For Laughing Out Loud

by Ed McMahon

  Several months after I began my daily train trips into New York, I got my first network job. I was hired to replace the host of Bride and Groom, which was canceled almost immediately after I was hired. Like so many television shows of that period, Bride and Groom was based on a successful radio show. Although NBC had already canceled it when I was hired, the network had to run it for six weeks until a replacement was ready. People got married on the show, and we gave them all sorts of great gifts; a TV set, a refrigerator, a two-week Caribbean honeymoon. In fact, one couple got married only for the gifts, and the staff joked that their marriage ended before the kinescope aired in Hawaii. My job was to interview the happy couple, their relatives, and guests at the wedding. One of my more probing questions was "How did you meet?"

  On radio it was simple to create a fantasy wedding, the peaceful chapel somewhere in a wooded glen, the beautiful bride and handsome groom of a listener's dreams . . . but the harsh reality of television's bright lights destroyed the fantasy. The set was a cheap imitation of a chapel, some of our happy couples were less than truly beautiful, and it was difficult to maintain the ethereal atmosphere when I had to remind our viewers, "We'll be right back with our happy couple after this word from Drano."

  Making it just a bit more difficult for me was the producer, who hated the show and continually made bawdy comments into my earpiece as I conducted interviews. "I'm here with the proud groom . . . ," I began.

  To which the producer might have added, ". . . who married that horse for her money."

  Or, "And we're very pleased to give our newly wedded couple their first gift. A beautiful . . ."

  ". . . paper bag he can put over her head, 'cause that's the only way he's gonna . . ."

  Years later people wondered how I could sit with Mr. Carson and deal so comfortably with some of the surprises with which we were confronted. The answer is, I learned on shows like Bride and Groom.

  As a favor to Dan Kelly, I used the experience I'd gained in Korea creating clubs to turn his struggling restaurant into the exclusive, very successful Drexelbrook Club. We served good food, we offered good music and good dancing, and most important, because we were a private club we could legally serve liquor on Sundays. Eventually I hired my father to be in charge of the liquor supply. He kept track of what the club had on hand, did the ordering, and supervised the bartenders. It was great for both of us: he felt useful and was able to spend time with his grandchildren, and I knew he was safe.

  Drexelbrook was an ideal place to live. There were about twelve hundred apartments, most of them occupied by young successful families. Dan Kelly liked me and when I was recalled by the marines he'd promised to have a place for me when I was discharged. When I got back to Philadelphia, he had saved one of the best apartments in the entire complex for my family. It was a beautiful threebedroom apartment on the end of one building, open on three sides, with a beautiful view. But this particular apartment turned out to be so important in my life primarily because the guy who lived in the adjoining apartment was Dick Clark.

  Dick Clark had begun his career in television as a newscaster in Utica, New York. But when he moved to Philadelphia, TV executives thought he looked too young to be taken seriously, so they offered him a job as a radio disc jockey. His local program, American Bandstand, became so popular that ABC decided to televise it nationally. By 1950 Dick Clark was doing seventeen hours of live television weekly—a music show in the morning, Bandstand in the afternoon, and commercials at night. Two years later he made his first ABC network appearance, doing a Tootsie Roll commercial on Paul Whiteman's TV Teen Club.

  By the time I moved in next door, Dick Clark's dance show, American Bandstand, was the hottest show on television. Every teenager in the country watched it every afternoon, including my lovely daughter Claudia. But of all the millions of teenagers in the country, only Claudia McMahon's bedroom wall was flush against Dick Clark's bedroom wall. Claudia attended a Catholic girls' school that forbade its students from going on Bandstand; just imagine how frustrating that was for her. But she would baby-sit for the Clarks and each week Dick would bring home the top ten records for her.

  Alyce and I got to know Dick very well. I remember in those days he looked so young, so very young. And maybe I'm making this up, but I seem to remember that there was a portrait of him hanging over his fireplace, and in that painting he appeared to be just a little older than he was at that time. But Dick was so popular that the legendary journalist Edward R. Murrow interviewed him on his program, Person to Person. Person to Person was sort of the 1950s version of a Barbara Walters interview program. Each week, from an easy chair in his studio, bathed in cigarette smoke, Murrow would interview a well-known person in their own home by remote control.

  The technology was not like it is today. There were no such things as lightweight minicams or mobile units; the CBS crew practically had to install a studio in Dick's apartment, so we had thick cables and wires and big cameras all over the place. It was a very big deal at Drexelbrook. All the Philadelphia newspapers were doing features about the show. Dan Kelly, who thought the daily mail delivery was a sufficient reason to throw a party, figured this would be great publicity for the club, so after the show he threw a big party for Dick Clark's family and the CBS crew. And if a few reporters happened to wander in, that was not a bad thing either.

  During the party Dan asked me to get up onstage and entertain his guests. Me? Entertain a group of CBS television producers and a crew? Naturally, I was a bit shy about it, but somewhere, from some deep hidden reservoir, some place so deep I didn't even know it existed, so very deep that . . . It's a good thing that no one was standing in the direct path between me and the microphone, so there were no serious injuries. "Ladies and gentlemen," I began, "our wonderful host, Dan Kelly, felt this evening would not be complete without something in the way of entertainment

  . . . so if there's anything in the way of entertainment here right now, let's get it out of the way and start the show."

  Several talented performers living at Drexelbrook performed, I told some jokes, bantered a bit with the audience, led some sing-alongs, and everyone had a fine time. Now, besides the daily American Bandstand, Dick Clark hosted a Saturday night network dance party from New York. The producer of that show was a man named Chuck Reeves. After the party Reeves complimented me on the easy way I handled the show and asked, "Have you ever thought about going to New York?"

  "Just about every second of every minute of every hour of every day," I said, "but other than that . . ."

  Chuck Reeves promised to keep me in mind. Now, in show business lingo, that meant one of two things: either I was never going to hear from him again, or he was going to introduce me to this skinny comic genius from Nebraska with whom I would work for the next thirty-four years. I figured it was more likely I would never hear from him again.

  Dick Clark's Saturday night show was broadcast from the Little Theatre on West Forty-fourth Street. During the week, a half-hour quiz show titled Who Do You Trust?, starring Johnny Carson, was broadcast from that studio. Chuck Reeves's office was down the hall from the office of Art Stark, Trust's producer. Soon after the Person to Person party, Reeves overheard Stark telling Carson that his announcer, Bill Nimmo, was leaving to host his own game show and they had to find a replacement right away. Reeves remembered me. As legend has it, Reeves leaped up and yelled to Stark, "I got the perfect guy for you! He's in Philadelphia, but I'll have him here tomorrow." At least that's the way the legend is told in my house.

  Reeves didn't know how to contact me, so he phoned Dick Clark. Ironically, a few days earlier we had moved out of Drexelbrook into our own home in a place called Gulph Mills. Dick Clark did not have my new phone number. It was unlisted, but Dick, a wonderfully talented man who continues to complain that he got me a job that lasted thirty-four years and never got a commission, asked if there was a listing for Claudia McMahon. For her thirteenth birthday, I had gotten Claudia her own phone. Dick called that
number and one day later I was walking into Johnny Carson's office in the Little Theatre.

  I don't think I had ever seen Who Do You Trust?, but I had seen Johnny Carson. After graduating from the University of Nebraska, where he had starred in a fraternity production of the classic drama She Was Only a Pharaoh's Daughter, But She Never Became a Mummy, Carson had hosted a show, Carson's Cellar, first on WOW-TV in Omaha, then on KNXT in Los Angeles. After that show was canceled, he hosted a quiz show called Earn Your Vacation, and when that was canceled he was hired as a writer by Red Skelton. In rehearsal one day, Skelton suffered a minor concussion and could not do his live show that night. Carson went on in his place—and was so good that CBS gave him his own prime-time variety show.

  Sometimes while I was rehearsing for Five Minutes More, we'd have a TV on in the background. No sound, just the picture. So I saw Jell-O presenting The Johnny Carson Show for several weeks before I ever heard his voice. I was fascinated by his facial expressions and body language. Perhaps because he was one of the greatest monologuists and adlibbers in comedy history, Johnny Carson has always been underrated as a physical comedian. But as I watched him on the monitor—even before he hired me, which enabled me to have a wonderful career during which I have earned millions of dollars, for which I will be eternally grateful and never say anything but the most loving things about him— he reminded me of some of the great comedians of silent movies.

  Eventually I turned on the sound. From the very first time I heard him, I knew he was an original talent. I remember watching as he opened his show by auctioning off the television camera. "You can throw away your old Brownie," he explained. "Shoot your own TV programs, and then complain about them."

  The first full sketch I ever saw him do was set inside the Trojan horse. He was with two other Greek soldiers; they were wearing those big metal helmets with feather plumes, shields, boots with buckles, and their mission was to rescue Helen of Troy. The punch line was such a non sequitur that most people still don't get it. As one of the soldiers got ready to leave the horse, Carson stopped him. "Not that way," he said. "Go out the rear end."

  The soldier looked at Carson and said, "You tried a chicken and the chicken didn't work. You tried a pig and the pig didn't work. What makes you think a horse will work?"

  I can still hear Carson's voice as he replied, "You know, a horse they just might go for."

  It was so dumb that I couldn't stop laughing. The Johnny Carson Show was eventually replaced by The Arthur Murray Show and ABC hired Carson to host the afternoon quiz show Do You Trust Your Wife? Apparently the answer was no, because the format was changed and the title became Who Do You Trust?

  Johnny Carson was very much the same person the day we met in 1958 as he was when we did the last of thousands of shows together in 1992. The interview was brief and totally professional; he was direct, polite, and private. When I walked into his office, he was standing with his back to the door, looking out the window at the Shubert Theatre directly across the street. Four giant cranes had blocked Forty-fourth Street and were hoisting a new marquee for the theater, which was replacing the traditional tivoli lights that spelled out the name of the current production. I stood at the other window as workmen started hanging the title of a new play, letter by letter. "Times Square'll never be the same after this," he said, indicating the marquee. "This is gonna be the new look for everybody."

  Gradually, we realized the marquee was announcing the arrival of JUDY HOLLIDAY IN THE BELLS ARE RINGING.

  Finally, Johnny Carson turned to face me. In the thirty years Mr. Carson and I did The Tonight Show together, I most enjoyed the first segment, a five-minute slot during which Johnny and I would sit at his desk and chat about absolutely anything of interest. It was never rehearsed. I just loved that spot. It was an opportunity for me to engage in witty repartee with the most clever, accomplished performer I had ever seen, in front of about ten million viewers. I had to be ready for anything. And this was the very first conversation we ever had. "So Ed," he asked, "what are you doing down in Philadelphia?"

  I told him about all my shows.

  He nodded, then asked, "Where'd you go to school?"

  "Catholic University," I said, "in Washington, D.C. I studied speech and drama."

  "That's great," he said, "very interesting. Hey, thanks for coming up. I really appreciate it." We shook hands and I walked out of the office. I've waited for elevators for a longer time than this meeting took.

  Producer Art Stark took me into the studio where rehearsals were in progress. Carson came in a little while later and they put the two of us on camera to see how we looked together. I looked tall, he looked smaller. "Thanks for coming up, Ed," Stark said. "We'll get in touch with you."

  I got back on the train to Philly convinced I'd blown the audition, although I didn't know what else I could have done to impress them. Maybe I shouldn't have been so tall? I was disappointed. It was obvious to me that Carson was a rising star, and I thought it would have been fun to work with him. Besides it was a paying job. Who Do You Trust? figured to be on the air for another two seasons at least. A broadcasting year is similar to a dog's year; it's a multiple of a normal year. The life span of most television programs is less than four years, so two good years on a national program was very desirable. I went home convinced I had been rejected.

  For three weeks I didn't hear from anyone. That is the loudest silence you will ever hear. It meant I had not gotten the job. At the same time, one of the companies in Philadelphia for whom I did commercials had chartered a plane and was giving away trips to Europe as a sales promotion. The gimmick was that Alyce and I would be along on the trip. But Alyce didn't want to go; we had just moved into our new home and she had too much to do. We decided I would take Claudia. For some reason, though, I just didn't feel comfortable about making the trip. It didn't feel right. The day before we were to leave, a Friday morning, I decided not to go. Literally minutes after I'd made that decision, Art Stark called and said casually, "Ed, we'd like you to wear suits because we want to emphasize your size. The fact that you're a big guy, you know, will play well against Johnny. Johnny's kind of slight, so he likes to wear sport clothes . . ."

  I was a little confused. "What are you talking about?" I asked.

  "Didn't anybody call you?" he continued. "You got the job. You start Monday."

  All of which is how putting down my twenty-five-dollar deposit on an apartment in Drexelbrook when I didn't have any money proved to be the shrewdest move I've ever made in show business.

  On October 13, 1958, I went on the air with Johnny Carson for the first time. My job was to introduce the contestants, do the commercials, and occasionally have a brief conversation with him at the beginning of the show. I don't remember being the slightest bit nervous when the show went on the air. It didn't even occur to me that it might lead to something else. My biggest hope was that it would lead to a paycheck every other Friday.

  The first time I walked onstage to introduce our next contestants and hand the questions to Johnny, he established the nature of our television relationship, which would last more than three decades. At that time one of the most popular comic strips was "Mandrake the Magician," and Mandrake had a big, big manservant, a gentleman's gentleman, named Lothar. When I came out Johnny pretended not to see me and then turned suddenly and jumped back, as if I had surprised him. "Lothar," he said, "you startled me."

  That was it: big guy and little guy, boss and employee, star and announcer. One night on The Tonight Show, I remember, he started discussing a newspaper column that had described him as cold and aloof. This was something we never discussed, but I knew this kind of criticism bothered him. "You see that thing in the paper today?" He complained, "They're writing the same old thing. Johnny Carson is cold and aloof. Ed, how long have we been together?"

  "It'll be twenty-one years this October."

  "That's right, so you know me pretty well. Tell me the truth, really now, do you think I'm cold and aloof?"<
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  To which I responded, "No, my Lord." Now, that line descended directly from the first thing he ever said to me. The audience laughed because . . . because it was funny. And it was funny because it described completely the TV relationship between us that began on Who Do You Trust?

  The game was the least important aspect of Who Do You Trust? Exactly like Groucho's quiz show, You Bet Your Life, it was simply a vehicle that allowed Johnny Carson to show off his genius. The format was simple: a couple was asked three questions of increasing difficulty and value and had to agree on an answer. The most they could win was about $150. For example, they might have been asked, "Which mountain is taller, Mt. Everest or Mt. McKinley? Who do you trust?" Believe me, our contestants were not chosen for their intellect. We had people on the show who were so nervous that they were stumped by questions like "How many children do you have?"

  The quiz was really nothing more than an excuse for Carson to conduct interviews with unusual people and participate in demonstrations. The stranger, the better. Among the contestants we had on the show was a woman who dressed her parrots in historical costumes—Napoleon squawked—we had lots of singing pets; once we had a woman who tossed alligators. Several contestants claimed to have been abducted by Martians or were themselves Martians. Johnny loved people with strange tattoos in unusual places. Inventors were always coming on with unusual inventions. One contestant had invented panties for cows. Another man had invented padded pants with a built-in derriere; he brought a special large size for Johnny, who made a perfect model. Another inventor demonstrated shoes with springs attached to the bottom and Carson bounced across the stage. One of our most memorable contestants was the owner of Hubert's Flea Circus, a Times Square emporium. He brought with him a complete miniature circus, including his star, Gypsy Rose Flea. I mean, he had this tiny little trapeze, little swings, an invisible high wire. You should have seen these little fleas, because nobody else did. "Look!" he told Johnny, as he supposedly put his fleas through their act. "You see that? That was unbelievable! A triple flip. He's never done that before."