by Tim Conway
After Steve and Eydie brought me into the wonderful world of Vegas, I met, if not the greatest entertainer of the day, then a top contender. I was standing in line at a charity banquet honoring Lucille Ball when someone behind me rested a hand on my shoulder.
“Where’re you sitting, Tim?” said a very familiar voice.
I turned and looked into the blue, blue eyes of Frank Sinatra. In a million years, I wouldn’t have expected the Chairman of the Board to know who I was. As always, when I’m confronted by my idols, my response came out as though I were speaking a foreign tongue. I wanted to say, From Here to Eternity, Come Fly with Me, I Did It My Way, stuff like that so he’d know I knew who he was. What I said was, “Maaurn . . . ffrna . . . onekkd.”
“Nice talking to you, kid,” said Sinatra over his shoulder as he turned and walked away.
Despite the pathetic beginning, I did become friendly with Old Blue Eyes. And, I got a chance to tell him how I felt about him at a couple of poker nights at his home. (I’m pinching myself remembering that Tommy Conway from Chagrin Falls played poker with Mr. Frank Sinatra from Mt. Olympus.) I also attended a special birthday dinner for Sinatra at a beach restaurant. There were maybe fifty people gathered to fete him. We finished the meal, Frank blew out the candles on his cake, and then he, Steve, and Eydie stood up and began to sing. Fifty people went crazy. We were cheering them on and they kept on singing right up to the moment when half a dozen cops walked in. Someone in the neighborhood had complained about the noise and the police came to quiet things down. The cops caught sight of Sinatra, Steve, and Eydie singing their lungs out. They looked at each other, pulled up some chairs, and fifty-six people enjoyed the rest of the concert. This is a perfect illustration of star power.
Here’s another example, from a different vantage point.
After Sonny and Cher got divorced in 1975, Sonny asked me to join him at Harrah’s in Lake Tahoe. I was pleased to be asked and delighted to go. By then I had some casino experience under my belt. I’d played to packed houses at Caesars Palace with Steve and Eydie and with Carol. Because of their star power, I was used to a certain way of being treated, a deferential one. Whatever I asked for I got; fast. Sonny without Cher was a different story. We were playing to less-than-full houses, way less. One night I was between shows and wanted to refresh my drink. A waiter walked by, and I called out, “Could I please have some ice?”
“Get it yourself,” he told me.
Sic transit gloria mundi. Sonny, however, managed to regain some glory. He reinvented himself. He went into politics and was elected to the U.S. House of Representatives. Tragically, in 1998, Sonny Bono was killed in a ski accident.
I’ve worked with many wonderful performers over the years. And that includes Betty White. She is a standout. Betty’s more fun than a barrel full of monkeys. She’s kind of old now, and it’s sad that she doesn’t get the recognition that she deserves, I mean you barely hear about her anymore. Unless you watch television, that is.
Dick Martin was the personification of carefree. He was the insane half of the Rowan and Martin Laugh-In comedy team. Dan Rowan was a funny guy but a sobersides compared to his partner. When Dick arrived in Hollywood, his first job was at Paramount Studios—as a janitor. He had a snappy uniform, carried a portable vacuum cleaner, and was assigned to straighten up the offices on the second floor. A vice president at Paramount occupied one of those offices. Dick worked the night shift and had some spare time during the hours between 10 P.M. and 3 A.M. He got in the habit of looking through the manuscripts that were piled on the vice president’s desk. Near the bottom of the pile, he found one script for an upcoming feature film that intrigued him. In looking it over, he found a number of places where the script didn’t stick to the story line. So the janitor pulled the script from the pile and began editing it, making copious notes in the margin. He did this for about three nights and then slipped his corrected script back on the pile. Months later, the film went into production and when it was released, Dick went to see it. He was delighted to discover that all his suggestions had been used. It was a shoemaker-and-the-elves situation and nobody ever found out that the janitor was responsible for the final script and not the VP.
Dick Mr. Happy-go-Lucky Martin and his wife, Dolly, were regulars at our Tuesday night get-togethers. The Martins’ presence made it a little difficult for us to find a feeding place. Dick and Dolly were barred from at least five restaurants in the Malibu area. Dick claimed that they were the victims of bad restaurant management. I have to say I never saw any restaurateur force vodkas down Dick’s throat—the result of which was a profound increase in the volume of his conversation. That increase did not sit so well with fellow diners. Consequently, when Dick was along with the Tuesday Diners’ Club, we’d usually end up at Chez Mimi, where the sympathetic owner put us in a backroom. There, Dick could express himself without fear of someone punching him in the nose or tossing him out on his butt. Dick’s another friend who is gone, which feels so unfair; there were a lot more laughs to be shared with him. Fortunately, Dolly has kept his voice on the answering machine, so we do get a chance to say hello when we call.
Would you believe that I acted opposite Henry Fonda? Well, I did, in a commercial for a camping trailer. Amazing isn’t it, that a great actor like Hank Fonda and a schnook like Tim Conway got to work together? What united us? Money, my friends, money. You can make a nice bundle doing commercials, and Papa Conway was always looking for ways to add to the family fortune to keep his family going. The commercial was an advertisement for a trailer, and Mr. Fonda and I played campers. In the shoot, he was seated on the steps of the trailer while I was standing nearby, busily engaged in trying to set up a tent. He sat there calmly watching me go through the frantic motions of putting up a tent that was not cooperating. Pegs were flying, poles were breaking, and canvas was tearing, all to illustrate the superiority of the camper. I was working my buns off trying to make the scene humorous. Mr. Fonda looked on. When they finally said, “Cut,” I was exhausted. I wandered over to the camper and sat down next to the movie star. I was hoping for an expression of approval for what I’d just done. He looked at me, smiled, and said, in his perfect Henry Fonda drawl, “Tell me, do you make a living doing this crap?”
Another friend, Pat McCormick, was a writer on The Johnny Carson Show. He was six foot plus, somewhere in the Korman stratosphere. Pat got away with a lot because his size was so intimidating. Among other things, he was famous for streaking on the Carson show. I know he was wacko because I experienced his irreverent behavior firsthand. One afternoon, we got on an elevator together. A Hindu woman wearing the red dot on her forehead stood in the back. Pat looked at her, pointed his finger, gently poked the dot and said, “Four, please.” I don’t remember who laughed more, the lady or me.
Here’s a paradox: one of the sweetest, kindest, most loving men I’ve ever known is the sharpest tongue in the business. He is the grand high master of the insult and holds nothing back. The fact that Don Rickles has remained out of the emergency room all these years is one of showbiz’s great mysteries. He was Frank Sinatra’s opening act for years, and even Sinatra wasn’t safe from Don’s jibes. No one except Don Rickles could mess with Frank Sinatra and expect to keep his nose in the center of his face. When you put your money down for a ticket to Don’s show, you have to leave any psychological problems at the door because, if he decides that you’re going to be a target, you will suffer, my friend, you will suffer. I recall one performance in Vegas when Don, microphone in hand, patrolled back and forth along the apron of the stage, looking for prey. He hit on a few guys in his travels, but the funny thing was he kept walking by a prime target seated dead center in the first row. The spotlight fell on the back of this guy’s head. I should say more precisely that the spotlight was on one of those masses of synthetic threads that some guys think pass for hair. It was the worst toupee imaginable, and as the show progressed and Don kept on the prowl, the question became when was he going to pou
nce? He’d pause and look at him and then move on. Then he’d come back from the side of the stage and stop again, look down at the guy, and move off without a word. People in the audience were on the edge of their seats. And then it happened. On about his fifteenth crossing Don stopped directly in front of the guy and stood there looking down. Then he crouched, leaned over, and whispered into the mike, “Sir, let me ask you something. Do you really think you’re fooling anyone?”
Without waiting for an answer, Don stood up and walked away.
The great thing is the guy with the lousy rug laughed as loud as everyone else. The truth is most of us in the business are highly insulted if we go to Don’s show and he doesn’t come after us. It’s a badge of honor to be badgered by him. He’s banged me on many occasions when I’ve been in the audience. He just loves to tell everybody about all my cancelled shows.
“Tim,” he cackled a while back, “Carol’s been off TV for a hundred years. It’s over for you; stop calling her. She can’t do you any good now. Get a job. You need money? Go to an ATM machine and leave that poor woman alone.”
Here’s a guy who rips you to shreds in public and then, without any publicity, is always first in line to contribute to worthy charities. With apologies to Rudyard Kipling, this is what I say to you, Mr. Rickles, “Though you’ve belted me and flayed me, by the living Gawd that made me, you’re a better man than I am, Gunga Don.”
Tuesday nighters Mike Connors and his wife Mary Lou have been dear friends for more than twenty years. Mike was the star of the popular TV detective series Mannix, the last series from Desilu Productions. Mike was an action star, but the guy could have been a stand-up comedian. When the Television Academy honored Bob Newhart, I wrote a routine for Mike and me to perform, and that son of a gun got all the laughs. For reasons I don’t care to go into, because they cast aspersions on my skills at the wheel, Mike has become the designated driver for the Conways and the Connors on our Tuesday night excursions. We pile into his car and before the doors close, we’re reminiscing. We do have a little trouble talking while we’re driving because the cars behind us keep honking their horns to get the old geezers moving. We spend a lot of time talking about the good old days on those journeys. There’s quite a bit of repetition, so much so that Mike suggested that we number the stories and rather than repeat them, we just call out the number. (Mike, number fifty-two. I can’t print it, but I can hear you laughing.)
Do you watch the TV series Mad Men? Well, those guys aren’t mad men. There’s only one really mad man, and his name is Jonathan Winters. Jonathan was my teething ring for comedy. He is nuts and I mean that in the kindest way. He thinks funny, not just when he’s on stage entertaining, but when you run into him on the street. On the stage, he doesn’t need a script because he’s much more brilliant than anything a script holds. All you have to do when you’re working with him is jot down an idea and stand back. I did a TV special one time and asked him to join me as guest star. We met for rehearsal and someone handed him a script. I turned to Jonathan and said, “Leave it on the table, we’ll figure out something to do.”
He dropped the script and we started talking.
“I got it,” I said, “I’ll be a drill sergeant in the Marines and you’ll be a recruit trying to put your rifle together.”
That was the entire script. And from it came ten minutes of virtuoso comedy as I fired question after question and he fired back comic gem after comic gem. Jonathan is one of those guys who has the right words and perfect timing, and both come out of whatever unique character he is occupying at the time. His uncanny ability to react is matched by his talent at creating his own material.
When Jonathan moved out of L.A., we began communicating via telephone. I miss his presence, but the phone calls are a goldmine of Jonathan at his freewheeling best. I’ve kept all his recorded messages and, every so often, when I want to be inspired, I’ll sit down and listen to a few of them. It’s my version of going to comedy school. Speaking of telephone calls, I’d made a few of them to him not long ago and got a bit concerned that he wasn’t answering. I called and when I got an unfamiliar hello, I asked, “Is Johnny there?”
There was a very long pause.
“Oh, I guess you haven’t heard.”
My heart sank. “Heard? Heard what?”
“Johnny passed away two days ago, I’m his brother Frank. I’ve come in from Ohio to take care of his affairs.”
I was in shock and went into a serious string of “Oh my Gods.” Then I got control and asked how it happened.
“Well,” said Frank, “he was out on the lawn in back when a ground squirrel jumped up and grabbed him by the throat and that was the end.”
In a second I realized that brother Frank was fiction and that, in fact, I was talking to Mr. Jonathan Winters. He’d fooled me big time.
“You son of a gun.” I cried into the phone. “You really had me.”
I’m telling you I was still in mourning when I finally hung up. It just shows how deep his comic skill goes. To come up with a routine about such a dark subject and to bring it off requires absolute conviction and total commitment. But that’s Johnny. I don’t think I’ve ever come within shooting range of what he’s recorded in the comedy world. I am in awe of him.
I’m pretty sure Bob Newhart and I were twins separated at birth. We may not look exactly alike but our personalities are definitely identical. The only difference is that Bob keeps up with the news of the day and I ignore it. We’re Midwesterners and we have a similar take on life: We want to make people laugh but we don’t want to hurt anyone while we’re doing it. We want people to like us and we’ll do anything to make that happen. And, even though we’re out there on a stage in front of millions (well, thousands; okay, hundreds) of people, we’re both basically shy. As alike as we are, our performance backgrounds are quite different. Bob started out on the road doing his routine in nightclubs. As you might recall, I tried to start out on the nightclub circuit in Seattle but failed. I’m a studio-bred comic and Bob’s a roadman. I can’t remember how we met and I don’t think he can, either. (He can’t. I just called him and he doesn’t remember.) I do recall that Bob appeared on the second episode of The Carol Burnett Show. He was supposed to do a sketch in which he played Tonto in a phone booth talking to the Lone Ranger. I found out later that he took one look at the sketch, said it was awful and that he didn’t want to do it. Naturally, when he passed, I wound up as Tonto in the phone booth. During the taping Joe Hamilton said over the intercom, “Newhart was right, it isn’t funny.” It wasn’t, but I had to plow through it anyway.
I told you that Bob is Mr. Nice Guy and never wants to offend, but he also doesn’t like to admit that he’s wrong. He takes a lot of heat for the wrong things he’s said (but won’t admit to). At one Tuesday dinner, we all were looking over the menu when someone asked Bob what he was going to order. Bob glanced at the menu, looked up and said, “I think I’ll have the tripe.”
The rest of us were surprised that Old Meat and Potatoes Bob was ordering something so exotic. Ginnie was the first to question his selection.
“Bob, you don’t eat tripe,” she said. “You don’t even know what tripe is.”
“Yes, I do,” he responded, “and I like it. It’s just that it’s not available that often.”
Sure enough, when the waiter asked what he wanted, Mr. Nice Guy ordered the tripe. When the bowl of tripe was placed in front of him, he stared at it. So did we all. He picked up his fork and gingerly put it in the bowl and pulled forth what looked like a large, pale tapeworm from a swamp of white sauce. We all knew he didn’t know what tripe was and he knew we knew. That didn’t stop him from taking a healthy bite of the delicacy. We waited for his reaction. He chewed. He paused, chewed again, paused, chewed again, and finally swallowed. He took the napkin from his lap and gently patted his mouth. We waited.
“You know,” he said at last, “this is just about the best tripe I’ve ever had.”
Sure, I thought t
o myself, it’s probably as delectable as Harvey Korman’s paper plate au jus.
The occasional stubborn stance aside, Bob Newhart is one of the nicest guys you could ever hope to meet. He brings smiles to all of us on our Tuesdays. By the way, whenever tripe is on the menu we always order him a side dish. And by golly, he eats it. None of the rest of us will.
I hate to close this chapter on a sad note, but my dear friend Jonathan Winters really did die on April 11, 2013. Ave atque vale to a true comic genius.
Golf
Don’t ever pick a up a golf club and hit a golf ball unless you are willing to devote the rest of your life believing that you can beat the game. Not only that, you must be willing to dress in outlandish outfits, spend megabucks on equipment, swear, lie, and cheat, and finally, you must be able to afford a divorce. That’s what the future holds when you start chasing a little white ball around the course. I was a victim of that wonderful challenge in life called “golf” and experienced all the shortcomings listed above. Thank God, three other fellows equally mad about the game were my accomplices. Harvey Korman, Ernie Anderson, Joe Hamilton, and I comprised a foursome that met every Monday morning, come hell or high water. (In case you were wondering, we all swore, lied, cheated, and ended up divorced.) Harvey, as always and however unintentionally, provided most of the amusement. I cannot begin to describe his golfing attire which only stopped short at those old-fashioned knickers called plus fours. He was the tallest of us by a vertical mile, and to watch him tee off was excruciating. He’d wind up like a pretzel and swing away at the ball, which, more often than not, remained at his feet. He looked like a whooping crane. Eventually, Ernie, Joe, and I had to look the other way when Harvey began his game; none of us had the bladder to handle it.