Growing Up Laughing: My Story and the Story of Funny (6 page)

Chapter 10
The First Laugh—Robin Williams

If comic talent could be converted to nuclear energy, Robin Williams could fuel his own personal power plant. Ever alert, lightning-quick and practically possessed by an enormous cast of characters and voices, the man can’t help but be funny. And we can’t help but be drawn to him and his obvious joy in entertaining us. I worked with Robin on one of my TV specials, and he spent as much time cracking up the crew as he did performing on camera. I have gotten to know Robin over the years, so I’ve had the chance to discover the warm heart at the center of all this hilarious chaos. I was excited to sit down with him to find out how he grew up laughing, and early in our conversation, I asked him if he had a favorite joke. As you’ll see, he had many. But he started by talking about where all the laughter began . . .

—M.T.

R
obin:
The first laugh is always the one that gets you hooked. And it’s usually from a mother or a father. For me, it was my mother. I was always trying to make her laugh.

My mother was the funny one. My father had a good sense of humor, but it was dry. Both of my parents grew up in the Depression, but they came at life in different ways. Hers was extreme optimism; his was extreme realism.

My mother was outrageous funny—the only woman who ever rendered Joan Rivers speechless. Mom was once standing next to Carol Channing—who had a frozen smile that looked like Dr. Caligari’s—and cracked, “Whatever you do, Carol, never get plastic surgery.” Mom would say anything.

I used to love making my mother laugh. She was the comic influence in my life. My dad was more concerned with the acting thing. He had this great advice for me: “You want to be an actor? Then you should have a backup profession. Like welding.”

Mom would also recite these sly verses. Not the “old man from Nantucket” kind, but stuff like “I love you in blue, I love you in red, but most of all . . . I love you in blue.”

She wasn’t afraid of the physical stuff, either. She had this bit where she’d pull a rubber band out of her nose. She also wasn’t averse to taking the occasional fashion risk. She’d put on hot pants and a Harpo wig if the mood was right. The cowboy hat and evening gown was not out of her repertoire, either. She had this leopard muff—literally made from a real leopard—and a hat made from the same fur. At least, I think it was the same animal. I’m hoping they didn’t get the whole family. One time she wanted to wear these furs to a zoo benefit. I said, “Jeez, Mom, that’s like wearing a Gestapo uniform to a B’nai B’rith event. It’s gonna be a hard night, you know?”

So, yes, if you grew up with that, pretty much anything is possible.

Quick joke.
How do you get an eighty-year-old woman to say “fuck”? Yell “Bingo!” before her.

I was born in Chicago, went to a private high school in Detroit, and lived in California for a while. My father was in the automobile industry, so we moved around a lot. Some comics grew up in tough neighborhoods, but not me. Where I grew up, people had their lawyers beat up someone else’s lawyer. And the neighborhood kids had imaginary agents.

But I started noticing comedians very early on. Jonathan Winters was my favorite. He could even make my father laugh. As a boy, I realized, “Wow, that’s a tough gig.”

And I’ve always admired a fast mind. I remember hearing this great story about Elaine May. She was walking across the campus at the University of Chicago, and the wind was blowing her hair straight up into a big mess. This guy walks by and says, “Hey, Elaine, where’s your broomstick?” And she says, “Why, do you need something to shove up your ass?”

Quick joke.
Two old Jews are sent to kill Hitler. They’re sitting in an alleyway with grenades, rifles and bombs, and they’re all ready. Hitler’s supposed to walk by at two o’clock—but at two, he doesn’t arrive. Two-fifteen, no Hitler. Two-thirty, no Hitler. Three o’clock, no Hitler. Finally, one Jew turns to the other and says, “My God, I hope nothing happened to him.”

I was very quiet in high school. I went to an all-boys school for three years (
that’ll
keep you quiet). But what started it all for me was when I took an improvisational theatre class in college. After that, all bets were off—for two reasons: The teacher was a gorgeous woman who was about twenty-five years old, and all the guys were taking the class basically for her. But I also started getting laughs on stuff that I improvised. And that became addictive.

Comedians are an interesting breed of animal. We have this very bizarre combination of masochism and exhibitionism that goes way beyond acting. I suppose it’s a kind of legalized insanity, in which you’re allowed to do things that, if you did them in any other venue, you’d get arrested.

Quick joke.
A guy picks up a hooker. She takes him upstairs to her room and asks him what he wants. The guy says, “Oral sex.” The hooker says, “Okay, and I want you to know I’m one of the best at that. Look at my wrist. You see that lovely diamond bracelet? Well, that’s how I got it.” The guy says, “Really?” And the hooker says, “Sure, see for yourself.” So the hooker gives the man oral sex, and afterwards he says, “Wow, you were right. I can see how you earned that diamond bracelet.” And the hooker says, “Yeah, and if I had a vagina I’d own this town.”

When I left school, I couldn’t find any acting work. So I wound up in the basement of one of those tiny little music clubs and coffeehouses, which were trying out stand-up comedy as kind of a spacer. I thought, “Okay, I’ll try it. It’s like improvising—but all alone.” Before long, the music scene died out and comedy became more popular.

Quick joke.
Guy buys a parrot that is constantly using foul language. Really horrible stuff. Finally the guy gets fed up and throws the parrot in the freezer to punish him. After about an hour, he hears a faint tapping sound from inside the freezer and opens the door. There’s the parrot, wings wrapped around himself, shivering. He says, “I swear, I’ll never, ever curse again. But can I ask you a question? What did the chicken do?”

But the funniest person in my life was my mother. Big time. I had a pillow that I kept on my couch that had this quote on it, supposedly from Sigmund Freud. It said, “If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother.” Mom looked at that pillow and said, “What does
that
mean?” I said, “Sorry, Mom, I can’t explain it to you without a therapist in the room.” It’s like that old saying, “Your mother pushes your buttons because she installed them.”

My mother died in 2001, a week before September 11th. That was probably good, in a way. The events of that day would have really shocked her. They would have upset her worldview that everything is wonderful.

Chapter 11
The Funny Barber

H
arry Gelbart was my dad’s barber. He was a small man with a full head of black, curly hair, a thick mustache and twinkly eyes. He and my dad adored each other, and while he cut my father’s hair, they loved to tell jokes. They probably spent as much time telling stories as they did on the haircut.

I always knew when Harry was over—you could hear their howling laughter all through the house. It was irresistible. I would stop whatever I was doing and run to my father’s dressing room to be with them. I’d sit on the edge of the tub and listen to the jokes they’d tell. Harry was a great storyteller, and my dad was a great audience. So was I.

Harry had a sixteen-year-old son who wanted to be a comedy writer, and one day he asked Dad if he could help his son break into the business. My father told him to send the kid over to the studio, and he’d give him a chance to write a few gags.

Harry’s son started by hanging around the writers’ room and throwing out a few lines. Dad was impressed and began using some of his jokes. That was the beginning of a wonderful career. Larry Gelbart would go on to become a legend in the business, writing such classic comedies as
M*A*S*H
,
Oh, God!
and
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum.

Some of Harry’s stories were so good they would end up in Dad’s act. Of course, Harry would tell his version in a few minutes. But my father would take the spine of the story and make a twenty-minute routine out of it. That was his trademark. And he always gave Harry credit.

Harry cutting Dad’s hair. As usual, I was right there for the laughs.

One of those stories became a Danny Thomas classic. It was about an old man and a parrot that could speak Hebrew. When I told Larry that I wanted to write about our dads’ friendship—and the way my dad used to tell his father’s stories—he said he’d once written about it, too, and emailed me his favorite part:

My father, that inveterate joke teller (not too hard to get laughs when you’re wielding a straight razor) told Thomas about a man who takes his parrot, one that happens to be a brilliant linguist, to synagogue with him on Rosh Hashanah and wagers with members of the congregation that the bird can conduct the High Holiday service better than the temple’s cantor. When the big moment comes, the parrot remains silent. Later, about to be punished by his outraged owner for the costly silence, the only thing that saves the bird’s life is when he opens his beak and snaps: ‘Schmuck. Think of the odds we’ll get on Yom Kippur!’ ”

A funny joke, to be sure. But my dad was a
storyteller,
and in his hands, it became a small play, complete with the
Kol Nidre,
a chanted prayer of the Jewish High Holy Days (which he had learned when he played the son of a rabbi in the 1952 remake of the movie
The Jazz Singer
). Here’s what his audience heard at the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas—music, dialects, and all . . .

D
anny:
This is a story about a little man, whom I ask you now to picture in your mind’s eye—a middle-aged man on the healthy side of the financial ledger, walking in the business district of his hometown on a balmy summer’s evening. And he happens to be passing a pet shop.

Dad was never happier than when he was on stage. Look at those shining eyes.

It’s a warm night, and the pet shop door is wide open, and through that open door, over the yelping of little canines and the screeching of the canaries, there comes to this man’s ears a most familiar strain of music. And he slackens his pace and he listens. And he hears:

[
Slowly chants
] “
Kol, Kol, Kol nidre
. . .”

This man stands cemented in his tracks, for this is the music of his faith. The chanting continues, and the man walks into that little pet shop as though hypnotized. He gets inside and stands in complete awe and amazement at what he sees and what he hears. And he hears:

[
Continues chant
] “
Veesore vacharom . . .”

“Ve’esarei, Vacharamei, Vekonamei, Vechinuyei . . .”

. . . coming from
a parrot
! But there it was, unbelievable though it may be, this little parrot on its perch, chanting away the sacred and semi-sacred Hebraic hymns! And a costly bird it was. But no matter what its price, the man had to buy it—and buy it he did. And every night he would sit in his favorite rocking chair, and the parrot would chant to him, oftentimes simple little Sabbath hymns like . . .

“L’cha dodi likrat kala

“P’nei shabbat n’kabla . . .”

The man was so happy with life, he could hardly wait for the High Holy Days to come.

Finally the week of Rosh Hashanah rolled around—Rosh Hashanah, taken from the ancient Aramaic,
rosh hashshanah.
It means the head of the year, the new year. A very happy holiday.

Off the old man goes to a tailor shop and has a
tallis
made for the parrot. That’s a prayer shawl. Also a little
yarmulke
. That’s a black skullcap. He has the same outfit made for himself, and they walk out of the tailor shop, father and parrot.

Now it’s the day of Rosh Hashanah, and off they go to the synagogue—the old man sprightly running up the steps with the parrot following closely behind. They get to the front door—there’s a fellow there called the
shamos,
like a sexton. Takes care of the synagogue. Also takes tickets on High Holidays.

And the shamos says, “Vait! Vere you going vith da boid? Vat you tink we’re running here, a zoo?”

And the old man says, “Don’t be so smart. Dat boid—
dat boid—
could chant better from you, da cantor, da rabbi and me put togeddah.”

Naturally, from the shamos, comes the inevitable of all clichés:

“Put da money vare da mouth is.”

So they make a slight wager. While they’re betting, other members of the congregation come up the steps, get into the argument, and before you know it there’s $4800 bet. On a handshake, of course. They do
not
carry money on this day.

Now there is $4800 bet! And the old man looks at the fellas and says, “You’re crazy! You lost already da money. Vait till you hear dat boid.”

[
To bird
] “Okay, darling, make a chant. [
Pause
] Sveetheart, ve’re vaiting—go ahead, make a chant. Don’t be noivous. Could be something simple, like . . .”

[
Hums a little Hebrew melody
]

Nothing comes out of the bird. Not a peep. Not even “Polly wants a matzoh!” Nothing! One hour—begging, pleading, prodding, pushing—nothing comes outa the bird! And he loses the bet. He blows $4800!

Now he’s incensed. He grabs the parrot by the throat, runs home and throws it on the floor. Goes into the kitchen, begins to cry for what he’s gonna do. Gets the biggest butcher knife he can find, and he starts to sharpen it.

In comes the parrot. Looks up at the old man and says, “
Nu?
Vat are you doing?”

And the old man says, “You got a mouth now, huh? You’re talking. Forty-eight-hundred you cost me—vouldn’t make one chant! I’m gonna take that knife and cut off your head!”

The parrot says, “Vait! Vait! Don’t be such a dummy. Vait for Yom Kippur—ve’ll get bigger odds!”

My barber, Harry Gelbart, told me that story. I gotta go back and get another haircut, real soon . . .

DID YA HEAR THE ONE ABOUT . . .

A man was getting a haircut prior to a trip to Rome.

“Rome?” the barber asks. “Why would anyone want to go there? It’s crowded, dirty and full of Italians. You’re crazy to go there. What airline are you taking?”

“United,” the guys says.

“United?” says the barber. “Terrible airline! The planes are old, the flight attendants are rude, and they’re always late. Where are you staying in Rome?”

“The International Marriott,” the guy says.

“That dump?” says the barber. “Worst hotel in the city. Overpriced, small rooms and lousy service. So whatcha doing when you get there?”

“We’re going to the Vatican. We hope to see the Pope.”

“That’s rich,” laughed the barber. “You and a million other people. He’ll look the size of an ant. Good luck on this lousy trip of yours. You’re going to need it.”

A month later, the man returns for his regular haircut. The barber asked him about his trip to Rome.

“It was wonderful,” the man says. “The planes were on time and we even got bumped up to first class. The hotel was gorgeous but overbooked, so they apologized and gave us the presidential suite—at no extra charge! And the food was incredible.”

“Well,” muttered the barber, “I know you didn’t get to see the Pope.”

“Actually,” the man says, “we were quite lucky. As we toured the Vatican, a guard tapped me on the shoulder and explained that the Pope likes to personally meet some of the visitors, then took me to the Pope’s private chamber. The door opens, the Pope walks in and I nearly fainted. I knelt down and he spoke to me.”

“My God!” said the amazed barber. “What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Where’d you get the lousy haircut?’ ”