by Brad Garrett
2
Jews Don’t Dribble
When you’re a large kid, people always assume you’re older than you are, and they tend to treat you as such. This comes with both an added pressure of expectation and some undeniable perks. The irony of age, of course, is that we want to appear older when we’re young and younger when we’re old, proving that the human species is rarely content with any stage of life. That is, until you experience the true bliss of total voluntary surrender—but I’ll get to that later.
School was a nightmare for me straight through junior high. I was as tall as my teacher in the third grade, and by sixth grade, everyone thought I was an undercover narc or had flunked a couple of years. I always sat in the back of the class so as not to block the blackboard for the poor bastard sitting behind me.
Whenever teams were picked during PE, I was always second to last before Ronald Wulfson, who was known as “Planet” for obvious reasons. In dodgeball, I was always the first out because I was the biggest target. Having the speed of a sloth didn’t help, either, so I had more welts on me from that fucking game than you could imagine. Those big red rubber balls that smelled like asphalt found their way to my head more often than not, and the asinine rule was that if you were beaned in the head, it didn’t count and you weren’t out. The shot had to be below the neck, meaning every whack to the noggin bought me another round of torture, in which I could only hope to take one to the dick for a change. It is for this same reason that I have zero desire to go to Israel. Seven-foot Jew equals Arab’s wet dream. Just lob one over the wall and leave with any prize from the top shelf.
When I hit the six-foot mark at thirteen, I noticed the majority of the population was in denial with regard to my athletic potential. The townspeople refused to believe that I couldn’t play ball. I would have killed to become a good basketball player, because that would have gotten me the acceptance I constantly craved. When I would tell coaches I could not play basketball, they needed to see it to believe it, thus adding to my angst and embarrassment. “All you have to do is jump, Gerstenfeld!” Coach Tuccimini would bellow as I lumbered up and down the cracked, blacktop courts at George Hale Junior High. My room was lined with posters of John Havlicek, Jerry West, and Lew Alcindor (the early Kareem) in hopes that they would give me extra motivation. No Jewish players in that lineup, you’ll notice—Jews don’t dribble until they get to be around eighty. I never heard a sportscaster yell, “Rebound by Robinowitz!”
I dreamed of becoming the next Wilt Chamberlain. He was the star center of the Los Angeles Lakers at the time. My dad told me stories about how he would see Wilt every now and then leaving a nightclub with two or three women at a time. For this reason alone, I wanted to wake up black and buffed, with a penis that required a spotter when erect—not to mention a stealth hook shot to beat the Celtics at the buzzer.
I wanted so desperately to own Wilt’s trademark gold headband, but every sporting goods store was sold out of them. So I decided to cut the waistband off of my underwear, paint it gold, and wear it in my next pickup game at recess. I knew it would fit perfectly because I always wore my underwear on my head when I imitated my aunt Esther for my brothers. I was naive enough to think the other kids wouldn’t be able to tell the difference; I thought if I colored the waistband correctly, I could fool everyone, even though it said “Waist 32” and “Fruit of the Loom” on it. Skip Goldwaser, the only Jew at my school with a jump shot, was onto me the minute I hit the court. The whispers started and the chuckles followed and I became officially known as “the giant loser who wore his underwear waistband on his head.”
It was around this time that I decided to sport a mini Jewfro in hopes of, again, being more Wilt-like. I looked as if Herman Munster and Greg Brady had a child. I couldn’t win. And to top it off, my mom was insistent on cutting my mop. “The Afro is not going to get points with the Latin students, darling. You have enough trouble already with the whites,” she said as we waited in the drive-through for tacos at Jack in the Box. What the hell was she talking about? What Latins? I think she meant Latinos, or perhaps she was confusing Latin with Latin Americans. Either way, she wanted the ’fro gone.
What I think puzzled me even more back then was that Jack in the Box sold two tacos for thirty-nine cents. Not one but two tacos. This was baffling to me, because gum was forty cents and didn’t contain beef. Or at least what we thought was beef. How did they do it? What part of the cow could they sell for thirty-nine cents? This shit kept me up at night. In more ways than one.
My dad sided with me to convince my mom to leave my hair alone. He had a mini-fro as well. But to my mom, it showed disrespect to wear your hair long. I wanted to be like my two older brothers, with long, cool, wavy hair, love beads, and bell-bottoms. When I tried to pull off that look, it was not kind. I looked like a tranny at a luau.
It’s odd how men have a very deep connection to their hair that I can only assume goes back to the prehistoric days, when we were forced to camouflage among other furry land dwellers in hopes of not being devoured. The shit guys go through to save their fuzz is insane. Just think of James Taylor, Sean Connery, and Bruce Willis. You think they have trouble getting laid? Let it go, gentlemen.
My mom always cut our hair herself with a device called the Hair Whiz, which she bought from a late-night television commercial. It was pretty much like a straight razor with a plastic handle. I think it was originally designed to shear sheep or cut upholstery. No matter how we pleaded, we all got a variation of an accidental mullet. I recall once running away from home the day before I was supposed to get my hair cut. I’ll never forget the bravery it took as I closed my eyes and jumped down nineteen inches from my bedroom window onto a cushy patch of succulents. We had a one-story house. I guess walking out the front door wouldn’t have been as dramatic as doing a tuck-and-roll onto plush landscaping. To me, it might as well have been an escape from Terminal Island: I ran for dear life in broad daylight (Jews don’t run away if it’s dark out) to the market three miles down the hill, where I called my dad from a pay phone. He drove all the way from downtown as I hid in the produce section of Vons. When he picked me up we went to have some pie at Marie Callender’s, like we always did, and he told me about the importance of sticking up for what I believed in, which included preserving my Afro.
We loved pie. We bonded over it. Marie Callender’s was like our clubhouse. And one day my dad would buy a franchise called House of Pies that almost drove him to an early grave. He had to do most of the baking from midnight to five in the morning and had no idea what he was doing. He sold it in two years and lost a bundle.
* * *
It should come as no surprise that I was bullied beyond belief, and once the smaller guys knew I wasn’t great at fighting back, I became fair game for a large part of the student body. That’s when I discovered the Goon Squad: a gaggle of oddities who ran in a pod consisting of fat kids, brainiacs, those with special needs (evident or not), loners, nerds, redheads, and kids who freely ate boogers in public. I was immediately elected president of the Island of Misfit Toys because I had the loudest voice in all of Platt Ranch Elementary, and my screams for help could be heard across the schoolyard. I was Foghorn Leghorn with abandonment issues. And I became the resident comic of this group because I had the ability to ease our dread of inferiority by secretly making fun of the bullies while also imitating our least favorite teachers. The goons needed some comic relief, and I needed an audience. I had found my niche.
My strategy from early on was always to draw the uncomfortable focus onto myself before others had time to point and ridicule. The idea is to beat the haters to the punch. In the same way that Quasimodo needed to run up to the bell tower and ring the shit out of the bells to gain even more attention (as if being a deformed hunchback wasn’t enough), we must all make sure we draw attention to our flaws before others do. This is recommended for my diminutive counterparts as well. And large folks, listen up: don’t stoop or slouch, because then you look
like a Great Dane who just laid one out behind the couch. Stand tall but not too proud. Pride can make you look like a dick if you’re not careful.
Hamming it up at my mom’s third wedding, 1968. (Courtesy of author’s collection)
3
Bitten
My turbulent and awkward childhood led me to devise a survival strategy, which was to try and become anyone but myself. Over the years I’ve noticed this is the same process that propels many people into show business. Ironically, it’s the opposite of what we want to accomplish later in life. That’s the delicate balancing act that most everyone struggles with: “Who the hell am I today? Right now? And are there any other choices available?”
In my earlier days as a stand-up, like the playground tactics that preceded them, my humor always leaned toward self-deprecation. There’s still some of that today, but I think every comic, especially in the beginning, is fueled by his larger emotions or feelings about himself, which are almost always negative. That’s why we’re comics. These years also saw the birth of my irreverent sense of humor and my need to push the envelope in both personal and professional life. I chose not to be the typical giant who slumped over or hid in the corner or on top of the beanstalk. Instead, I decided to create a humor as loud and unfiltered as I was. Fortunately, this served me well in later life, because women love humor. It’s a known fact that next to musicians and athletes, comics get laid the most. Luckily, comedians age much better than bass players or quarterbacks, so if you think you are truly funny, you can cancel your gym membership right now. Broads want to laugh, not fight you for the mirror.
My childhood dreams of becoming a fireman, policeman, or doctor were dashed by age nine when I could no longer fit into a youth-size Halloween costume for any of those occupations. It was as if I went from Casper to Richard Nixon overnight. (Even a few years ago I went to Party City to buy a costume to take my kids out trick-or-treating. I figured a clown was easy until I went to try on the clown feet. I couldn’t get them on; they were too fucking small. They were three feet long, why the hell couldn’t I get my size-fifteen flipper in there?)
I took a music class in school and toyed with the thought of becoming a flautist to offset my mammoth persona. Unfortunately, the smaller instruments went to the girls, and I was stuck with the baritone horn, one size under tuba. After one week of having to schlep my instrument home from school, a mile and a half uphill, I decided maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a musician. I was diagnosed with a hernia three weeks into orchestra class. My doctor suggested not blowing hard for six weeks after the operation. He also advised that I not carry the large horn home for at least the same amount of time. I was moved into percussion, but unfortunately not the drums. I rotated from the triangle to cymbals depending on the holiday program.
To me and my dad, black musicians and artists were the epitome of cool. My dad was great at doing impressions and inspired me to venture into that realm also. Flip Wilson, Bill Cosby, and Jimmie Walker were the first in my arsenal. I’m slightly embarrassed to say that my first act, at fifteen, was an impersonation of Jimmie Walker. In blackface. As off-putting as that sounds, I need to inform you that my act was highly regarded on the bar mitzvah circuit, and the impression was so dead-on that I somehow got away with it. At the time, Jimmie was the biggest star in television on the show Good Times, and truly, it was done out of admiration and respect, however misguided.
On further consideration, it occurs to me that perhaps the screams of laughter were from the fact that I was walking into a temple in blackface, as opposed to my impression being great. I would recite the jokes off Jimmie’s hit album, wearing his trademark jean hat and burgundy turtleneck. In hindsight, I guess I was lucky to have made it past my fifteenth birthday. I didn’t find any of this to be racist, though I did find it racial and provocative and actually pretty damn funny. Especially to a kid who was being influenced by a new show called Saturday Night Live. To me, it was no different than when Eddie Murphy brilliantly portrayed the old Jewish men in his films or when Richard Pryor made fun of white people. The general population just wasn’t used to white guys trying that kind of stuff.
As I look back on it today, I can’t believe my utter fearlessness, my lack of propriety, and the balls I possessed in my teens. I also can’t believe I was allowed to leave the house in friggin’ blackface! My parents, who were very supportive of my comedy as well as very liberal, clearly didn’t see the harm or offense. I was acting. Like Othello on weed, perhaps, but acting.
* * *
My cousin Darren and I, born nine days apart, grew up more like brothers, since his house was just down the street. When we had sleepovers, we would quietly turn on his television after bedtime to catch Johnny Carson’s monologue on The Tonight Show. We would always make sure to catch the young comics: Robert Klein, David Brenner, Joan Rivers, Steve Landesberg, Martin Mull, and David Steinberg were the staples.
Then one night I caught Don Rickles on The Tonight Show, and my life changed forever. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was the first time I’d ever witnessed Carson and Ed McMahon crying from laughter. Don was ruthless and hysterical. Jabbing Ed about his weight and boozing, and roasting Johnny about his marriages and salary. Making fun of the black guy in the band. Telling irreverent stories about his buddy Sinatra. There was a sense of discomfort when Rickles took to the stage that made everything even funnier because he was fearless and no one was safe. But his genius came from the audience knowing full well he didn’t mean it.
After seeing Don perform, I knew for certain I wanted to pursue comedy as a career. I wanted to make folks laugh about themselves the same way I had to laugh about myself. To make everyone fair game no matter who they were. Ironically, it wasn’t until later in life that I realized how much my comedic style was influenced by this middle-aged curmudgeon. I always felt like the put-upon outcast who wanted his day in court, and Rickles’s humor made it okay to play the judge. One thing I was keenly aware of, however, was the fact that I had to make fun of myself before turning the tables on the audience. Rickles was short, bald, and pudgy. I was a giant with a big voice. If I didn’t set it up right, I’d come off as nothing more than a bully. I would have to let the audience see my vulnerability, insecurity, and playfulness. They needed to know what really lay beneath my surface before I could be trusted to unload on them.
To this day, Rickles remains one of the few comics whocommands reverence and adoration from every generation of stand-ups to follow. He’s a true one of a kind. A few years ago in a packed restaurant in Malibu, Don walked up to my table and bellowed, “Hey, Garrett, let’s put an escalator up your ass and make ya into a building!” Then he looked at my young girlfriend and said, “Whataya, twelve, honey? You been kidnapped? Just blink if you’re kidnapped.” Friggin’ hilarious. It was one of the greatest nights of my life. Roasted by the King.
* * *
My first year in high school was when the stand-up in me really started to emerge; by senior year, it was well engrained. Being the lunchtime disc jockey at the school, I was chosen to MC a year-end event where various teachers were recognized by the student body as they sat on a dais. Having been raised on the Dean Martin Roasts, which I never missed, I had a few minutes of material on each teacher that was anything but flattering. As luck would have it, the teachers ate it up and the students went crazy, and I made it out alive with a much better idea of what I would do after I finished school.
Five days later, at my graduation from El Camino Real High School, class of 1978, the public address system used to announce each student during the procession went out just as they were starting on the G’s. The families couldn’t hear the names of their kids as they received their diplomas onstage. Since he knew I had the lungs of an off-key opera singer, the principal asked me to stand beside him and yell the names of the graduates as they appeared. We were outdoors, so my pipes probably only made it ten rows deep, but it was better than nothing, and the crowd loved it. Luckily, they got
the PA system working again just before we hit the K’s.
* * *
When I started to take myself seriously as a comic, one of the first steps I took in reinventing myself was to change my name, which I did at eighteen. Being born a Gerstenfeld (which means “barley field” in German), I went in search of a better handle. At age seventeen, I saw my name squeezed onto a tiny marquee during a talent contest at a dingy nightclub on Ventura Boulevard called the Turkey Farm. I knew it was only a matter of time until the name had to go. I wanted to keep the G from my birth-given name as an homage to my Jewish heritage. Not really. I’m lying. I felt guilty about totally abandoning my namesake and didn’t want to hurt my father’s feelings, although he hated the name as well. Mostly I wanted to keep the G because I had just purchased a monogrammed robe. So I flipped through the phonebook and considered Garner and Gannon for a minute, and even Elliott, because I loved Elliott Gould. But Brad seemed to flow better with Garrett.
Looking back now, I wish I’d kept the barley field. The truth is, as I slide into middle age and desire more authenticity from myself, I don’t feel Garrett when I look in the mirror. I feel Gerstenfeld. Especially as I begin to age and look more like my father. I think it’s the ultimate acceptance that comes with aging that is most rewarding. Where “screw it” becomes a way of life as opposed to an attitude.
* * *
One of the aforementioned perks that came with looking years beyond my age was that I got to perform in the clubs before I was twenty-one. I had been doing stand-up off and on for about four years when my older brother Paul encouraged me to sign up for an open mic one night at the Comedy Store in Westwood. I drew a number that put me on around eleven-thirty P.M., which was not an ideal time slot for a Monday. Let’s just say the crowd’s reaction was worse than “crickets.” I single-handedly took bombing to a new level: not just hearing crickets but actually hearing crickets’ thoughts. Of course it’s possible I did so poorly because of the genius I had to follow that fateful night: “A very funny guy who’s starring in his own series on ABC. Ladies and gentlemen, Robin Williams!” the MC yelled.