by Brad Garrett
“What? We won ten grand, Bernard!” she said. The celebrating came to an abrupt halt. The casino revelers began to disperse. The husband slowly reached out, but not with a congratulatory embrace. The defendant began to almost unconsciously strangle his wife. Not maliciously; almost as something he must do. A duty. It was pathetic from both perspectives, but it took five security guards to pull this sixty-eight-year-old man off his wife as his breakdown began. “One fucking dollar, you no-good whore! One fucking dollar and our lives would be as we had always dreamed!” resonated through the casino. It was as if Shakespeare wrote a casino tragedy for the 1980s, and I was one of the chorus taking it all in.
The husband spent the night in jail, and the wife went shopping. Most likely for a turtleneck sweater to cover her one-dollar bruise. Or perhaps she spent some money on a restraining order. One fucking dollar was the difference between ten grand and one and a half million. Or was it? Would the rainbows still have shown up if two coins were inserted? Who knows. Gambling experts say yes, while conspiracy theorists say no. But the point is much bigger than that. The wife had to do it her way. Granted, her innate frugality had probably kept them afloat for many years. But in my gut, I know they divorced after that event, because a guy can never let that go, I’m sorry to say. Then again, if he had won the $1.5 million, he could have split anyway. Or maybe she would have been the one to go. Blend together alcohol, money, lack of sleep, and a couple’s dynamics, and you will see the best fights in Vegas outside of the ring.
In over thirty years of playing the casinos, I can tell you that I’ve lost significantly more than I’ve won. As in an embarrassing amount. I have the addictive behavior that feeds on games of chance. Add to that the quality that makes all artists dreamers, along with a love for life on the edge (which most comedians have), and the result is a perfect storm. Presently, I gamble about one tenth as much as I did in my crazy days, but it’s not uncommon to see me at a roulette wheel or at a low-stakes no-limit Hold ’em game in Vegas.
I love poker best, and the loudmouth you’ve maybe seen on ESPN during the World Series of Poker Main Event is more my TV table persona while the cameras are rolling. I have a much quieter demeanor when I’m sitting in a corner at a table in Aria or the MGM Grand in Vegas (where my comedy club is located). As I like to say, “If you have no game, try putting them on tilt.”
My cousin Darren, a stealth player, got me into his poker game thirty years ago, and that morphed into two other home games with “The Poker Joes.” One consists of my close friends from eons ago; the other is always with Romano and is visited frequently by Jason Alexander, Cheryl Hines, Teri Hatcher, director Rob Schiller, and various attorneys and business managers. These are all folks who take my money home pretty regularly. I also find women to be some of the best poker players out there. They have all the necessary ingredients to win: patience, the inability for us to know what the fuck they’re thinking, and tits.
I use poker as a release from the grind of my business. If I use something so unstable to relax, you can only imagine my daily biorhythms, but trying to figure out the cards helps me forget the other crap rolling around in my skull. The problem is, I’m not patient in general, and that quality is crucial in order to have a strong game. And I suck at math. And get bored easily. Usually, I’m simultaneously doing emails. So why do I play? Simply to meet Asian men, I suppose. They fascinate me.
I was once taking private lessons from poker pro Annie Duke, whom I defeated, ironically, on the NBC Heads-Up Poker program a couple years prior to hiring her for coaching. This proves what I’ve always said: “You need the cards to win. Period.” I’ll take luck over skill any day. Duke can typically beat me with her eyes closed.
After my fourth lesson with Annie, I noticed that she was hitting a crucial level of mathematical reasoning I just couldn’t grasp. It was taking too much effort, and that was zapping the fun out of the game. Most great poker players are mathematical geniuses on one level or another. But at the end of the day, they’re no different from your average degenerate gambler trying to churn out a living. I couldn’t imagine anything harder.
26
Why Fame Sucks
I don’t want to come off as an ungrateful whiner, but I’m afraid that ship has already sailed. I use the word “fame” loosely here, because in all honesty, my career is at the point where about half of the people who recognize me think I’m Kramer from Seinfeld. Especially Mexicans. I’m not sure why that is, but I think it could be the same reason why white people mistake Morgan Freeman for Samuel L. Jackson. Or the guy on the Cream of Wheat box.
“Fame” and “celebrity” feel like dirty words these days, especially when they’re attributed to people who are mostly talentless, like Paris Hilton, the Kardashians, or the Real Housewives of Wherever. Sure, people “love” them and are enamored by their lifestyle as opposed to their ability, and that’s fine. I just wish they weren’t clumped into the same category as theatrical or musical artists who spend their entire life working on their craft. These reality stars (who are anything but real) should be grouped in with celebrity impersonators, carnival sideshows, and wax museum figures, then sealed in a time capsule with the words When Shit Went Wrong on Earth written on it.
The paparazzi are among the pariahs in the entertainment industry who fuel these attention-starved individuals. The death of Princess Diana, for example, could have been avoided if someone had policed these bums like they would if a non-celebrity were being pursued or stalked. That’s the part of fame that is most frustrating of all: the famous are not treated equally under the law. I know, “Boo-hoo, you fuckin’ stars,” right? But hear me out.
Several years ago the paparazzi routinely followed me from one location to another when I was with my children, oftentimes scaring them. These are not always polite photo-taking individuals. They are aggressive, invasive, provocative, and often work in herds. If I were a dentist or a plumber and some dumbshit was hiding in my bushes taking pictures of me and my children in the backyard, I assume there would be legal repercussions. If a total stranger is taking pictures of your kid who happens to be a minor, you’ll want to shove something far into his ass, won’t you? Especially in this day and age?
Unfortunately, there was an incident when I let the papa-Nazis get the better of me. I had just started dating my girlfriend, IsaBeall, and we were leaving the popular Beverly Hills eatery Dan Tana’s. I had just polished off a great chicken Parmesan and was tired and not in the mood for the paparazzi bullshit. As we stepped out the front door, about twenty people surrounded us with bulbs flashing, some yelling, “Pin them in! Don’t let them out!” as we waited to get our cars. My girlfriend and I decided to go down an alley to avoid them; they followed and got between me and my car with their video lamps blaring and their asinine questions spewing. So I gingerly moved a camera out of my way. Gingerly like a bear taking a swipe at a maggot on his nutsack. That led to some strong words, and we all know if the cameras weren’t gathering potential evidence, none of these punks would have the balls to approach their grandma at a picnic, let alone people in an alley. I think I bent one of the lenses or some bullshit. They tried to press charges, but the local DA was intelligent enough to view the footage and realize these guys were being annoying assholes, and the charges were dropped.
I’m not a violent guy. I’ve been in only two fights in my entire life, including one in fifth grade, when tiny Dicky Pargolis took me out with one shove in a David-and-Goliath moment. But I’m protective when I feel I or the people I’m with are being taken advantage of or disrespected. Interestingly enough, with my newfound middle-age maturity, I realize they don’t deserve the beating I’d love to give them because that would only bring attention to them, plus the legal shit and possible settlement that they hope to encounter in order to pay their rent. These scumbags prey on people in their worst hours, be it rehab, a courtroom, or a place they maybe shouldn’t be in a certain condition.
This is why I hate Twitter and Fa
cebook as well. I realize that most people in showbiz use social media as a publicity tool, and that’s their prerogative, but I just don’t think that everyone has to hear from us all the time. No matter who we are. Mainly, I don’t think I’m so important that people need or care to hear what I’m doing every waking moment. I bore the fuck out of myself; I don’t think you need to hear how my colonoscopy went or which restaurant I think has the best gnocchi. My comedy club has a Facebook page for business purposes, but I don’t personally have one because there’s a lot of my past I want to leave there, and I feel like shit for not friending people I didn’t want to be friends with anyway. I just can’t afford any extra guilt. Again, for me, it’s all about holding on to any kind of privacy or anonymity, which is extra difficult at six-eight.
I had a Twitter account a few years back, when a PR firm took me kicking and screaming into the fray of social media. I hated it and closed it within seventy-two hours. Here was my dilemma: first, it felt wrong having someone run it for me. When I ran it myself, I wasn’t interested in responding to the majority of my 172 followers. If I did respond, I had engaged myself and must continue, but I was likely to end up either saying something too honest or inappropriate (like I always do), which would piss someone off, or not responding at all and then looking like a dick. So what did that leave? My telling the handful of folks that I would be performing at the Gag Silo in Muncie, Indiana, the following weekend, and who cared about that?
It seems that with celebrity, you have somehow agreed to forfeit all of the privacy that is guaranteed in the Constitution. I once had a very high-profile entertainment attorney tell me, “The public has a right to you because you are a known performer.” I don’t agree with that, and I’m proud that my fellow thespians with bigger names and giant clout are attempting to enforce change. I’m enough of a realist to understand that’s probably unlikely, because we all know that exploitation is big business, and greed is king, and people are dumb enough to read or view the tabloid crap and think it’s real. Or, even worse, relevant.
If only the public understood that these rags are mostly stories cultivated from lies and conjecture, accompanied by photos that have been changed or doctored. But people love to feel they have a connection to their celebrities and artists, and I can appreciate that. Many envy our lives without knowing anything about them, and simultaneously love watching us stumble or fail. I need to keep reminding myself that we sell escapism, and that includes giving people the ability to feel superior or akin to us.
Probably the biggest challenge for anyone who acquires any degree of fame is doubting the sincerity and attraction from other people. Are they in it for me? Would they date me if I didn’t know Tootie from Facts of Life? Are they being friendly only because I host Iguana Week on Animal Planet? Are they breaking up with me because they saw my scene in Sharknado? And so on. People are generally insecure, and adding the element of celebrity only makes one more leery and defensive, and rightfully so. Personally, I’ve used it to my advantage, and I’m not too proud to admit that. It has definitely gotten me laid, and it’s backfired only once.
Back when I was opening for Sinatra, I brought a hot blonde to Vegas with me to watch the show. I was praying I could arrange a quick hello from the man himself to impress my date, as I had been opening for Frank for about eighteen months and he was really cool with me hanging around. After my set that night when I walked offstage, out of the blue, Frank said to me, “Come by after the show to my dressing room. We’re gonna have some pizza from Patsy’s.”
“Sounds great, Mr. S. Thanks!” I replied. My plan was on its way to working, and all I could think about was that blonde’s rack on my head.
After the show, I proudly took my gal by the arm and went to knock on the door with the gold S on it. Frank opened it up wearing his robe, looked me straight in the eyes, and said, “Whataya want?”
“Too early?” I asked.
“For what?” he replied.
“Dinner?” creaked out. Sinatra just stood there, smiled, and closed the door. He had forgotten he’d invited me just two hours earlier. Either that or he had a hot blonde in there, too. My date just glared at me. I countered with “Wanna meet Frank Jr.?”
There is something important that I think you civilians out there need to understand, and that is: stop expecting athletes, singers, actors, TV ministers, wrestlers, talking animals, or Paula Deen to be role models for you or your children. We didn’t aspire to be artists in order to become role models, so get a life and be a role model yourself instead of expecting some talentless fuck from a boy band battling puberty to set a good example for your child. Roll up your sleeves and parent with honesty and integrity; show your kids that talent and recognition don’t always go along with humility and wise choices. Granted, those of us who strive for this business are individuals who want to be noticed and hopefully looked up to, but sometimes we’re less examples of how to behave in society and more reflections of that same society, bad or good.
I owe so much to my fans. All 172 of them. Any performer worth his weight in antidepressants will tell you, “We’re nowhere without YOU.” From the folks who used to watch me at the Ice House in the eighties and say, “I can’t believe I paid a whole seven dollars for this,” to the people who show up today in Vegas at my club in the basement, or in the audiences of one of my soon-to-be-canceled sitcoms: you have never gone unnoticed or unappreciated.
I always try to take a minute to chat or do a picture when asked, because I should. And usually want to. I feel it’s a small price to pay for an extraordinary life. Unfortunately, sometimes I have to say no, and I’m sorry. Like when I’m at a urinal; buying porn; with someone I shouldn’t be with; have the runs; about to miss a flight; wearing someone else’s pants; fleeing from a large black man who was sitting in the front row of my show; or if you smell like vomit (Reno, Nevada); and so forth. But I always try. And I will never take for granted the fact that the same people who yell “Kramer” in Spanish (also pronounced “Kramer”) are the ones who watched Raymond reruns in Argentina, Hacienda Heights, and around the world.
It is time that has made the public’s recognition wane, and it’s not their fault. Just like it is time that has made me forget the name of my youngest nephew. And in a few years, I may be recognizable only to the folks I owe money to. It’s all good, because at one time I was known as “Raymond’s brother, Robert,” and that’s good enough for me. It’s given me a wonderful and fulfilling life.
Just the other day a guy yelled, “Hey, Robert!” from a passing car as I was walking down the street. I yelled back, “Hey, viewer!” He laughed and yelled back, “Loved you on Friends!” Hey, I’ll take what I can get.
27
Dirt Nap for Daddy
Personally, I have zero fear of dying alone. I actually demand it, and you should, too. It’s even in my Living Trust. The minute papa can’t open his peepers, all must head for the lobby. I hate it if someone just watches me sleep, so you can imagine having someone watch me die would be a fate worse than death. I don’t want some dame standing over me with a mirror held up to my mouth with one hand and a will in the other. We entered the world alone, and that’s the way we should go out. A group holding vigil around the adjustable deathbed makes no sense and is creepy for everyone. Say goodbye before the morphine runs out, and remember me with my eyes open and mouth agape.
As you can probably tell, I try not to live in the past or the distant future. I’m a big believer in moving on, and I find reminiscing pathetic, a silly pastime reserved for the elderly as they muddle through dementia, waiting for the bimonthly visit from their ungrateful bastard of a son, stroking a stuffed cat that they think is real. The thought of waiting for a nurse to stroll by and sneak me a pudding cup is why I’m a huge supporter of euthanasia. Let me donate my organs pronto so the next poor soul can give them a whirl. I’m not trying to break any records sitting in a chair unnoticed. We’re allowed to let our pets die without suffering and with dignity
, but humans in this country have to die a pound and a breath at a time because the God Squad says so.
As we age, we question more. I find myself doing it constantly at fifty-five. Is there a heaven? Will there ever be world peace? Does no always mean no, or could she be playing hard to get? It’s all part of our undeniable evolution toward the end. The fear of dying without learning shit. The minute we finally figure something out, we’re near death or can’t remember what we were trying to accomplish in the first place. We’re a pinched nerve away from dwelling on the meaning of life when our brain switches right into: “Why is there a smiling clown face in my dinner plate?” It’s an ugly truth. The first several decades of our life are spent in a trial-and-error configuration that generally snaps back in our face as we say, “Well, that hurt. I’ll never do that again.” Bullshit. You’ll indeed do it again, just to a different part of your body. Or to someone else’s body.
As we know, with age, the body clock takes an ugly turn. You have dinner at four-thirty P.M. Wake up at dawn. Fall asleep with your pants unbuckled in the middle of Wheel of Fortune. You’ve adopted the schedule of a farmer. It’s as if the body knows you’re headed toward the end, so it gets you up earlier to experience more but gets you to bed early enough to miss the eleven o’clock news.
I had a conversation the other day with my business manager of thirty years, the debonair, unshaven Joe Sweeney, because I believed I had stumbled onto a brilliant idea that could spur my early retirement. Death insurance. He said, “You mean life insurance. They already have that, schmuck.”