by Don Rickles
We’re in Venice, where Bob and I have a ringside table on the Piazza San Marco. We’re not wine drinkers, but to blend in with the scenery we order a bottle that we have no plans to touch. Our big plan is to people-watch. As the crowd passes by, we invent stories: There’s Count Borinsky from Russia; there’s Princess Magala from Spain; there’s Prince Eric of Norway with Sylvia Borstein from the Bronx on his arm. They’re having a torrid affair.
All the while, people are feeding the pigeons. In fact, the pigeons are so well fed that when we leave the birds circle us and drop farewell messages on our shoulders, making us look like Italian generals.
The Newharts invite us over every Christmas eve. They have the big tree, the wreaths, the angels and the carols.
Once in a while, Bob has a serious moment and says to me, “Don, you really enjoy Christmas, don’t you?”
“Sure I do. One of our guys started it.”
“Bob, believe me, you’re funny.”
Poached Eggs
I’ve always respected the comedians who came before me. Milton Berle’s delivery was dynamite. No one was more lovable than George Burns—and no one more popular than Bob Hope.
Hope had me on his shows many times. Unlike me, Bob didn’t like to improvise. As a matter of fact, he relied on a small army of writers. Everything with Hope had to be rehearsed a lot. He worked with big cardboard cue signs.
At the start of one routine we were rehearsing, my line was, “Hi, Bob.”
Bob stopped the rehearsal.
“Is that how you’re going to say the line when we tape?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Try it again.”
“Hi, Bob,” I said.
“We better meet with the writers,” Hope said.
We went into Bob’s office, where three writers sat on a couch.
“Okay,” said Hope, “say it for them, Don.”
“Hi, Bob,” I repeated.
“I don’t like the inflection,” Bob said. “What else can we do with the line?”
The writers proceeded to give me six alternative inflections on “Hi, Bob.” I thought it was all a joke, but no one was laughing.
My biggest Hope moment didn’t come on his show. It happened on Dean Martin’s show when I was standing in front of dozens of stars. The idea was that I’d rib each of them for three minutes. At the end of the routine, Hope, who was famous for entertaining our troops the world over, slipped into a back seat.
“Bob Hope is here,” I said. “I guess the war is over.”
Of that older generation, I adored Jack Benny. To this day, I love imitating him in front of my friends. When it came to timing, Jack was the master. He used silence the way Picasso used paint. His patented gesture—putting his hand under his chin and slowly turning his head—was the most beautiful movement in all comedy.
I was excited when he came to my show for the first time. It happened at the Sahara. By then, he was getting up in years, but he hadn’t lost any of his charm. He’d never come to my shows, because he didn’t think my humor was his cup of tea. But George Burns, Jack’s dearest friend and a supporter of mine, finally persuaded Jack to see me in person.
After the show at the Sahara, Jack came to my dressing room and said, “Don”—I loved that inflection of his when he said “Don”—“I enjoyed your show. You really surprised me.”
“Relax, Jack. I’ll get you a light.”
Looking on are my pals Ed McMahon and Joey Bishop.
“Gee, Jack,” I said, “coming from you, that’s about the nicest compliment of my life. Will you join me and Barbara for dinner?”
“I’d love to.”
We took him to the House of Lords, the hotel’s finest restaurant.
“Jack,” I said, “it’s a real pleasure. Order whatever you like.”
I ordered a vodka martini.
Barbara ordered a vodka martini with a lemon twist.
Jack asked for a glass of water.
“That’s it?” I asked him.
“That’s it.”
For dinner, I ordered the veal Milanese.
Barbara ordered the filet mignon.
With his stop-and-start deadpan delivery, Jack said, “I’ll have…two poached eggs.” Big pause. “And one slice of toast.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it,” Jack answered.
Dessert: chocolate soufflé for me; tiramisu for Barbara.
For Jack?
Hot tea. With lemon.
“Look, Don,” he said, “you and Barbara have been most gracious, and this place is delightful. I don’t want to disappoint you, but nothing makes me happier than two poached eggs.” Big pause. “And a slice of toast.”
At that moment—don’t ask me why—I loved Jack Benny even more.
A Kid from the Neighborhood
That’s who I am.
That’s who I’ll always be.
So when a kid from the neighborhood learns he’s going to the White House, he’s excited.
Doesn’t matter who the President is—the President could be a peanut farmer—but the kid’s still excited.
In fact, the President was a peanut farmer. Jimmy Carter was the man, and me, Barbara and our kids were off to Washington to meet him. Bob Newhart had arranged it, and it was going to be a family affair. He was bringing Ginnie and their kids. We were all thrilled.
“Be low-key,” Bob kept telling me. “This is the White House.”
“Hey, Bob, I know the difference between the White House and the White Castle, where they give you a bag of burgers for a buck.”
When we arrived, we were greeted by Zbigniew Brzezinski, national security adviser to the President.
“The President is looking forward to meeting you all,” said Mr. Brzezinski.
As we walked down toward the Oval Office, several officials stopped us.
“The President is waiting to meet you,” they said.
We bumped into Vice President Walter Mondale. “I understand you’re going to meet the President,” he said.
When we got to the Oval Office, Carter’s secretary was there to meet us.
“I’m afraid the President just stepped out,” she said. “He should be right back. Would you like to take a look in his office?”
Sure.
We stepped inside. It looked just the way it looks in the movies. Not a scrap of paper on his desk. On the back of the big swivel chair behind his desk was a grey cardigan sweater.
“That’s his sweater,” said the secretary.
Bob looked at me.
I looked at Bob.
The President’s sweater wasn’t all that thrilling.
“Will the President be back shortly?” we asked.
“He should,” said the secretary. “He’d like to say hello to all of you.”
We waited for a minute or two, but no President. Outside the Oval Office, we waited a little while longer. No President.
“Where is he, ma’am?” I asked.
“He heard you were coming,” said Bob, “and he must have gotten nervous and left.”
Back in Los Angeles, everyone asked me, “Did you meet the President?”
“No,” I said, “but I made friends with his sweater.”
“Bob and Bruce, how do I know if your albums will sell?”
Rock and Roll Rickles
As time went on, President Carter wasn’t the only celebrity dying to meet me. The biggest rock-and-roll star since Elvis had busted out, and my son, Larry, was dying to see him. I pulled some strings and we were off to see Bruce Springsteen.
Since I’m a Vegas kind of guy, I didn’t have any background in big-time rock shows. I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know we needed fourteen badges and eighteen wristbands to get past the thirty-two security guards to get to our seats in the VIP area. I didn’t know that the twenty loudspeakers onstage would be blasting out more noise than atomic bombs. I didn’t know that the show would go on for three hours, getti
ng louder by the minute.
Didn’t know that his fans sitting around us would be screaming even before the show started.
Didn’t know that to meet Bruce we’d have to wait outside his dressing room for two hours without food or water.
When we were finally escorted in, I saw this extremely kind and sweet man wearing a bandana around his forehead. He looked like a pirate.
“Great show, Bruce,” I said.
“Hope you’ll come to another one,” he said.
“What?” I said. “I can’t hear you.”
I’d gone deaf.
Moby Dick
In spite of the volume, I really liked the Springsteen show. I could see why his fans were so loyal. But of course loyalty for me always goes back to Sinatra.
In the eighties, we became even closer. When Frank married his Barbara, he finally found a stable domestic life. They loved entertaining and were fabulous hosts. We loved when we were invited to their place in Palm Springs for the weekend. Everyone called it the Compound.
The Compound was spacious and relaxed. The guest quarters were separate from the main house. Guests were given a beautiful bedroom and private bath. There was a fully stocked kitchen and lots of help to make sure you were comfortable.
After you settled in, Frank called you to the main house, where he’d be listening to music in the den. Drinks were served and the fun began.
One Easter weekend, we were there with three other couples: Veronique and Gregory Peck, Luisa and Roger Moore, and Jolene and George Schlatter.
“Rib Peck,” Frank urged me. “Try to shake him up a little.”
“Captain Ahab,” I said to Greg in my best Peck voice, “the sea is stormy, the sailors are restless.”
Peck, of course, played Ahab in the movie Moby Dick.
Greg went along with it, and Frank thought my kibitzing was hilarious.
“More,” Sinatra urged me out of the side of his mouth, “you’re getting to him.”
“Take it easy, Frank. I don’t want to upset the guy.”
“Relax, Rickles,” said Sinatra, “I got you covered.”
“We’ve sighted the whale, sir!” I shouted to Greg. “To the harpoons!”
Greg half-smiled.
Next day, I was lounging by the pool when Frank came over and sat next to me.
“When Peck gets out here,” he said, “this time really lay it on him. It makes him crazy.”
“Gee, Frank,” I replied, “I like the man.”
“Hey, I know Greg,” said Sinatra. “He secretly loves it.”
So like a dummy, to make Frank happy, I continued.
“Captain Ahab!” I shouted as soon as Gregory appeared, his little dog running behind him. “The men are in mutiny. There’s trouble on deck.”
As I got up to give Peck a captain’s salute, his little dog ran under my chair. When I sat down, the dog’s tail got entangled in the chair and he yelped like crazy. I jumped up to free the dog.
“Look at this,” Frank said to Greg, “now the man’s attacking your dog.”
Greg looked at Frank, then looked at me, then picked up his dog and hurried off.
A few days later, Greg sent flowers to me and Barbara and a kind letter of apology for leaving abruptly. But Frank kept saying, “See what you did to Captain Ahab, Don? If his dog dies, you’re in real trouble.”
During the Saturday night dinner Frank said, “I think it’d be nice if we all went to church tomorrow.”
“Frank,” I said, “I’d really prefer to sit by the pool. You may have heard, I’m Jewish.”
“Don’t worry, the priest is a personal friend.”
That night, Sinatra was in an especially good mood and the pre-Easter celebration went on till the wee small hours.
Next morning, we woke up, got dressed and the four of us—me, Barbara and the Moores—walked to the main house to meet Mr. and Mrs. S.
But Mr. S. never showed.
“He’s decided to sleep in,” said his Barbara, “but he wants us all to go.”
We went to the church. We sat in the first pew. We listened to the music. We listened to the sermon. I can’t say I was all that comfortable, but respect is respect.
When it came time to put money in the basket, I dropped in fifty dollars and Roger nodded approvingly.
“You gave for everyone,” said Roger. “Happy Easter, Don.”
How about that? It costs me fifty bucks to be Catholic. And Frank was still in bed singing “My Way.”
“Can the Prince Come Out
and Play?”
The Sinatras and the Rickleses also spent time together on the Riviera in Monte Carlo. Frank’s great pal and restaurateur, Jilly Rizzo, was there as well.
“Look, Don,” Jilly told me, “you see how your suite overlooks Frank’s? Well, every morning I’ll come out on his balcony and signal you. If you see me waving a pink handkerchief, that means Frank’s sleeping. Stay where you are. But if I’m waving a white handkerchief, come down and we’ll go to the beach.”
We didn’t know whether we were on vacation or hiding out from the police.
Frank had a private cabana, a big tent covered on every side. I couldn’t see out.
“Hey, Frank,” I said, “I have fans and they can’t see me.”
“We need our privacy,” said Frank.
“You need your privacy. You’re Frank Sinatra. I need someone to wave at me. I need to be recognized.”
“Eat, Bullethead, and cut out the jokes.”
All day, the food kept coming—salami, cheeses, pasta. Enough food to put you in the hospital.
We dined with our wives. As the hour got late, though, the wives decided to retire while Frank urged the boys on.
He had his driver take us to the palace where Prince Albert of Monaco lived. Frank had me and Jilly get out of the car and start shouting, “Can the prince come out and play?”
The guards tried to keep a straight face. But once they saw it was Sinatra, they would get Albert. Albert, always accompanied by a security guard, loved to hang out with Frank. Who didn’t?
We hit all the jet-set spots.
Next thing you know, it’s three in the morning and we find ourselves sitting in the corner of an empty club listening to a piano player sing “As Time Goes By.” I think I’m in the “Play it again, Sam” scene of Casablanca.
“The sound’s wrong,” says Sinatra. “The guy’s singing great, but his loudspeakers are too close together.”
Frank has me and Jilly standing on ladders rehanging the speakers.
“Two inches to the left,” he tells me. “An inch to the right,” he tells Jilly.
He’s finally pleased with the sound but ready to move on. Next stop is the Hotel de Paris. We’re sitting at a beautiful bar facing a huge bay window. Suddenly a storm comes up; lightning is flashing across the sky.
“Get out there,” says Frank, “and tell the paparazzi to stop taking my picture.”
“It’s pouring rain, Frank,” we say. “It’s lightning.”
“Get out there and tell them!”
Jilly and I run out in the rain and tell the lightning to stop taking Frank’s picture.
Next morning, the white hankie is waving and we’re invited to breakfast. Frank’s at the beach. He’s in his white trousers, white shirt, blue blazer and captain’s hat tilted to the side. Standing on a rock, he looks like he stepped out of a page from Gentlemen’s Quarterly. Suddenly a wave hits the rock and splashes on Frank’s beautiful outfit. Sinatra gets crazy and blames us.
That night he invites us to dinner at the restaurant on the balcony of the Hotel de Paris. We’re all decked out.
But at the next table, a guy’s wearing a short-sleeve shirt and no jacket.
Frank whispers to Jilly, “This guy’s not properly dressed. Ask him to leave.”
Jilly goes over and somehow convinces the guy to change tables, out of Frank’s sight.
“It’s taken care of,” says Jilly when he returns.
&
nbsp; “Great,” says Frank, “’cause I was about to smack him.”
Believe me, Sinatra wasn’t about to do it, but he felt good when he said it.
Our last day on the Riviera with Frank and Barbara.
“Special treat,” says Sinatra, “we’re taking you to a garden party at the palace.”
My Barbara and I are delighted. The palace grounds, high on a hill overlooking the Monaco Harbor, are magnificent. The sun’s shining and the crowd is wall-to-wall royalty.
Of course, I don’t know who’s who. This one’s a count; that one’s a countess; this one’s father owns Portugal; that one’s uncle fell into a bucket of oil money.
During high tea, we’re served a lovely assortment of pastries.
I’m on my best behavior.
Seated next to me is a distinguished-looking woman. I figure her for a duchess.
“I’m Don Rickles,” I say. “Nice to meet you, madam.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Rickles. My name is Estée Lauder.”
“Wow,” I say, “I thought you were a sign.”
My Barbara gives me a look, but Estée Lauder gives me a laugh.
Our Riviera trip has a fairy-tale ending: We all live happily ever after.
The Ladies Who Live in Condos
Frank was good enough to introduce me to Prince Albert.
Bob Hope introduced me to Princess Margaret.
It happened in London. Hope emceed a show to entertain the Princess at the Grosvenor House. The Newharts were there. So were Telly Savalas, Sean Connery and Jack Hawkins. It was a gala event.
Newhart kept warning me. “The English have a different sense of humor,” he said. “So I suggest you take it easy.”
Hope was even more nervous. When he introduced me, he apologized like crazy, saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, Don Rickles is a different kind of comic. He might say something that sounds insulting, but he doesn’t mean it. Don’t take it personally.”