by Andy Simmons
AS: I heard that you own a vineyard and produce wine in Napa Valley.
RW: I’ve owned the ranch for about twenty-six years, but I’ve only been growing grapes for the last fifteen.
AS: But you no longer drink, so how do you know if the wine is any good?
RW: The people running the ranch and my wife are all really knowledgeable.
AS: Why did you stop drinking?
RW: Because my first son was about to be born and I thought, I can’t continue this way.
AS: Do you think you had a problem?
RW: The drinking was tied into cocaine. You needed to drink, especially hard liquor, to take the edge off the coke. So that would usually be this kind of hook for me.
AS: How crazy did you get?
RW: Not too crazy, but it was enough to go, Uh-uh. Especially with work. Hangovers don’t make you a nice person.
AS: Was it easy for you to quit?
RW: It was kind of a decompression—from straight alcohol to mixed drinks to wine to spritzers—and then you’re out.
AS: Tell us about your friendship with Christopher Reeve.
RW: At Juilliard, he lived nearby, and he literally fed me for a while. I’d go to his house and, as I say, borrow food. “Tuna, thank you.” We were totally opposite—me coming from the West Coast and a junior college, and him from the hard-core Ivy League. He used to be the studly studly of all studlies, and I was the little fool ferret boy. It was astonishing to see that women just responded to him like [makes whooshing noises].
AS: After his accident, I was amazed at how strong he was.
RW: Yeah. I don’t know how many times he had near-death experiences. When your spinal cord freezes up, you’re vulnerable to everything. But he was tough as nails. And he kept a great, kind of dark sense of humor about it, but also was able to accomplish amazing things. Now, with the war, we have more and more people coming in with spinal injuries. What he got going—especially with stem cells—there’s amazing potential there.
AS: You were involved with Comic Relief. Are there any other causes that are close to your heart?
RW: There’s Chris [Reeve]’s paralysis foundation, and there’s Lance [Armstrong]’s foundation connected with cancer survivorship.
AS: I understand you’ve cycled with Armstrong. What was that like?
RW: It’s like lap-dancing with Angelina Jolie. The first five minutes are amazing, and then she takes off. It’s like, “Bye-bye. Bye-bye.”
AS: You’ve done several USO shows. Did you go to Iraq?
RW: I was in Iraq, Afghanistan, Djibouti, Bahrain. The first year I went pretty much by myself. Then I went with General [Richard] Myers, head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The shows and audiences were amazing. You’ll never get a better group of people.
AS: Was it dangerous?
RW: Yeah, we were doing open-air shows in a place where we could get mortared. I did a show and said, “You’re all wearing flak vests. I didn’t get that memo.” And leaving is kind of scary. They do combat takeoffs.
It’s like a really intense roller coaster—straight up, at night, no lights. Everybody in the cockpit’s wearing night-vision goggles, and you’re in the back in the dark. Then they level off at fifteen thousand [feet] because that’s outside the range of shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles.
AS: Then you try to find your stomach.
RW: Yeah, it’s like, “Oh, there’s my corn.” “Excuse me, sir, would you hand me my sphincter?”
AS: You did some stand-up specials after 9/11.
RW: I did an event in Washington, and it was like we lifted a sea. If you remember immediately after [9/11], there was a stunned shock—kind of this feeling of “what do we do now?” I started performing, and there was a catharsis in the laughing. People started to be able to laugh again. Laughter can be many things—sometimes a medicine, sometimes a weapon, depending on who’s administering it.
AS: Do you ever use humor as a weapon?
RW: Oh, big time. It’s a great defense, and an offense, too. Usually the recipient isn’t too happy about it, but the people around are laughing.
AS: But in this case the laughter really did have a healing power?
RW: Healing isn’t the word. Therapeutic maybe, or cathartic. After being in extreme situations, it kind of brings you back to life.
A Comic’s World
When I began working on this piece about comedians’ oddest and funniest professional moments, the first thing I did was to call Jerry Lewis’s office.
“Is Jerry, there?” I bellowed into the phone. “This is Andy Simmons from Reader’s—”
“Mr. Lewis is not in,” his assistant interrupted. “Send a fax, and if he wants to talk to you he’ll call you.”
A fax? Who does that anymore? “Can’t I e-mail? The e-mail is right here on my computer. I can stay seated. The fax is all the way down the hall in a dark, scary room, and I’m not sure how it works.”
“Mr. Lewis doesn’t do e-mail. You have to fax.” Click.
I found the fax machine as I remembered it—alone in a shadowy corner, in a gloomy closet, next to a reel-to-reel recorder, an Edsel, and an old Mississippi paddle ship. I cleared away the cobwebs and fed the note into its open maw, making sure to remove my hand quickly before it, too, got faxed over to Jerry. The machine gulped down the paper whole, as if it were starving. “More, more, more!” I thought I heard it shout as I ran out the door.
As I walked back to my desk I had no idea whether this was going to work. A fax? What, his teletype wasn’t working? Should I see if Samuel Morse could lend a hand? Maybe…
My phone rang.
“Is this Andy Simmons?” demanded the voice on the other end.
I groaned. I was sure it was that guy who’d been pestering me to run some gags he took from 1960s era Reader’s Digest. “You’re stealing our jokes, which we stole from someone else!” I kept telling him, but he didn’t care.
“Yes,” I croaked.
“This is Jerry.”
“Jerry who?”
“Jerry Lewis!”
Who knew fax machines still work?
We had a delightful chat, and I sat there howling as he regaled me with a story that had happened to him while filming Cinderfella.
Here, Jerry and thirteen other comics—some young, some old-school, some famous, some soon-to-be—share the funniest and oddest things to happen to them during their careers.
I Almost Died Laughing
JERRY LEWIS IS A COMEDIAN, ACTOR, PRODUCER, WRITER, DIRECTOR, SINGER…
I’m preparing the big finale for my 1960 film Cinderfella. The setting is a ballroom. The centerpiece: a long, majestic staircase with sixty-four steps. I’d flown in the Count Basie Orchestra from New York, so the soundstage is packed with hundreds of crewmembers, actors, extras, musicians, and visitors. I tell the cameraman where to set up the camera and what his cue is. Now I’m ready to film. I make my entrance at the top of the stairs. The camera follows me as I do my choreographed routine, going from the top stair all the way into the ballroom. I go to my costar Anna Maria Alberghetti. I take her hand and kiss it. I leave her and run up those sixty-four stairs in nine seconds flat. Nine seconds flat!
And then I wind up at the hospital—I had a heart attack at the top of the stairs.
That’s not the funny part.
The film and all those actors, extras, crewmembers, and musicians are on hold for eight weeks because I’m now inside an oxygen tent. We’re talking 1960, so it’s a huge, canvas-like affair—square, with zippers. And on the top of it, there’s a flap you can open to put in the stethoscope, medicine, and so on.
That night, my father comes into my room. He opens the little flap on the oxygen tent, sticks his face inside, and says, “Do you know what you’re doing to your mother?”
My Successful Career
JUDAH FRIEDLANDER PLAYS FRANK ROSSITANO ON NBC’S 30 ROCK.
People often ask me, “How did you get started in stand-up comedy?” I tell th
em, “I got drafted right out of high school.” I was in tenth grade, about to turn twenty-four. In the middle of class, I decided to make fun of the teacher. Everyone started laughing. Students fell out of their chairs and were convulsing on the floor. Other classrooms emptied out and squeezed into our room. The principal entered to stop the chaos. But he laughed harder than anyone.
It got too crowded, so I karate-kicked the wall down and took the show outside to the parking lot. The cops and military were there. Not for security, but because they really appreciate a quality comedy show.
Two hundred miles away, Jeff Bloomwichz, the top comedy scout in America, was driving his speedboat in the Atlantic Ocean. He followed the sound of earthshaking guffaws to my show. Afterward, Jeff stepped out of his speedboat and said, “Funny stuff, kid.” I signed a deal to turn pro right there in the parking lot. The rest is history.
Joan of Arch
WHITNEY CUMMINGS STARS IN NBC’S WHITNEY.
The way comics show love and admiration for one another is by insulting one another on the Comedy Central Roast. But the key to a roast working is that the roastee has to enjoy it, or else it feels mean. That’s what happened when we roasted Joan Rivers.
Greg Giraldo went up first and ripped into her, but he got no reaction from her. The next comic went up, same thing. Everyone was laughing except Joan. The comics were getting nervous. We were whispering, “Her feelings are hurt. Look at her. She’s not smiling!” I was panicking. Here she is, my hero, and I was convinced she would never speak to me again.
But Joan Rivers—the butt of all these nasty jokes—saved the day. Sensing the unease among the comics, halfway through the show she stood up and assured us, “I’m having fun. This is funny!” It turns out she was a victim of her Botox. She had to subtitle her own face so that people would know she was enjoying herself.
My Favorite Act
DAN “LARRY THE CABLE GUY” WHITNEY IS A STAND-UP COMEDIAN.
Johnny Vegas was a crazy Brit.
I remember he was standing on a table at this comedy club belting out “God Bless America” when suddenly he fell off and cracked his head open. The place went silent. Is he dead? Is he alive? No one knew. Then out of the blue, a voice shouted, “Come on, you sorry so-and-sos, sing with me!” Johnny staggered to his feet and, with blood pouring from his head, marched around the club, leading us all in a sing-along. I’m telling ya, the Brits do some strange stuff.
Hanging Out with Royalty
DON RICKLES IS, WELL, DON RICKLES.
About fifty years ago, I’m sitting in the lounge at the Sands Hotel with my date, the kind of girl you wouldn’t bring home to Mother. In those days, the lounge was a very romantic place—roaming violinists, flaming torches, the works. Frank Sinatra happened to be sitting at another table with Lena Horne and a bunch of other stars.
I was trying to be a big shot and get in good with my date, so I offered to introduce her to Frank.
“Do you really know Frank Sinatra?” she said.
“Are you kidding, sweetheart? He’s a dear friend.”
I get up and walk over to Frank’s table. “Frank, I got a favor,” I say. “Could you come over to my table in about five minutes so I can introduce you to my girlfriend? It would mean a lot to me.”
He says, “You got it, Bullethead.” He always called me Bullethead.
Five minutes goes by, and he gets up and walks over to us, and, with a huge smile, says, “Hey, Don, how are you?”
And with that, I jump up from my seat and shout, “Not now, Frank. Can’t you see I’m with someone?!”
The Day My Act Was Born
LISA LAMPANELLI IS A MAINSTAY OF THE COMEDY CENTRAL ROASTS.
“Bring back the fat chick!”
It was only five words, but they changed my life forever.
The place, in Meriden, Connecticut, was a mediocre crab-and-burger joint that hosted a stand-up comedy show. The crowd was full of food, half full of liquor, and devoid of civility.
To be honest, my set wasn’t my best—having just started in comedy—and I did about fifteen minutes of jokes about my weight, my Italian family, and my current relationship.
As I introduced the next comic, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had made it through the set. But while watching the comic struggle for laughs, I heard that fateful line: “Bring back the fat chick!”
I froze. Sure, the drunken creep who yelled it was implying I was funnier than comic number two. But he had called me fat, a word that every woman from Eve to Eva Braun to Eve Ensler has feared. I felt my face turn red as the audience shifted its gaze to where I stood. In that instant, I made a decision: I was gonna get them before they got me.
I may be the only comedian who has been heckled when she was offstage, but in that moment, Lisa Lampanelli—Insult Comic was born.
On Cruise Control
TOM PAPA WAS THE HOST OF THE MARRIAGE REF ON NBC.
It was my first time on the Late Show with David Letterman, and I was doing my best to control my nerves. After all, the crowd would be excited. Tom Cruise was scheduled.
The problem was, that night Tom Cruise was pumped. Really pumped! He was trading-jokes-with-Dave and running-through-the-crowd pumped. I was doing my best to stay cool before going on, when Cruise ran offstage and made a beeline for me. He was sweating and breathing heavily like he had just won a prizefight. He grabbed my hand, locked eyes with me, and shook all his adrenaline into me.
“Whoo!” he yelled.
“Whoo?” I tried to say. I looked down and saw a drop of Tom Cruise sweat on my new suit.
He gripped my hand harder and screamed, “Kill it out there!” Cruise slapped my shoulder and in two quick leaps was up the eight steps to his dressing room.
I was now about to perform in front of a crowd of people who apparently filled Tom Cruise with pure rocket fuel, and I was freaking out! Making matters worse, David Letterman—who I’d totally forgotten about—was getting ready to introduce me. Me. Covered in Tom Cruise sweat!
Despite my brain screaming otherwise, my body went out and did the set without me. I don’t remember much of it. The good thing about being a comedian is you don’t really have to be there as long as the jokes show up, which, luckily, happened that night.
Soap Opera
JOY BEHAR STARS IN THE VIEW ON ABC.
Early in my career, I wanted to get into commercials, so I met with an agent. He took one look at me, and he said, “You’re a good type for Ragù and Driver’s Training Institute, but you can’t do Procter and Gamble.”
Then he reconsidered: “Well, you can do Procter and Gamble, but the blonde has to have the clean floor, and you have to have the dirty floor,” which is ironic because you can eat off my mother’s floor. We often did, since she could never decide on a dining room set.
The Wrong Club
HEATHER MCDONALD IS A REGULAR ON THE E! NETWORK’S CHELSEA LATELY.
I was new in the business when a guy offered me a gig at his club in Santa Monica, California. When I got to the address and spotted the illuminated silhouettes of women flashing on the roof, I was energized. This place really supports female comics, I told myself. I walked to the door and announced to the bouncer that I was there to perform.
“Are you here for amateur night?” he asked.
Though I’d been doing stand-up for a year, I tried not to appear offended. He motioned to a waitress, who led me into the green room, where I met the other comedians. My first thought: They’re all so attractive. I wonder if they’ll be telling jokes about being single and dating like me. My second thought: Why are they wearing only their bras and underwear?
Suddenly, the feeling came over me that I had had once before when I was applying lip liner in a poorly lit bathroom at a T.G.I. Friday’s and a man emerged from the stall—I’m in the wrong place!
They all think I’m a stripper!
Of course, I was flattered. Who wouldn’t be? And when I found out the prize was $100, I considered entering. But then I
remembered the high-waisted panties I was wearing and decided to stick with comedy.
On the Cusp of Stardom
BRIAN KILEY HAS BEEN NOMINATED FOR TWELVE EMMY AWARDS AS A WRITER FOR LATE NIGHT WITH CONAN O’BRIEN.
Years ago, I got the opportunity to open for Jerry Seinfeld in Worcester, Massachusetts. There were four thousand people per show, and they were great. The next day, my wife and I came home to New York. Waiting for us was a message on our answering machine: “Brian, this is ABC TV calling…”
I began to shake. This was my big break.
“Your DVD player is ready.”
Then we remembered: ABC TV was the name of the place where we had taken our DVD player to be fixed.
The Day I Let It All Hang Out
CORY JARVIS IS A NEW YORK–BASED COMIC.
Before I was a stand-up, I taught English in Japan. A girl I dated suggested we go to a hot-springs resort. I said yes without knowing one crucial fact: I would have to be naked.
Walking outside the locker room, I realized something: No one but me was embarrassed. The Japanese are far more comfortable with nudity than the family I was raised in. When I was a kid, I walked in on my grandpa in just his underwear, and he still won’t look me in the eye.
Sensing my trepidation, people began to make idle chatter with me, trying to put me at ease. I got so comfortable, I chatted back. I even got a couple of laughs.
Later, when I began doing stand-up, I realized that the hot-springs trip had prepared me for the pressures of being a comic. What else would help you get used to feeling like you’re naked in front of a bunch of strangers who can’t understand your jokes besides being naked in front of a bunch of strangers who can’t understand your jokes?