by Brad Garrett
I said, “No, asswipe. You’re not hearing me. Death insurance.” This would be the kind of insurance we could take out while still in our right mind; it would guarantee if and when we get MENTAL in our later life, and we either swear we are Benjamin Franklin, or are stuck daily, sitting in the window, yelling aeronautic quadrants to the approaching mother ship, that a person will have the pre-granted right to come up behind us and take out the back of our skull with a shovel. And there would be no legal ramifications for this act. I know two people in my life who will happily sign up for this job tomorrow. For free. Look at death insurance as the precursor to pulling the plug, only a lot easier on the family, because the guy with said shovel would pretty much take the lead. He’s a predesignated hired hitter.
I’ll never forget when I was much younger and I visited my grandmother in a home. She was pretty much gone at that point. She had started calling me Craig, which I actually didn’t mind. Anyhoo, there was this really old gentleman who would sit in his wheelchair facing a particular corner of the cafeteria, yelling random “winning” lottery numbers. Every day. From dinnertime (three-thirty P.M.) until bedtime, one group of numbers after another. “Here we go, everyone, and good luck! Ten, fourteen, seven, twenty-two,” and so on. I loved it. Even more than seeing my grandma. It fascinated me and made me bust a gut simultaneously. Most visitors found it sad, but being a sick gambler deep down, I would often jot down the numbers and play them that week in the lotto, just in case the gentleman was onto something. Ironically, the other confused patients at Northbound Horizons also thought an actual bingo game was in progress and would badger the nurses for bingo cards and markers that did not exist. This often caused a melee of walkers and scooters embarking into the lobby and demanding to be part of the game.
Ultimately, this country has zero dignity for the elderly when “the captain has left the bridge.” The last thing we want to be is a burden to our children, yet we know damn well we will most likely become exactly that. Some of us feel it’s only fair because of what they did to us as teenagers. But as I always say, “If I don’t know where I am, I sure the fuck don’t want to be there.” Period. No matter how great the hot cocoa is. It’s hard enough at this stage of my life to accept the fact that the glasses I’m looking for are on top of my head.
There is one point I must make for the sake of safety: you old fucks must relinquish your car keys. Sooner rather than later, please. We get it. You drove one of the first Model T’s, and now you’re driving a rocket-powered Chrysler 300, and it’s the shit. However, I feel that people over eighty should not be allowed to drive. Ever. The car should be taken away, and they should be demoted to one of those red scooters I see darting through the casinos in Vegas with blue-haired abandon. This should be a wake-up call, people. Since they can barely drive those three-wheelers, why would we let them continue to drive a mass of steel weighing two tons? At least when they pass out on a scooter, it slows to a stop and, worst-case scenario, they bump into a buffet line or a night nurse. I don’t give a crap if Grandma beats everyone at Jeopardy! or not. Just because she’s nailing questions about Teddy Roosevelt, all cozy in her La-Z-Boy while hitting off the oxygen, doesn’t make her freeway-eligible. We don’t care if she double-dated with Lewis and Clark or not. Stay off the fuckin’ road, Nana. If you need a magnifying glass to do the word jumble, we don’t need you merging on the 405 freeway, unable to turn your head sufficiently because your carotid artery has more crud in it than a Lady Gaga pap smear and your reflexes left with the Johnson administration. And since you’re old as dirt, you want to be waited on, right? Shit, you’ve earned it! Let Rosa drive you to the store, or call one of those white senior vans I get stuck behind every Friday at rush hour. Sit back, take your teeth out, and relax. Driving is not your last independent privilege. Opting not to kill your fellow man at a farmers’ market is. In other words, P will always be Park. And D will always be Drive. But R does not stand for Race. Don’t clown it, Gramps. Give us your keys.
Me as the old Jackie on the set of Gleason, Montreal 2000. (Courtesy of author’s collection)
28
Fifty Is the Old Thirty
Well, this is it. You’ve made it to the end of the book, and I’d like to thank you for sticking with me. I hope that by now you feel a little freer, a little less burdened by life, and a little more able to be your true self, whatever that means. My goal has been to give those of you who are either facing, in the midst of, or long past middle age, the permission to do what the hell you want. You have probably realized that getting in shape, eating right, building up your spouse, achieving more success, understanding your kids, and rescuing the ozone are grossly overrated. And you usually end up unfulfilled and overstressed in the process.
However, I can’t discount the one benefit of stress: it’s become my only cardio. I actually feel somewhat healthy, so my overreacting, high anxiety, and obsessing must be good for something. Or maybe I just have good genes, because as you know I don’t eat right and I don’t work out. Which again proves my point: what are we really in control of? Zip. Here’s to embracing your anxiety just enough to bump up the endorphins so you can blow off the gym. As I always say, the difference between an anxiety attack and a heart attack is an apple fritter. Supposedly, God lives in the details, so good luck to you. Hopefully, He’s home when you can’t feel your left arm.
The time is now, my high-cholesterol friend. This is true no matter what age you are, but absorb it with more haste if you’re getting up three times a night to pee. “Been there, done that” is your new mantra and is permission to follow your desires—or not. Both are fine. If you want to take that AbBuster you bought six years ago (and the Total Gym you bought two years before that, and the Buns of Steel tapes you got in 1991) and have a bonfire in the backyard, you go for it. You want to take up two parking spaces because your blood thinner is off-kilter and things look fuzzy? Be my guest. You want to cock-block your acid reflux and take some preemptive antacids prior to your visit to the Korean barbecue? Rock the baby backs, you pathetic and fearless old fart, because the world is your ointment.
Truth be known, there isn’t any part of my life I’d want to revisit. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been right now. Okay, that’s not true, but I’ve decided to believe it anyway. And that’s a conscious choice we all have to make. How, you might ask? By remembering to be genuinely grateful for the life you lead. By accepting yourself and those around you and trying to approach others with compassion and respect. By trying to be transparent to yourself and your loved ones. I’m not going to say I have no regrets, because that’s horseshit, but knowing the feeling of my present contentment, I can only view my past mistakes as part of the path that got me here today. Yes, there are always going to be days that suck beyond belief, and things will happen that are beyond your control. For those occasions, you need the balls and the belief in yourself to trudge through.
In my life, I’ve been richer and more successful than I am right now, but some of those years were also my darkest. There are times when I long for the energy of my youth; the rush that came with every new gig; the euphoric high of falling in love; the freedom of living like an animal with my buds, while knowing I could move back in with my folks if I ran out of bread; the days when two martinis did it; that one year when I was a “normal size” and had a dozen jeans to choose from at the Denim Barn; not to mention the mindless hard-ons that would appear out of thin air. But with all of that came an unforgiving, inexperienced ignorance, and I had to learn many life lessons along the way that I wouldn’t want to go through again. I don’t miss any of that at all today. Well, maybe the mindless hard-ons. And the euphoria. And the selection of jeans and living like an animal. Fuck, I’m lying again.
If I know anything, it’s that we must continue to evolve, especially emotionally and in our desire to discover. Not to stay young but simply to age with some damn purpose. We can slow down, people, without slowing up. As Sinatra used to say, “I’ve been down but
never out.” And that philosophy is ageless. Because come Monday, you’re just another Joe one step ahead of the guy with the shovel.
Well, I’m out of words. Writing this book, while cathartic, has been one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. I feel like I’m two sentences away from pissing blood. So allow me to say in closing: may all your colonoscopies be negative and may your last marriage be with a nonspeaking pole dancer from Prague. And just promise me you won’t fall victim to a phrase like “Age is wasted on the old.” Because if that happens, it would not only be a shame, it would prove you haven’t learned a fucking thing from my rambling tirades and bad credit. Which, with my history, could possibly throw me into a late-life crisis. And nobody wants to read about that.
The Brothers Glib, (from left to right) Paul, me, and Jeff. (Courtesy of author’s collection)
Left to right: Al (Dad), Dina (his 6th wife), Bert Convy’s love child, Lionel (stepdad), and Barbara (Mom) in Reno, Nevada, 1987. (Courtesy of author’s collection)
First nightclub gig, 1976. (Courtesy of author’s collection)
Left to right: Rick Ducommun, Mark Pittu, Ed McMahon, Glenn Hirsh, and me on Star Search, 1984. (Courtesy of author’s collection)
With Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show in 1985. (Carson Entertainment)
Left to right: Robin Williams, Richard Pryor, Sally Struthers, “Urban Hebrew”, and Paul Mooney at a western-themed charity benefit hosted by Sally in 1981. (Courtesy of Sharp Associates)
Backstage at the Orleans in Vegas with the king, Don Rickles, and Izzy in 2009. (Courtesy of author’s collection)
Me with Julio Iglesias in Atlantic City, NJ, 1988. (Courtesy of author’s collection)
Left to right: Me, George Shapiro, Ray Romano, Jason Alexander, Jerry Seinfeld, and Peter Tilden in Los Angeles, 2014. (Tom Caltabiano)
The cast of Everybody Loves Raymond shooting the “Misery Loves Company” episode in season 8. (Tom Caltabiano)
Ray and me at the Emmys, 2002. (The Television Academy)
Hanging with the master; Robin Williams, on the set of The Crazy Ones in 2013. (Courtesy of author’s collection)
Backstage at Brad’s comedy club in Vegas at the MGM, 2013. Left to right: Paul Ames, Ed Conover Jr., Chris Rock, Joe Bronzi, and Mario Joyner. (Courtesy of author’s collection)
Another fun lunch with Ray. Stand-up tour in Atlanta, GA, 2009. (Courtesy of author’s collection)
With good pally WJ Meade on Gleason set, Montreal, 2000. (Courtesy of author’s collection)
Max, IsaBeall, and Hope Las Vegas, 2014. (Courtesy of author’s collection)
Acknowledgments
There are too many to name especially since my memory is beginning to blow. I’m sorry if this looks like it’s listed in order of importance. Only part of it is, so get over it. So many played a part in my crazy life. You know who you are but if I happen to forget you, forgive me.
Special thanks to my children Max and Hope, who make it clear every day why I love being here; IsaBeall Quella, my last true love; Mom and Dad for giving me the freedom and belief to try shit while learning to be fearless; brother Paul for always having my back; brother Jeff—miss you every day and thanks for teaching me the joy of sarcasm. Ina Maus, Lionel—for helping me with my first monologue; Sean and Chris, Eddie C. Sr. and his Lorri, DC and the poker Joes, The White Knight, Ruby, Eryn Brown—my dedicated manager who forced me to write this book; Eric Kranzler & Mgt 360, Scott Schachter for giving it a go, UTA, Steve Levine, Daniel Greenberg, WJ Meade, Divorced dads who show up, Bobby Conti, Kimberley Evans, The Manfredis, Mean Chicken Lady, Pat Fraley, Carole Fisher, Sandy Bush (not the porno star but my high school Spanish teacher at El Camino Real High School in Woodland Hills), the broads at Gallery Books, Steve Altman, Jayson Cohen, Chic and Patti Perrin & The Indianapolis Comedy Connection, Bob Fisher & The Ice House, The Laff Stops, The Improv on Melrose (not the one in Houston that tried to stiff me), Howard Trustman, The Comedy & Magic Club, Adam Silver, Thom Rollerson, Lee Wilkof, Manfro, Richard Sturm, Wesley Wofford, Bob & Tom of Indy; Prof. Adam Hill, my friends at MGM Resorts, Ed Wiley, Bob Wolfson, Hubie Brooks, Rick Jackson, The Buelows, Olaf, Anthony Jackson, Cliffy-Kim, Joseph “Van Buren” Sweeney, Larry Babitz, Nathan Horwitz, Michael Gendler, my peeps at the BGCC, Kat, April Winchell, Walnut Garden, Finchetta, Will McGuire, Steve Stark, Roy Stark, Sam Katz & Winnepeg, Lynda McCarrell, Butchie, Twin Dragon, NYPD, Dr. Richard Wulfsberg, Dr. Sam Spiegelman, Nathan Lane, Mooney, Jason Alexander, Whoop, David E. Kelley, Dave Boone, Richard Lewis, Kevin Nealon, Tony Camacho, my Seven Godchildren, Donovan Cook, John Fox, Bill Kopp, John Lassiter, John “Kats”, Jamie Thomason, The Laugh Factory, Tommy Koenig, R.W.—RIP, Coach Dick Bone (not a typo), Southern Cali; and to all the dives, theaters, and clubs across America and Canada that let big mouths like me open wide.
Brad Garrett, a film, stage, television, and voice actor for more than thirty years, began his career as a stand-up comedian. For his best-known role, starring opposite Ray Romano as Robert Barone on the iconic CBS TV series Everybody Loves Raymond, he won three Emmy Awards for Best Supporting Actor in a Comedy Series over the course of the show’s nine-season run.
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Gallery Books
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Copyright © 2015 by Brad Garrett
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Gallery Books hardcover edition May 2015
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Interior design by Jill Putorti
Cover photography by Tom Caltabiano
Author photograph by Isabeall Quella
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-4767-7290-5
ISBN 978-1-4767-7292-9 (ebook)
Contents
Being Forward
Chapter 1: I Was a Ten-Pound Preemie
Chapter 2: Jews Don’t Dribble
Chapter 3: Bitten
Chapter 4: The Search for My Fifteen Minutes
Chapter 5: Early Road
Chapter 6: Learning Las Vegas
Chapter 7: Perfectly Frank
Chapter 8: The Road to Raymond
Chapter 9: Goodbye, Sauce
Chapter 10: “A Sober Guy and a Cocktail Waitress Walk into a Bar . . .”
Chapter 11: The Power of the Pink
Chapter 12: “Because I Said So.”
Chapter 13: Adam and Eve Had No Chance
Chapter 14: Celebrating Your E.D. During Your Midlife Crisis
Chapter 15: Dating after Forty-Five
Chapter 16: My Body Is a Temple in Iraq
Chapter 17: No Scales in Heaven
Chapter 18: Embrace Your Stereotype
Ch
apter 19: Mental Wellness
Chapter 20: Bad Decisions With Good Intentions
Chapter 21: Your Arms Are Too Short to Tickle Jesus
Chapter 22: Dreck the Halls
Chapter 23: Frequent-Flyer Fuckers
Chapter 24: Politics: Why Try?
Chapter 25: I Hate Poker and Golf Regularly
Chapter 26: Why Fame Sucks
Chapter 27: Dirt Nap for Daddy
Chapter 28: Fifty Is the Old Thirty
Photographs
Acknowledgments
About Brad Garrett