What's So Funny?: My Hilarious Life
Page 23
Toward the end of the evening, I asked Ernie to take a picture of me with his Polaroid camera; everyone had a Polaroid then. In the picture, my papered head was pretty near the size of the photos used in drivers’ licenses. I asked Ernie for a pair of scissors, which I used to trim the print until it was just the right size. I took out my license and slid the photo under the plastic sheath on my license so that my official picture was completely covered. (You couldn’t do this today because licenses are laminated.) I said good-night to everyone, got into my car, and drove off.
All this took place in the San Fernando Valley where I live, and I knew the streets like I knew the back of my hand. My destination was a particular intersection with a four-way stop sign. A cop car was always in hiding at that corner. As I drove into the intersection, I checked carefully to make sure no other cars were coming. Then, I went through without coming to a complete stop. I hadn’t gone far when I heard a siren and saw a red light flashing in the rearview mirror. The plan was working perfectly. I pulled over to the side, turned off the engine, rolled down the window, and waited for the officer. He pulled in behind me, got out of the patrol car, and walked over to my window. He leaned over, looked at me, took a breath, and said, “May I see your license?”
I reached into my pocket, took out my wallet, pulled out my license, and handed it over. The cop never said a word. He looked at the license, then looked at me, then looked at the license, and then looked at me. He threw his head back and burst out laughing. Ta da! I pulled it off. I realized I was taking a chance. I could’ve hit a humorless cop, or one who didn’t recognize the name on the license, but, oh boy, was it worth it. Warning: Do not attempt this stunt on your own. You have to be a licensed nutcase to do it. I am a licensed nutcase, and I have the photo ID to prove it.
• • •
When it comes to dealing with our wives, guys never understand that the truth will eventually come out. I avoided the truth here and there with my first wife. I was young and, in some instances, foolish. I thought I could get away with a few things, mostly when it came to answering the question, “Where have you been?” This never happened with Charlene. I was older and wiser. What’s more, her family would destroy me if she caught me in a lie. That’s the thing, though—wives call it lying, when I prefer to think of it as trying to save your marriage. In the B.C. era (Before Charlene), I was a little more of a scamp, especially when it came to hanging around at the City Slicker with the guys from the Burnett show. Truth to tell, I went across the street from the CBS studio to the Slicker every Thursday night. That’s when we prerecorded all the music for the show. I implied that I was needed at every music rehearsal. Mary Anne never questioned me, which was strange since I never sang a note on air. We guys would while away a couple of hours and then wend our way home.
One night we whiled away a lot longer than usual. Mary Anne even made some calls to a couple of hospitals to see if maybe I had been brought in. By the time I got home, she was sitting in the living room waiting. She looked at me and said those words that men never want to hear.
“Where have you been?”
I was now on the clock, as they say, and had a split second to gather my thoughts. You can borrow a little time if you cough, but that’s about it. I had to explain. Telling the truth—“I was at the Slicker with the boys, dear”—was the furthest thing from my mind. So, I began the story.
“Well, I was on my way home hours ago but I took the freeway and got behind a truck on the 405. It was a big tank truck from the Sea World in Burbank that was transporting a new Shamu whale to the San Diego Sea World. I was passing the truck when I noticed that the tank was leaking water on the left side. I blew the horn and signaled for the driver to pull over. He pulled over and I pulled in behind him. I got out and told him that I had noticed a leak. He checked and said we had to do something or we were going to lose a whale. He said he would call the fire department and have them come and fill the tank with water. In the meantime he asked me to go get salt because whales are ocean creatures. I drove around to restaurants and bars asking the managers for salt. Some gave me boxes and some just took saltshakers off the tables and put them in plastic bags. I promised I would return the shakers. I went back to the truck. The firemen were already there. They’d rigged up a hose that was pumping water into the tank. After they were through, I climbed up the side ladder. When I reached the open top I began pouring in the salt. I finished and came down the ladder. The driver was waiting at the bottom. He thanked me and said so long. As I drove off, I saw him get back on the highway through my rearview mirror. I guess they made it to Sea World all right because I didn’t hear anything on the news. Anyway, by the time I returned all the saltshakers it was really late. I headed straight home and ran into some traffic. But here I am safe and sound.”
I stood there staring down at Mary Anne waiting for the verdict. It was unanimous: guilty as charged. The jury also said I was full of crap. It’s funny, when I told Harvey the story he said he didn’t see a hitch in it. Of course, both of us did get divorces during the Burnett Show. I’ll never understand why. Must have been the salt.
• • •
This next story might better fit in a chapter called “Stupidity,” but since there is no such chapter in this book, I’m going to stick it here. The first thing you have to know is that I frequent a drive-in diner down the street from me. The food is good, really good, but the owner is crazed, really crazed. He purchased a small area in the back of the building that is reserved for patron parking only. “Reserved” is too feeble a term to describe how completely sacred to his diners that lot is. That little parking lot has everything but a dress code. Signs are plastered all over the wall beginning with a mild PATRON PARKING ONLY and culminating in a threatening THE MANAGEMENT RESERVES THE RIGHT TO REMOVE ANY VEHICLE THAT DOES NOT BELONG TO A PATRON EATING AT THIS ESTABLISHMENT.
Trust me, if the owner had his way the sign would read THE MANAGEMENT RESERVES THE RIGHT TO DISEMBOWEL ANY NON-PATRON WHO PARKS HERE.
In a way, I don’t blame the guy. A lot of non-patrons use the lot because it’s attached to several small stores, the kind that people run in and out of to make a quick purchase. Rather than wait for a meter, or park illegally, they use the diner parking lot. I only used it when I ate in the diner. Until one day when I had to drop off some information at a lamp store in the same strip. In my defense, I tried to park legally. I circled and circled and circled. I had a two-minute errand and had already spent twenty minutes looking for a parking spot. I gave up. I was going to park in the lot, run in and out, and that was that. I pulled into a space in the Forbidden City, grabbed the papers, jumped out of the car, raced around to the front, ran into the lamp store, threw the papers at the clerk, sprinted out the door, ran around the block and into the parking lot. I was heading to my car when I saw several cops crouched behind some parked cars. Their guns were drawn and pointed in my direction.
“Get down! Get down!” the cops yelled at me.
I stood there in disbelief. I’m thinking to myself that the guy who owns the diner is crazy. I was in and out in under two minutes and he called the cops?
“Officer, I was just here for five minutes,” I shouted to one of them. “Look, I’ll go in and buy a bagel. Would that take care of the problem?”
The cop looked at me and yelled again. “Get down!”
I was not going to argue with drawn guns, so I slowly got down on the ground next to my car. I knelt there as the cops kept their guns pointed. I had made up my mind I would never illegally park in that lot again when a couple of other cops came out of a building escorting a guy in handcuffs. At this point, one of the gun-wielding officers put his weapon away and came over to me.
“Are you nuts?” he asked.
“Everyone asks me that,” I answered.
He took a good look at me.
“Are you the guy on the Burnett show?” he inquired.
“Yes.”
“Then you are nuts.”
“I wonder,” asked the officer after he finished explaining. “Would you mind autographing one of these traffic tickets for me?”
“Sure,” I said. I took the ticket, wrote my name, and added a ten-dollar tip. I don’t usually tip that much but I felt he deserved it.
• • •
One year, I bought a fancy foreign car. It was painted racing green, but it should have been painted yellow. It was the lemon of lemons. I hated that car. Why wouldn’t I? I’d owned it for only six months, and it was in the repair shop for almost four. Once, on a rare occasion when it was out of the shop, I drove to a party in Beverly Hills. I arrived late, gave my keys to a parking attendant, went in, and was one of the last to leave. When I got out on the street, I looked around for the valet parker. I couldn’t find him so I went back in and asked where I could find him.
“What parking attendant? We have no parking attendant,” answered the host.
It seems that I’d given my keys to a kid who looked like a parking attendant but who, in fact, was a car thief. With great joy I reported my car as stolen and awaited the insurance settlement. That was the good part. Here’s the bad part. A day and half shy of the settlement date, the car turned up around three blocks from where the guy stole it. I think he dumped it because he didn’t want a lemon, either. I was bummed.
• • •
Imagine for a moment that you are a member of a jury and I have been brought to the witness stand on a charge of indecent exposure in a public place. Before you come to a verdict, here are the details.
I was waiting for Charlene in the men’s department of a well-known specialty store. I was minding my own business, leaning up against the shirt display case. A lady came over to me and, assuming that I was a clerk, said, “Pardon me, where is your underwear?”
I showed her.
Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I rest my case.
• • •
Speaking of resting my case, I think I’d better wrap this up. I don’t want to overstay my welcome even though I have many more stories to tell. Maybe I’ll save them for a sequel. How does the title, Son of What’s so Funny? strike you? Think about it. Meanwhile, take good care of yourselves till we meet again. Good-bye for real, but just for now.
Acknowledgments
Writing a book is no joke. I want to thank everyone who’s helped me, my family, my friends, and my colleagues. Thanks also to Steve Tellez and Jim Stein at Innovative Artists Agency and to Jennifer Gates and Todd Shuster at Zachary Shuster Harmsworth Literary and Entertainment Agency; my editor, Becky Nesbitt, and her associate editor, Amanda Demastus, and all the other wonderful folks at Howard Books. Jane Scovell was a pain in the neck, but she tried hard.
Tim
I did try hard and had the time of my life working with Tim & Company. (Even Dorf was helpful.) I especially want to thank my rival Sharkey and Jackie Beatty, whose cheerful nature and thoughtful assistance was invaluable.
Jane
Sophia Murgoi Conway and her son, Crown Prince Toma. I’m standing on the running board of one of Dan’s second-hand Fords.
Sophia and Lawrence of Arabia on a Lake Erie beach.
Shore leave for the future Ensign Parker.
Have you heard the one about the Irishman and the Scotsman? Dan and his best friend, Bill Butler.
A boy’s best friend is his dad.
In front of Mr. White’s stables. I’m holding the whip Dan brought over from Ireland. He left his shillelagh behind.
A typical report card. Look closely and you’ll see how I changed Ds to Bs and back again.
Graduating from Bowling Green State University. I would have gone to Harvard but the commute was too long.
The low-ceiling cellar on Orange Street. Even I grew too tall to stand up in it.
Rhett Butler, Scarlett O’Hara, and Ashley Wilkes seated in front of Tara. (Orange Street, Chagrin Falls.)
Mentor and friend, the multitalented and totally nuts Ernie Anderson, a television original.
My first appearance with television immortal, Steve Allen.
The incomparable Ernie Borgnine. His big grin reflects his zest for life.
Let’s see, you put in the bullets, then you pull this trigger right here and . . .
A publicity shot of me and some TV friends. I just can’t seem to recall their names . . .
Don’t ask; don’t tell.
A drawing by Bob Mackie, given to me by Carol. He designed the costume for Mrs. Wiggins.
The Oldest Man and Mother Marcus, Canoga Falls’ leading yenta.
Carol, I’d like to talk to you about a raise.
Standing below my name in lights . . . sort of.
Five weeks after 9/11, Carol, Vicki, Harvey, and I appeared in Carol Burnett: Showstoppers, a twenty-fifth anniversary special. It became one of the most successful reunion shows ever; we actually beat out Monday Night Football. TV Guide called us “America’s Secret Weapon.” We were artillery, for sure, but the big gun was what the country needed most: laughter. (Photograph © TV Guide)
A day off and a chance to rest. I’m somewhere in the middle of my children.
Mary Anne Dalton, my first wife, and I at our daughter Kelley’s high school graduation.
Recording a comedy album with Ernie Anderson. It looks like a dog is up there with us but it’s the back of a woman’s head.
We have to dress up as what? The Apple Dumpling Gang (Photograph © Walt Disney Productions)
You make up a caption. I’m speechless. (Photograph © Walt Disney Productions)
The Shaggy D.A. Pie throwing at the Disney studio was an art, but only for the thrower. Whipped cream doesn’t hold up well under lights. (Photograph © Walt Disney Productions)
With Don Knotts in The Private Eyes. I helped write the screenplay. Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce never had it so good.
STRIKE ONE: Rango, not a hit show. “Listen,” I’m whispering to the horse, “I heard we’re being cancelled.”
STRIKE TWO: Ace Crawford, Private Eye. Likewise, not a hit show.
HOME RUN: Dorf, the world’s greatest golfer and my greatest annuity.
Eat your heart out, Harvey. (Like he didn’t have a roomful of Emmys.)
Charlene and her BFF, Carol. Why are they wearing the same dress?
The marital score on our wedding day was, and still is, Charlene: 3, Tim: 2.
It doesn’t get any better.
It did!
Jackie, with her mom, Charlene, and her dad(s), Roger Beatty and yours truly.
A view of one of our horses never seen by another jockey during a race.
With some of our dearest friends, Phyllis and Tony De Franco (in the bandana), and Doris and Bobby Schiffman at home in N.J. When it came to horse racing, Tony was the go to guy.
The Longshot. I actually did run onto the track at Hollywood Park to urge on my horse. Once, just once, I wanted to come in first.
Harvey, Carol, and an unidentified couple.
More good friends: Debby and Harvey Korman and Sheila and Ron Clark.
A joint birthday party for Eydie Gormé, Mike Connors, and my wife. Hold on to your hat, here’s the lineup, left to right. Bottom row: Pat Gelbart, Tom Rowan, Angie Dickinson. Middle row: Barbara Sinatra, Eydie Gormé, Michelle van Dyke, Dolly Martin, Marla Rowan, Ginnie Newhart, Charlene, Judy Tannen. Top row: Richard Crenna, R.J. Wagner, Jill St. John, Penni Crenna, unidentified woman, Merv Adelson, Mike Connors, Dick van Dyke, Steve Lawrence, Mary Lou Connors, Larry Gelbart, Grant Tinker, myself, Bob Newhart, Dick Martin.
It’s not Boris Karloff as The Mummy; it’s Tim Conway pulling off a complicated caper.
Pulling a plaid fast one on my friends with a jacket I made myself. Carol completely lost it when she discovered me plastered against—and
blended into—the wall.
On stage with Tom Poston somewhere other than Broadway. I must confess I never made it to The Great White Way. But, I’m ready and willing.