Rubber Balls and Liquor (4 page)

What I mean to say, I guess, is that a lot of people are mesmerized by fame. It's like lifeblood to the huddled masses. We live in a world where even a guy like Osama bin Laden commands our fanaticism. Sure, he might be the most hated man on the planet, especially now that Bernie Madoff has been ass-raped a few dozen times by his fellow inmates, but if Osama bin Laden turned up on a crowded city street one afternoon people wouldn't stone him or call the police or even shout unpleasantries in his direction. No, they'd run up to him and get his autograph, or pose for pictures with him to post on Facebook, or ask him to record an outgoing message for their voice mail. (As if this last would impress anyone, because who the hell would even recognize Osama bin Laden's voice? If he didn't start out saying, “Hi Guys, it's me, Bin,” you'd have no idea who the fuck it was.) They'd get him to mug one of those mock, Ali-Frazier publicity poses, with a silly
why-I-oughtta-knock-your-block-off
expression, and they'd consider themselves fortunate to have run into the guy. After that, they'd Tweet to their friends that he's really not so bad after all, just misunderstood. Then Barbara Walters would call, seeking an interview, but Osama's publicist would convince him to hold out for Oprah, even though his client really wants to do the Stern show to talk about how popular Afghani dishes like Quoroot (dried yogurt) and Osh Pyozee (stuffed onions) give him gas.

The first famous person I ever met was Chita Rivera. She was probably fifty at the time. I had a vague idea who she was, and as far as I knew I'd never jerked off to her, so it wasn't the most exciting encounter. She came up to me after one of my shows, when I was just starting out. She said, “Hi, I'm Chita Rivera.”

In response, I wanted to say, “Hi, I'm Gilbert. I jerked off to you in
West Side Story.
” But I was too shy. Plus, I wasn't so sure this was the case, and I wanted to be accurate. Instead, I said, “Nice to meet you, Chita Rivera.”

She told me I looked like one of her nephews or cousins. I told her she looked like Rita Moreno. And that was that. I would have asked her to record an outgoing voice message for me, but I don't think they had answering machines at the time.

This began a long and not entirely successful series of encounters with people much more famous than me. Now, this seemed to be the case every time I met someone who worked in movies or television, where everyone seemed to be much more famous than me, so I never quite managed to narrow the field. Over the years, however, through no fault of my own, I became ever so slightly more famous and recognizable, but it always feels like I'm a notch or two below whoever I'm meeting.

Once, inexplicably, Bea Arthur approached me at some event and said hello. Now, I'm reasonably certain that I never jerked off to Bea Arthur in
Maude,
although her daughter on the show was pretty hot, and I could have been persuaded to join in on a mother-daughter three-way, and I'm also reasonably certain that I never jerked off to Bea Arthur in
Golden Girls,
although Rue McClanahan was nothing to sneeze at.

(Note to self: what does that expression even mean,
nothing to sneeze at
? What would be a good example of something to sneeze at? Or, more to the point,
who
would be a good example of someone to sneeze at? Jimmy Durante, maybe. Karl Malden. Pinocchio…)

(Note to reader: you'll notice here that I've inserted the qualifier
reasonably
to soften my certainty about never having jerked off to Bea Arthur, because who among us can be really and truly certain of such a thing? I mean, this is Bea Arthur we're talking about, people. An icon of the small screen! That face! That voice! Those stunning housedresses!)

(Note to editor: ask Gilbert to go easy on these parenthetical inserts, which he has a tendency to overuse.)

(I could go on and on, and at some point I probably will, but right now it's probably best to leave well enough alone. Funny enough, as a side note, I've heard from some of my celebrity friends that
Well Enough
is an affectionate nickname for my penis that's been adopted by women in Hollywood, who also seem to agree that it's probably best to leave Well Enough alone.)

Moving on …

Bea Arthur came over to me and said, “Hi, Gilbert. How are you?”

In response, I said the first thing that popped into my head: “I'm fine, Bea, how are you?”

She asked what I was working on, so I told her. Then I asked what she was working on, and she told me. After that there was a long, uncomfortable pause—which is not to be confused with a long, comfortable pause, which is something else entirely. Then, after another few seconds, she stepped back and said, “Do we know each other, or do we just know each other from television?”

I said, “I think we just know each other from television.”

Then she walked away.

There's no denying, it was a thrilling encounter—for me, anyway. I can't say for sure if it meant anything to Maude, but it's stayed with me on my all-time list of awkward exchanges with people more famous than me. Again, this designation pretty much applies to every exchange I've ever had with a celebrity, which can't help but turn awkward and uncomfortable.

Here's another one: Harrison Ford. I was appearing on
The Tonight Show,
back before Jay Leno disappeared into prime time—only to return a short while later.
The Aristocrats
had just come out, to reasonably good reviews. I was walking around backstage, and I heard someone say, “Gilbert.” So I turned around. That's what I do, when I hear someone say, “Gilbert.” I turn around. It usually means someone is trying to get my attention—or, to clear their throat. Either way, if I turn around I have it covered.

Now, Harrison Ford was about as big a celebrity as there was at the time. Indiana Jones. Han Solo. He's still a great star, a hero to horny Amish boys everywhere after the things he did to Kelly McGillis in
Witness
—or, at least, he would be their hero if horny Amish boys were allowed to watch movies. (As it is, they're just going to have to trust me on this.)

Harrison Ford shook my hand and said, “You were very funny in
The Aristocrats.
”

It was music to my ears, a comment like that. No, he didn't
sing
it. As far as I know, the man has no musical talent.
Music to my ears
is just another one of those meaningless expressions. He said something nice, and I was glad to hear it, that's all. Maybe if Marvin Hamlisch was on the show that day there would have been some musical accompaniment, but it was just spoken-word Indy, sotto voce.

(Hmmm … I didn't know I spoke Italian. At least I
think
that's Italian. I guess I'm just full of surprises.)

Then Harrison Ford said some other gracious things. I smiled politely, like it was an everyday thing for me, for Han Solo to come up to me backstage at
The Tonight Show
to praise my work—as if what I “do” can even be considered “work” or that it merits any consideration at all. But underneath all these nice things Harrison Ford was saying, I started to feel uneasy. (Frankly, I would have been much more at ease if he
had
broken into song.) Mostly, I couldn't think what I might say in response. Here the great Harrison Ford was saying how funny I was, how he'd just about pissed his pants watching me in this movie, and I didn't want to disappoint him and come across as something less than piss-your-pants funny in real life.

Really, it's a lot of worry, for a guy like me. A lot of times, I think I should have some scripted comeback, for just such a situation. Something I could rehearse. Something that helps me to feel like I'm on my game, instead of like I'm just doing a bad Gilbert Gottfried impression. Other times, I'll just say something sarcastic, and hope it comes across as funny and disinterested. But here, backstage with Harrison Ford, I couldn't think of a single thing to say in response, so I just stood there shuffling my feet until he was finished saying nice things about me. Then I looked at him, blankly, and said, “And who are you again?”

As soon as I said it, I thought,
Okay, that's a little bit funny
. No, it wasn't laugh-out-loud funny, but it was knowing and curious. I don't typically “do” knowing and curious, but it just came out, and once it did I thought,
Maybe Indy will appreciate the subtle nuance of the exchange and deem me worthy of his esteem
.

Or, not—as it turned out.

To this day, I'm pretty sure Harrison Ford had no idea that I was kidding, or that I was going for knowing and curious. He said, “Oh, I'm sorry, Gilbert. I'm Harrison Ford.” And then there was a strange pause, during which we each had time to wonder if the name alone was supposed to mean anything, or if he should maybe follow it up with another line or two—like, “I'm an actor. I've been in some movies. Some of them have changed the face of American cinema. Maybe you've seen them.” He really seemed to think I didn't know who he was, and that just turned an awkward exchange into something exponentially awkward, which is what happens when you multiply awkward on top of awkward.

And then it got worse. Somehow, I managed to set things right, and indicate that of course I knew who he was, because you'd have to be a complete fucking idiot not to know who Harrison Ford was, but then I followed this one fleeting moment of normalcy by saying something stupid like, “I just came out with a dirty joke DVD. I'll have to send you a copy.”

The stupid part about me saying this was that it was
apropos of nothing
. (Another bewildering expression, if you ask me—and here of course I realize that you haven't asked me any such thing, but I believe it helps to follow one bewildering expression with another.) Harrison Ford hadn't just asked, “By the way, Gilbert. Did you just come out with a dirty joke DVD? And, if so, would you be kind enough to send me a copy?” If he had, naturally, my comment would have been
apropos of something
. But Harrison Ford hadn't asked, so my comment just hung there, stupidly, illogically. It had nothing to do with anything, and yet there it was. Then I went home and looked up Harrison Ford's contact information and actually sent the poor man a copy of my DVD, which was a little bit like digging my own grave and jumping inside and asking some people I went to elementary school with and vaguely remembered to piss on me before covering me with dirt.

With one simple trip to the post office, I'd turned an awkward conversation into an awkward transaction, and to this day I regret the whole sorry exchange. One, I regret the joke—
“And who are you again?”
—because it clearly didn't work and I didn't have the balls or the comedy brass to deliver it with conviction. Also, it wasn't that funny. This happens sometimes. A joke alights in your head and seems riotously funny, but then it finds its way out of your mouth and fizzles. It was a simple throwaway line; at best, it was disarming; at worst, weirdly confusing. And two, I regret sending the DVD, because it set it up like I was expecting something in return from this man, who had merely made the mistake of showing me a small kindness backstage at a talk show. That's what happens, whenever someone in the entertainment business sends a book or a script or a something to someone
bigger
in the entertainment business. There's an agenda to it, and a pecking order. If you're like me, on one of the bottom rungs of the celebrity ladder, looking up, it's our way of saying, “Hey, can you make this into something?” If you're on one of the top rungs, looking down, you're saying, “Oh, Christ, what the fuck does this guy want?”

Now, whenever I see a Harrison Ford movie, I can't help but wonder if he ever got the DVD. And, if he did, I wonder if he thought,
I'm such a schmuck. I said hello to this idiot, and now he wants something!

It ruined
Six Days Seven Nights
for me, I'll tell you that. (Or maybe it was Anne Heche who ruined it for me. I'll have to get back to you.)

Sometimes, the very best celebrity close encounters are the ones where you don't actually interact with the other person. You hang back like some stalker and find a way to amuse yourself that doesn't involve C batteries or hand lotion. I have a good example of this, somewhere in the dusty corners of my mind. (What, you didn't think I was going anywhere with this?) It's a Julia Roberts–Lyle Lovett–Kiefer Sutherland story, and like every other Julia Roberts–Lyle Lovett–Kiefer Sutherland story it comes with a bit of a setup. Here goes: for years, I'd been making jokes about Julia Roberts and her marriage to Lyle Lovett. It was like manna from comedy heaven, that relationship, and I was really broken up about it when they finally divorced. In fact, it was probably the only time I can remember feeling pain or sadness over the dissolution of a celebrity marriage—only here the pain and sadness was for me.

Why?

Because it meant I couldn't tell any more Julia Roberts–Lyle Lovett jokes in my act. Here's one of my favorites, so you'll know what I was missing: “To think, after all these years, I could have had Julia Roberts. Who knew? I never asked her out because I always thought,
What chance do I have
?
She's waiting for some incredibly-good-looking guy to come along
. Like every other not-so-incredibly good-looking guy in the world, I didn't have the courage to ask her out, but it turns out that's just what I should have done. What's the worst thing she could have said to me? ‘
No, Gilbert, I'm sorry. You seem like a nice-enough guy, but you have a normal-shaped head. Maybe if you could just lie down with your head at the foot of an elevator and have the door slam against it for a few hours…
'”

People went crazy for that joke, and now I'd have to retire it, so of course I was distraught over their breakup. You'd be distraught, too, if you'd gone to the trouble of writing such a beguilingly brilliant bit. And for a while I was reluctant to give up on the bit entirely, so I found a way to work it into the act and put it in context and make it still seem relevant, but it was always such a long way to go for a bit. Personally, I like a bit that just kind of sneaks up on you, not one you have to go looking for, because every once in a while I'd lose my way and wind up in the middle of an ill-conceived joke about Broderick Crawford, so at some point I stopped even bothering.