Growing Up Laughing Read online

  Marlo: That’s a riot. You’d just kill . . . at ten!

  Joy: They were like sitting ducks for me, you know? The problem—and this is an interesting point, I think—the problem was that I got so much attention and response from my family, that when I went into the real world of show business—where people don’t know or care about you—I wasn’t getting that kind of reaction. So I thought I wasn’t good enough. The truth of it was, I had to win them over just like I had done as a child. I mean, I worked at it.

  Marlo: Right, of course. You knew the room.

  Joy: I knew the room. It’s just that when I got a bigger room, I had to start from scratch in a way, and it took me a while.

  Marlo: Were you funny in school?

  Joy: I was always funny in school. I would get myself out of jams by being funny.

  Marlo: Were you like you are on The View, with a strong point of view and not afraid to speak up?

  Joy: Yes, I think I was always like that. And I really do credit my family for that. They never, ever told me to shut up.

  Marlo: You started late as a stand-up, right?

  Joy: Yeah, I was about thirty-eight.

  Marlo: What were you doing up until then?

  Joy: I was a high school English teacher.

  Marlo: You must have been very funny as a teacher.

  Joy: I was in some classes—if they were bright. If they weren’t, I couldn’t do it. I had to be strict.

  Marlo: What other kind of jobs did you have?

  Joy: I worked in a mental hospital—which prepared me for The View. I worked at an employment service. I did a lot of different little jobs, and then got a job at Good Morning America as a receptionist.

  Marlo: How was that?

  Joy: Good. Then I was fired.

  Marlo: You’re kidding.

  Joy: Well, you know what they do in television. If the ratings go down, they fire the receptionist.

  Marlo: That’s smart. “It’s her fault!” At some point, you made a turn and your humor became more political.

  Joy: Yeah, I’m kind of like Bill Maher in that way. I call myself a “fundit.”

  Marlo: I love that term. And the fundits are taken seriously.

  Joy: Well, yeah, because they have a lot to say about issues, especially during elections. Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert.

  Marlo: I’ve talked to both of them. They’re great. They have bowling-ball balls, these guys.

  Joy: I know.

  Marlo: But so do you.

  Joy: I know I do. We’re all fundits. You know, I ran into Joe Biden one time, and he told me that he’s more scared to go on Jon Stewart than on Meet the Press.

  Marlo: Really? Why?

  Joy: Because he knows Stewart’ll get him.

  Marlo: And he doesn’t know how to manipulate that.

  Joy: Right—it’s harder.

  Marlo: And because comedians don’t have to be polite, there are no rules.

  Joy: Yes, and there’s an audience there.

  Marlo: And if there’s an audience there, the comedian will go for the laugh.

  Joy: That’s right, and they’ll get the laugh at their guest’s expense, if you let them.

  Marlo: Right.

  Joy: And remember, fundits are citizens.

  Marlo: Of course.

  Joy: Citizens with a big, big mouth.

  Marlo: That’s great, Joy. That’s just great.

  Joy: You’re a good audience, Marlo.

  Marlo: There’s a good reason.

  Chapter 7

  Hotels

  Most people are disoriented when they stay at a hotel. Not me. I lived in hotels a lot when I was a kid, so they feel familiar, a little bit like home—with the added delight of room service.

  On school holidays, my mother, brother, sister and I would travel from sunny L.A. to sunnier Florida or snowy Chicago to be with Dad. The nuns at school appreciated that my mother was trying to keep our family intact, and during the school year they were good about giving us Mondays and Fridays off so we could be together for long weekends.

  Our family always stayed in the extravagant suites that were set aside for the headliner of the club—roomy enough for an entourage and perfect for a family of five. They had big dining tables, several bedrooms, spiral staircases, terraces, and even gardens. I was eighteen before I realized every hotel room didn’t have a piano in it.

  My father was always thrilled when we joined him. He was especially happy to have my mother back with him, and always made a lot of preparations for her arrival: champagne, red roses, a new negligee in a pretty wrapped box. Dad was a true romantic.

  One year, we had barely opened our suitcases in our part of the suite when it became obvious that Tony, who was just four years old, had a very bad cold. Mom was the old-fashioned type who liked to be close by when any of her kids was sick. At home, our bedrooms had twin beds, and when one of us wasn’t well, Mom would stay in the other bed until she was sure we were out of the woods.

  When Dad finished his show that night, he came back to the suite expecting to find his negligee-clad wife as eager to spend the rest of the evening with him as he was with her. But instead, he found Mom in a bulky terry robe, ushering him away and shushing him not to make noise, as she’d just gotten Tony to sleep.

  Mom explained to Dad how sorry she was that she couldn’t be with him, but Tony had a fever, and she’d have to sleep in his room to keep an eye on him. And with that, she sent Dad off to their part of the suite.

  This went on for a couple of nights, and Terre and I could hear our parents’ angry whispers.

  “When will he be better, already?” Dad asked in desperation. “You haven’t slept in our room the entire trip!”

  “Sssshhh! You’ll wake him up!” Mom said.

  On the morning of the third day, we were all having breakfast—there’s nothing better than waffles and hot chocolate from room service. Tony was on the floor of the terrace, playing with a little pail of sand and a shovel. Without warning, he decided to toss the pail, then watched with a smile as it made the twelve-story plunge.

  My father was frightened and furious. He picked Tony up.

  “Bad boy!” he scolded. “Don’t you know you could have hurt someone by throwing that bucket off the terrace? Now go to your room and be quiet until I tell you to come out!”

  Tony started for his room, then turned around and looked at Dad.

  “Just for that,” he said, “tonight she sleeps with me.”

  Dad roared with laughter, then picked up little Tony and gave him a great big hug.

  Four years old and the kid’s timing was impeccable.

  Tony and Dad. The kid didn’t get the nose—but he got the timing.

  DID YA HEAR THE ONE ABOUT . . .

  Two friends meet on the street.

  One says, “I haven’t heard from you in so long.

  What happened?”

  The other says, “Well, frankly you’ve become

  a bit pretentious.”

  The other guy says, “Moi?”

  Chapter 8

  Comedy Begins at Home—Billy Crystal

  When it comes to comedians, I’m a sucker audience. I laugh hard and I laugh a lot. But there are only a few comics who can make me cry, too—and I did plenty of that when I watched Billy Crystal perform 700 Sundays, his one-man Broadway show about growing up in Long Beach, New York. Unlike with most comedians, Billy’s family members (and there were a flock of them) recognized his natural comic gift and encouraged it. They were his first adoring audience, and even supplied props to help him develop his childhood antics. This may be why there is such an ease about Billy when he performs for us. We seem like his family—laughing, clapping, adoring. As Billy recalled for me, it all started with his dad . . .

  —M.T.

  “Dad started taking the time to show us

  the really funny people on television, to inspire us . . .”

  —Billy Crystal, 700 Sundays

  Billy: In the
early days of television, the characters that the comics created made you feel: These are my uncles, these are my aunts, these are the same people I know. And if you wanted to be funny—if you wanted to grow up funny—this was the best time. Sid Caesar. Ernie Kovacs. Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner doing The 2000 Year Old Man. This was the time.

  These comedians had a way of being Jewish, but without doing an accent or talking about stereotypical things. They just broke it all down.

  So, for me, this was where it all started, with these visual, funny guys.

  I very clearly remember watching Sid Caesar’s spoof of The King and I. At the time, The King and I was huge, and Yul Brynner had suddenly become the biggest star in the world. So Sid played him just like in the movie. Bald. Wearing capri pants. And, of course, barefoot. He makes his entrance, then he hits that famous pose. And suddenly he screams and grabs his foot!

  “Who’s smokin’ in the palace? There’s no smokin’ in the palace!” He’s obviously stepped on a red hot cigarette.

  Well, I’m watching this on TV—I must have been four or five—and that immediately became my thing. “Who’s smokin’ in the palace?”

  So, of course, Dad brought home a bald wig—and now it became a real thing for me.

  “ ‘Pop, listen,’ I said. ‘I want to be a comedian. Is that crazy?’

  ‘Billy, it’s not crazy,’ Dad said, ‘because I think

  you can be one. And I’m going to help you.’ ”

  —Billy Crystal, 700 Sundays

  Then there was Sid’s “Uncle Goopy Sketch,” which was probably the greatest sketch they ever did. It was a spoof on Ralph Edwards’s show, This Is Your Life, where they’d bring on someone famous and honor their life with people from their past. Sid’s sketch was based on a real This Is Your Life episode with broadcaster Lowell Thomas—who obviously did not want to be interviewed by Ralph Edwards. He was terribly disagreeable throughout the whole show.

  Edwards would say, “Lowell, this is a voice from the past!” and he’d say, “I don’t care.” Edwards said, “We’ll see everybody at the party at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel afterwards!” And Thomas said, “I’m not going.”

  Well, in his spoof, Sid played the reluctant This Is Your Life recipient, and Howard Morris played his Uncle Goopy. And there’s this moment when they bring out Uncle Goopy, and he and Sid see each other, and they just both start weeping—I mean, really funny weeping.

  And Howard was this little guy, and he’d jump up on Sid, and Sid would carry him all around the stage. Then they’d be separated, and Howard would start grabbing onto Sid’s leg. And then they’d cry even more.

  But the way Howard kept leaping on Sid like a little monkey was absolutely hilarious.

  So that’s how I started going off to bed: I’d jump on my father’s back, then he’d set me down and I’d grab his leg. Then he’d drag me into bed. That started me thinking that someday, maybe, I could be funny.

  “The older relatives weren’t as much fun.

  They always looked miserable. Always with a frown.

  I called them the upside-down people, because if you

  put them upside-down, they would look so happy.”

  —Billy Crystal, 700 Sundays

  Just like Sid Caesar, I started doing fake accents and gibberish with my grandmother. She spoke Yiddish and Russian, and whenever she would talk about something that she didn’t want us to understand, she’d switch from English to Russian or Yiddish. So I would start doing my version of Sid to her—in Russian. She’d just look at me, trying to understand, then she’d say, “You’re a crazy man.”

  I first started doing funny stuff in school as a little guy. Steve Allen was a huge influence on me. I loved his “Man on the Street” segments, and all of those great characters—Tom Poston, Louis Nye, Jose Jimenez. My friends and I would improvise bits from the show, then my brothers and I started doing the Nairobi Trio from The Ernie Kovacs Show. And when the comedians put out record albums, my dad would bring them home from his store, the Commodore Music Shop. We’d memorize them in a split second, then do the routines for the relatives. We were taught very young how to steal from the best.

  Pretty soon Jonathan Winters became my favorite guy. My father had great taste in comedy, and he’d let us stay up late to watch the best ones on Jack Paar’s Tonight show. And if Jonathan Winters was on the show? Oh, my God. It was like going to the playground for us. Or like watching sports. Getting to stay up late to watch Jack Paar!

  You know what I would do sometimes when I watched Jack Paar? I would take my chair and put it next to the TV set, so that it looked like I was Jack’s next guest. I was about seven.

  And I knew my family was watching me—and laughing. I was always on. My family loved to laugh and would always encourage us to get up and do it. That’s where it starts—by making your folks laugh. And we had such a big family—with cousins and aunts and uncles—that there was always a big room to play to. I mean, I’ve played smaller crowds now than I did as a kid on Passover.

  And, of course, there was my Uncle Berns. What a funny man. He was very much like Sid Caesar—he had those same skills. Sid was a great physical mime, and Berns had the same kind of ability, being a clown master. For us he was the magic man. And he would encourage us to be funny in any situation. He was dangerous and bawdy, the uncle you could play with.

  He was also the one you could actually perform with. He was a big guy—like six-four—and I was a little guy. He’d walk in and—boom!—I’d be up on his shoulders, and we’d put a top coat around us, so that I looked like I was an eight-foot man! Or we’d do fake operas, where we’d all pick a language and . . . just do it.

  He was like a big kid—God bless him.

  “Uncle Berns was a true eccentric—bigger than life.

  He taught us about color and expression. He equated

  comedy and art. ‘Who’s funnier than Picasso?’ he’d say.

  ‘Everyone has three eyes and six tits!’ ”

  —Billy Crystal, 700 Sundays

  Chapter 9

  On the Road

  Not too long ago, I found an old childhood diary of mine. The little burgundy leather book with the gold lock, the key long lost, had been my loyal friend from the time I was 8 until I was about 11. I dusted off the cover and there was the name I’d been born with, Margaret, embossed on the front in shiny block letters. I’d been nicknamed Margo, which I couldn’t pronounce—it came out Marlo. And that’s what I’ve been called ever since.

  I opened the diary and leafed through the pages. I was amazed. I had forgotten how much turmoil there had been in our young lives.

  On every few pages were casual entries about the departure and return of our parents.

  “Dear Diary, Mommie left today to go to Chicago to see Daddy.”

  “Dear Diary, Daddy came home today and we watched Miracle of Morgan’s Creek after dinner.”

  “Dear Diary, Daddy left for Florida today. Mommie doesn’t go away till Friday.”

  We were kids, so we adapted to this kind of life, even though when my parents went away, it was like the circus had left town. The parties, the laughter and the music went with them.

  And the house got darker. My parents’ room was on the second floor, and the living room—where all the action took place—was on the first floor just below it, on the left side of the house. That meant that when Mom and Dad were gone, all of the lights were off on that entire side of the house. It was gloomy, ghostly and very lonely.

  I didn’t like coming home after school through the front door, because it was right in the middle of the house, and you could really sense the dark chill of their absence. So I used the back door, walking through the kitchen and up the back stairs to the kids’ rooms, on the other side of the house.

  To this day, I hate a dark house. Wherever I live is lit up like a Christmas tree. The lights are on in every room.

  Whenever Dad was away and Mom was home, we’d take turns sleeping in bed with her.
Some nights we’d all sleep with her. She liked that—she was lonely, too. When it was time for her to join Dad on the road, we would cry and beg her not to leave.

  “Why do you have to go?” we’d wail. Mom had the most brilliant and practical explanation.

  “Daddy has to go away so he can work,” she’d say, “so we can buy all the nice things we have and live in our pretty house. And poor Daddy gets lonely for his girls. So one of us has to go and keep him company. And since you have school, I’m the one who has to go.”

  That always settled it. The only thing was, whenever we would visit “poor Daddy” on the road and go to one of his shows, he never seemed all that sad. On stage, his eyes would be glistening like they were dancing, and he’d have that same mischievous look on his face that he had at home when he would tease us about something. He was never happier than when he was working in front of an audience, making people laugh. You could see it.

  When my parents were on the road, we were left in the care of Melanie and Anderson, the couple who had been with us all our young lives, and who we dearly loved. My parents also made sure there was always family in the house, like an aunt or an uncle. Some we loved, others we didn’t even like. And, of course, there was the ever-rotating nanny.

  All aboard—again.

  My dad once told us a joke about a man who goes to Russia, and warns his wife that they censor your mail there. So they come up with a plan: If what he writes in his letter is true, he’ll use blue ink. If it’s false, he’ll write in red ink.

  His first letter arrives. It’s in blue ink, and it says: “Russia is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. The people are happy and friendly. There is plenty to eat, the food is wonderful, and there are lovely shops everywhere. In fact, they have everything here in Russia that we have in America. Everything but red ink.”

  This became my family’s code for how we felt about who was taking care of us when they went out of town. My parents would call and ask, “So, how do you like Gert?”—referring to our new nurse, the one who’d surely been trained by the Nazis.