by Marlo Thomas
Marlo: Really?
Jon: Yes—that was the first time I saw a breast: as my better-looking friend felt someone up in the back of my Gremlin while I drove.
Marlo: That’s hysterical.
Jon: But I was a great lure. Have you ever seen the old angler fish lure? It’s got that weird little thing coming out of its head. That was me. I would do the dance and draw in the people. Then they would come in and say, “Wow. Now, can we go fuck your friends?”
Marlo: Ah, so you were the pimp, really.
Jon: That’s right. Or the carnival barker. You sort of bring people in for the ride, and then they say, “Oh, you’re so funny. Now . . . is there anyone we can actually go out with?”
Marlo: You mention being the only Jew on the block. When I was growing up, all the best comedians were Jews. But look around now: There’s Letterman, Colbert, Leno, O’Brien. You’re the only Jew.
Jon: But that’s always been the case on a national platform. You know, the Jews were the tummlers, they were the guys in the clubs battling it out. But when it came to national TV, they wanted the guy from Nebraska. They wanted Johnny Carson, not Joey Bishop.
Marlo: So how did you sneak through?
Jon: Basic cable, baby! The world changed when basic cable came around, and suddenly you didn’t have to appeal to the widest swath of people anymore.
Marlo: You know, my dad was Lebanese, which made him an unusual looking choice to play a father on prime-time TV, especially in the era of Father Knows Best and My Three Sons.
Jon: Yeah, that was shocking. Back then, the image of family was Ozzie and Harriet, then your dad comes along and shows the real face of America. The immigrant face.
Marlo: Well, he had a good agent. But let’s get back to you. You’re not only funny, but you’re incredibly ballsy. You went on CNN’s Crossfire and told off the hosts.
Jon: I think that was more hypoglycemia than anything else. I’ve got to eat more before I go on these things.
Marlo: But what’s interesting is, you weren’t trying to be funny. You actually reprimanded the hosts for being partisan hacks masquerading as genuine news analysts. If you weren’t a fan of the show, why did you go on in the first place?
Jon: We had a book [America: The Book] to promote, so it was one of those odd dares, where we thought, “Wouldn’t it be kind of interesting to promote the book on the sort of show that reflected what we were writing about?” Like if Charlie Chaplin had opened his movie on Hitler at the Reichstag, you know? Like, “Hey, man why don’t we slip it right into the belly, and see what happens?”
Marlo: But things got heated very quickly.
Jon: Well, they began coming after me for not having enough ethics as a journalist. And my feeling was You know what? I have a job. Why do I have to do yours?
Marlo: Then one of the hosts criticized you for asking politicians softball questions. You said, “You’re on CNN! The show that leads into me is puppets making crank phone calls. What is wrong with you?”
Jon: Well, I couldn’t believe they were suggesting that, by not holding politicians’ feet to the fire, I was somehow as guilty as they were. You can judge my show on many things. You can say it’s not funny, you can say it’s not interesting. But to say it lacks journalistic standards? Yeah, well, guess what . . .
Marlo: Speaking of political analysts, tell me the one difference between you and MSNBC commentator Chris Matthews. You rag on him a lot.
Jon: Well, obviously there’s the reach difference. His jab could probably keep me at bay. But, you know, I really don’t know him well enough, so I’d be hard-pressed . . .
Marlo: Come on.
Jon: Okay, put it this way: When I talk, typically the oxygen masks don’t drop from the ceiling, and people aren’t warned to put them over their child’s face first.
Marlo: [Laughing] That’s what I was looking for.
Jon: That’s what I figured.
Marlo: I’m cheap, you know. I’m a comic’s kid.
Jon: I hear you.
Marlo: Your former Daily Show colleague Stephen Colbert became a star himself. What do you think you could teach Stephen about the art of comedy—and before you answer, you should know that I asked him the same thing about you.
Jon: I’m going to go with . . . nothing.
Marlo: Really?
Jon: That man is doing something that has never been seen on television before. He’s literally rendering this character in real time as he goes along. It truly is one of the most remarkable things I’ve ever seen. And, you know, as good a performer as Stephen is, he’s an even better producer. I have nothing but admiration for him.
Marlo: I’ll let him know you said that. Tell me about your kids. Are either of them starting to show signs of being funny?
Jon: My little girl is almost three, and she’s a real performer—singing songs from Sleeping Beauty, dancing and spinning, putting on shows. She’s already memorized her patter. She came to the studio the other day, sat in my chair and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, please turn off your cell phones and welcome to the show!” She sat for a minute longer, then looked up at me and said, “Uh . . . I don’t have any jokes.”
Marlo: How great! Well, at least she knows the game.
Jon: Right. I thought that comment was very prescient from someone who’s not even three, because I’ve certainly had that feeling behind that desk.
Marlo: What I find interesting is that you’re doing satire on television. When I was growing up, people in the business were condescending about satire. The old adage was: Satire is what closes on Saturday night.
Jon: [Laughs]
Marlo: Hadn’t you ever heard that?
Jon: No.
Marlo: I think if those old comics were alive today, they’d be astounded that satire is actually making it on TV.
Jon: People are so sophisticated now that you have to win them over with volume, and I think that’s the secret to it. If you can make satire part of the language, part of the culture, then it becomes a regular part of their diet. That’s how Saturday Night Live has been able to do it. That’s how we’ve been able to do it. It’s a volume game. You become a part of people’s digestive process.
Marlo: But you’re also steering them. You’re educating them to understand—and appreciate—satire. I was once in a play that I thought was really funny, but then it got bad reviews. I said to a screenwriter friend of mine, “Why did the critics pan it?” And she said, “Because they weren’t clear that it was supposed to be funny.” It’s almost like you have to announce it to people.
Jon: I think that’s absolutely true. We spend so much time on our show trying not to be explicit—but to be clear. We try hard to process the material and put it back out there as comedy. But intent is really an important part of it.
Marlo: And you’re obviously succeeding. Time magazine named you one of the most influential people in the country. That had to surprise you.
Jon: Listen, we do a show that’s about media culture. So I’m never surprised when the media responds that way. It’s like they’re saying, “This man is making fun of us. He’s chosen a very good subject to make fun of. He must be very important.” By considering it as flattery, they elevate themselves. I think that’s what the media does. And in the process, we sort of become outsized in whatever they think our influence is.
Marlo: Still, did you ever imagine that you would have this kind of impact?
Jon: No, none of this ever seemed possible to me. Even when I told my family what I was doing, there was this sense of “For what?”
Marlo: So what was the lure?
Jon: It was a language and a rhythm that I thought I understood. It’s like music, you know? You hear it and you feel like, “Yeah, man, that makes sense to me.” You know how some musicians can play by ear? I felt like I had that—like there was a certain “comedy by ear” that I knew how to do. And producing our show is somewhat of a musical process. The most important time for us is between re
hearsal and the show, when the song is rewritten to sound a little bit better.
Marlo: It’s such a kick to watch you on your show, especially when the camera catches you trying not to crack up at something that’s going on. Which makes me want to know: What do you find uncontrollably funny? What gets to your funny bone?
Jon: Sadly, what I love most is when something bombs. Watching the bomb. Loving the bomb.
Marlo: I love bombs, too. Why is that?
Jon: Having worked in the clubs for so long is sort of like being a magician for a lot of years—you know all the tricks. So I always found it funny when I was bombing, or one of my friends was bombing. It’s something that’s different—like being caught in a sudden snowstorm.
Marlo: And if it happens on your show?
Jon: I enjoy it the most when things go wrong on the show. I relish it. It’s reminds me that “Oh, right, this isn’t neurosurgery.” Like, we’re making jokes about, you know, the Elmo puppet that we re-jiggered to be a Guantánamo detainee, and the beard accidentally comes off. Now, that’s funny.
Because, inherently, we’re like the Little Rascals: We’re just a bunch of idiots in the backyard putting on a show.
Chapter 52
St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital
It is not possible to think about my childhood without thinking about St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. Although, like any hospital, it shoulders its share of sadness, St. Jude is also about laughter. Laughter built the place.
Getting ready to go on, backstage at “The Shower of Stars”
—with Dad, Frank Sinatra and Jerry Lewis.
Dad raised the early funds to build St. Jude from benefit concerts he gave, both on his own and with his pals from the world he knew best—nightclubs. Milton Berle, Bob Hope, George Burns, Sid Caesar, Jack Benny, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Jerry Lewis, Sammy Davis, Jr. Even young Elvis.
Frank did so many of these events that there is a floor at St. Jude named for him. My father called these fund-raising galas “The Shower of Stars,” and they carried a message of hope for the most helpless of all—little children with hopeless diseases.
My father began to build his dream of St. Jude by making a simple sketch of the hospital on a piece of cardboard that came from the cleaners with his shirts. Talk about low-tech. He showed the drawing to every potential donor he could find, but mainly to the Lebanese community, encouraging them to build a place of hope for America’s children, in gratitude to this country for embracing their immigrant parents.
In 1983, the U.S. Congress voted unanimously to award my father with the Congressional Gold Medal for his work as founder of St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. Ronald Reagan presented it at the White House. A proud day for our family.
But it was his passion that sold it. He lived and breathed the hospital. Dad talked so much about St. Jude when we were growing up that Terre, Tony and I thought he was one of our uncles.
His belief that he could accomplish this is astounding—that a poor kid from Toledo, with one year of high school, a nightclub comedian, would be able to build a world-renowned cancer research hospital. Where does that kind of chutzpah come from?
Same place his humor came from—his immigrant childhood, where no one in his poor neighborhood ever went to a doctor. Dad’s mother gave birth to all ten of her children without a doctor. Children he knew and played with died of influenza and rodent bites. He saw firsthand the inequity of poor health care and was galvanized by the experience. He was going to fix it. And he used his gift of laughter to pay for it.
He named the hospital after St. Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes, to whom he’d prayed when his budding performing career had stalled. Give me a sign to help me find my way in life, and someday I’ll build a shrine in your name. He soon found fame, and kept his promise. And he built the hospital in Memphis, Tennessee, because he’d once read a news item about an eight-year-old black child in the South who was riding his bicycle and was struck by a car. But no emergency room in the area would take him, and he died. My father carried that clipping in his wallet for years.
When I became That Girl in 1966, Dad called me his “bonus kid,” because, whenever he was unable to attend a St. Jude event, he’d send me to take his place, to pick up a check or make a speech on behalf of the hospital.
At Phil’s and my wedding, Dad clinked his glass and said, “Today, I haven’t lost a daughter. I’ve gained a fund-raiser.” Everyone laughed. He did, too. But he wasn’t kidding. He knew he had just acquired another bonus kid.
The two “bonus kids” on their wedding day.
Gloria Steinem, who has raised millions of dollars for every form of civil rights, for candidates across the country and for a myriad of causes she believes in, calls fund-raising “the second oldest profession in the world.” It’s a funny line, but somehow it rings true.
After my father died, I came to realize something that I’m sure everyone who has ever lost someone they loved has learned. And that is—love endures. Even years later, the love remains as before. It doesn’t diminish. It doesn’t divert. It endures, intact.
Then I found out something else. Friendship endures, too. A few months after Dad died, there was a benefit for St. Jude, and I got the news that Bob Hope was flying from L.A. to New York to emcee the event. All through the years, Dad had always called Bob and all of his friends—personally—to ask them to perform at these fund-raisers. But Bob, the emeritus of all things funny, was now doing this without a call from Dad. I was very touched, and phoned Bob to thank him.
“I can’t tell you how moved I am,” I said.
“Are you kidding?” Bob said. “I love Danny.”
Maybe his pal was gone, but their friendship was very much alive.
My siblings and I had never intended to carry the torch of St. Jude. In fact, Dad had been quite clear to us that the work of the hospital would not be our burden to carry after he was gone. We accepted that, and I think each of us was relieved. St. Jude had taken the second half of Dad’s life to build and maintain, and with him gone, the responsibility would be even greater.
Friendship endures. “The Boys”—Milton, Sid, George and Jan—continued to attend St. Jude dinners even after Dad was gone.
Terre, Tony and I followed Dad’s heart to St. Jude.
But soon after he died, Terre, Tony and I thought we should go to Memphis to talk to everyone at the hospital, and let them know that we would be there if they needed us. They had all worked so closely with Dad, been inspired by him, and his death was as much of a shock to them as it was to us. He hadn’t been ill, and had just been with them two days before, celebrating the hospital’s 29th anniversary.
When I got to the driveway at the hospital, with the fifteen-foot statue of St. Jude standing tall at the entrance, I sat in the car, paralyzed. I didn’t want to go inside. It was all too fresh. I also didn’t want to cry in front of the children or their parents. They had enough of their own heartache.
So I pulled myself together and went inside. In the lobby, a party was going on. There was ice cream and cake. Confetti. Balloons. And the happy clamor of children running around in party hats.
“Whose birthday is it?” I asked the nurse.
“Oh, it’s not a birthday party,” she said. “It’s an off-chemo party.”
I had never seen anything like this before. Here were all these little children celebrating and deriving strength from one child’s turn for the better, with their parents and grandparents standing by with tears in their eyes. If this child could make it, maybe their beloved child would, too.
In that moment, I breathed in what my father had been holding in his heart for so many years. I had walked into a place, a community, where hope lived. A place that families had traveled to from all over the country, terrified, carrying death sentences for their babies. I looked around at the fairy-tale murals painted on the walls, at the red wagons, instead of wheelchairs, carrying children down the hallways.
&nb
sp; I saw a part of my father that hadn’t been as clear to me before. I had always thought of him as a good man, a philanthropist, but I hadn’t truly understood how deeply personal this was to him. How thoroughly he had given his heart to this place, to these people.
And I knew now that his spirit would always live here.
A few minutes later, a mom brought her little girl over to me.
“Do you know who this lady’s Daddy is?” the mother said to her daughter.
“Yes,” the little girl said.
“Who?” the mom asked.
The little girl proudly answered, “St. Jude.”
In the background I heard the children singing.
“Pack up your bag, get out the door, you don’t need chemo anymore.”
Then I cried.
Epilogue
A few months after my father died, two of the grandkids were graduating from high school—Jason, Terre’s son, and Tracy, Tony’s daughter—and they had asked me to be the commencement speaker. Like all things with us, it was a family affair.
But we weren’t yet ready for a big celebration. Mother certainly wasn’t up to it. So after the ceremony, we all went to Hillcrest Country Club for lunch. Hillcrest had always been a favorite haven for our family, so it seemed fitting that we should gather there for Jason and Tracy’s big day.
We took a private room away from the lunch crowd. Given Mom’s emotional state, we were all still treating her as if she were made of glass that might shatter if we moved it the wrong way.
Suddenly, the door swung open and in walked George Burns. We were all so happy to see him, but he barely acknowledged us. He walked straight to Mother.
“Hey Rosie,” he said with a mischievous smile. “I hear you’re single again!”
We all froze in terror, almost afraid to look at Mom.
She threw her head back and roared.