. A few earnest-seeming young people told me where I was meant to stand, when I was scheduled to appear in the program, who would be introducing me. Beyond that, nothing was prepared for me. Sometimes, you go to these shows, one of the writers has prepared a bit or a line that may or may not have anything to do with the category of award you're supposed to present. And it may or may not have anything to do with contemporary American humor. It's just a bit or a line, something to say. Here, though, I appeared to be on my own. There was a list of the nominees' names, and an envelope I was meant to open, and that was it. Another young someone wearing a headset who appeared to be in a position of authority said, “Just have fun, Gilbert.”

So I took him at his word.

I'm told that people are still talking about what I said that night, in my first and only appearance as an Emmy presenter. I hardly believe this is true, but it's nice to hear, and I certainly don't mind reporting it here as unsubstantiated fact.

What I said, to the best of my recollection, went a little something like this:

“I can sleep a lot better, knowing Pee-wee Herman has been arrested.

“If masturbation is a crime, then I should be on Death Row. To think that by the age of twelve, I was already Al Capone.

“Right now, my right hand is as strong as Superman's right hand. I can hold a piece of coal and squeeze it into a diamond.

“If the cops tried to arrest me, they'd be yelling, ‘Stay away from his right hand! He can kill you with it!'

“How do the police even prove you were masturbating? Do they dust you for prints?”

Oh, I had a million of 'em, as we human animal comedians like to say. And I was determined to tell every last one of 'em, to the great discomfort of the show's producers and a wide swath of Middle America. What the hell did I care? And the audience at the Pasadena Civic Auditorium didn't seem to care either. In fact, they seemed to rather enjoy it. (Not just
merely
enjoy it, but
rather
enjoy it, which is a whole lot better.) They were rolling in the aisles, laughing their heads off. Frequently, this is just a meaningless expression, meant to indicate that people appreciated a performance, but in this case it's an accurate description. Betty White was one of the nominees that year, for her outstanding work on that dried-up-prune show she did with Bea Arthur, and she was rolling in the aisle in such an uncontrollable fit that someone thought to call a medic. And one of the actors from
Twin Peaks
really did laugh his head off, although in retrospect I suppose it could have been a special effect.

But seriously, folks … I killed. I was a regular Charles Bronson up there on that stage, gunning down this unsuspecting Emmy audience. There were peals of laughter. There were howls of merriment. There was even some pant wetting, I was later told, all of it followed by a giant wave of applause. I mention this not to tell readers how great I am or to feed my ego. (Okay, maybe a little.) No, I mention this to make a point about the press, which for the time being appeared to receive me with its usual indifference. I left the stage to hoots and hollers and guffaws, and then I was met backstage by reporters and photographers who all seemed to take turns wondering why they now had to talk to me. After all, they'd spent all that time ignoring me on my way in to the theater, so why should they now have to acknowledge me on my way out?

Normally, at that time in my career, when one of the paparazzi screamed my name, it was to tell me to move a little bit to my left because I was blocking their shot of Ted Danson. And that was still very much the case. I'd left the audience spent and exhausted from all that belly laughing, but the media couldn't have cared less. I was still ignored by the reporters and photographers. Even the autograph seekers were looking straight past me, hoping to catch a glimpse of the cast of
thirtysomething
.

At least that's how it was at first, but after a while some members of the press started to pay attention. It's possible that there was just a lull in the proceedings, and I was the only remotely famous or attention-worthy person in their line of sight, but for a moment or two I was the center of attention. Okay, maybe I wasn't the
center
of attention, not even for a moment or two, but at least I was nearby. One or two photographers actually wanted me to turn and face their cameras. One or two reporters actually shouted out questions for me to answer. I wouldn't go so far as to suggest I'd set off a media frenzy, but there was a stillness backstage at the Emmys that had more than a little something to do with me.

I was a hit, at least in Gilbert Gottfried terms—a big fat pile of steaming hit.

And then, just like that, I wasn't. Somewhere between the press room and the Governors Ball, something happened. I was feeling pretty good about myself when I left the theater and headed over to the Governors Ball, but then when I got there the governor stood and zipped his pants and asked me to leave. A few people came up to me and told me they liked my set. Even Sam Kinison came over, to tell me he loved the fact that people had been so worried about him and here I'd done this little end-around and taken some of the heat off of his performance.

(He said this in a good way, I think.)

Then he asked where I shopped for my tuxedo.

After a while, though, the tone of all this admiring small talk seemed to shift. It was subtle at first, this shift, but it became more and more noticeable as I made my way around the room. Soon, the positive vibe felt a little bit negative, and I started to hear a buzz or a groan or a whisper of speculation that my bit might be cut from the show's West Coast feed. The show had been broadcast live in most of the country, but it had yet to air in California and some of those other states on that side of the map, and this troubled me. The reason this troubled me was unquestionably selfish. I'd killed, and I wanted the whole world to know that I killed. Even people in California, which of course was where we were at the time—and where the sight of me killing could only help my career. I didn't care all that much about censorship or double standards or any of the other big-picture issues that seemed to surface on the back of this decision to cut me from the broadcast, even though I would take up these points later on in interviews and profess moral outrage to make it appear as if I gave a shit about something bigger or other than me.

It's amazing, really, the about-face the media took in response to my appearance. At first, all these reporters and photographers had been quietly tolerant; then, they were mildly interested; now they were indignant, and offended. Suddenly, I was the guy in the Pee-wee Herman spot, in the pages of all these newspapers, and on all these news and entertainment shows. Instead of a mug shot, there was a picture of me in my handsome tuxedo, making a gesture with my right hand that I suppose could have been interpreted as masturbatory. If I had been a politician, my gestures could have been seen as emphasis-adders, to help me make an important point about taxes or health care, but since I was a comedian with a long history of dick jokes they could only be seen as the sign for jerking off.

One headline called the show “The X-Rated Emmys,” and a columnist referred to my appearance as “a new low.” (Personally, I kind of liked that one.) The same reporters who had ignored me on the red carpet the night before were now calling me for interviews. In some of the articles I even read that the entire Emmy audience sat in shocked, stony silence the whole time I was onstage. The only time the silence was broken, the articles said, was when the
harrumphing
crowd took turns murmuring to each other how deeply offended they were by my appearance. This was certainly not the case, but I didn't have it in me to object.

All I cared about, really, was that they weren't referring to my physical appearance, because I thought I looked smart and spiffy. And I'd just started wearing my hair a new way that was meant to be fetching.

And then a curious thing happened. The more critics and pundits and media types weighed in to tell how offended they were by my performance, the more people had a chance to be offended by my performance. Millions and millions of people who would have never seen my performance in the first place. It was another one of those delicious ironies, only this one came wrapped inside an enigma with a side of coleslaw. The bit that had been cut from the broadcast was played over and over on all these news outlets. Newspapers printed my filthy comments, almost word-for-word. The entire mainstream media seemed to be in general agreement that I was the most offensive degenerate in Hollywood, and that no caring, thinking, decent person should be subjected to my views, and then they went out of their way to make sure that every caring, thinking, decent person had a second chance to do just that.

Oh, the hypocrisy! (Such great fun, don't you think?)

I could rant and rave about this, but I don't think I will. What else is there to say? Also, I can't shake this picture in my head of Betty White rolling around on the floor and I feel a sudden urge to rub one out and it's difficult to type with just my left hand.