by Corey Andrew
In comedy circles, the words genius, general and maestro get tossed around describing Paul Mooney. Even the man himself—who was Richard Pryor’s best pal and one of his writers—claims that stand-up would be different had he never walked on stage.
After his take on historical seer Nostradamus—dubbed Negrodamus on “Chapelle’s Show”—where else could comedian Paul Mooney go but up?
Right up to the top: Jesus.
On the cover of his concert DVD, “Know Your History: Jesus was Black…So was Cleopatra,” Mooney dons the visage of Christ.
Corey: Are you trying to get people’s ire up with you as Jesus?
Paul Mooney: What did you want me to say, ‘Jesus was white’? What is, is is. It’s not up for discussion. Everyone knows Jesus was black. They’re all in denial.
Corey: How do you feel when people are so shocked by your comedy that they leave during a performance?
Mooney: That means I still have my magic. If I don’t make anybody run out, that means I’ve lost my magic.
Corey: What would cause someone to storm out of the comedy show?
Mooney: It’s the truth, so they can’t take it. It’s in their face, and they can’t take it. I also talk about the master. I’m automatically the enemy of the state. All minorities think like the master. See, if the master likes me, then they don’t like me. The master don’t like me, they don’t like me. They’re all in the house, you know how that goes. It’s the truth. That’s the way it is. Automatically I’m the enemy. The only reason they got mad at Mel Gibson is he’s a white man, ’cause he told on white folks. Other than that, they wouldn’t be mad at him. See the Jews don’t run nothin’; they make you think they do. That’s an old Roman trick. I’ve washed my hands. You hear people talk about the Jews. The Jews this and the Jews that. You don’t hear them talkin’ about white folks. When you start talking about white folks, everything changes. That’s the way it is.
Corey: You get a lot of respect from other comics. How did you earn their appreciation?
Mooney: Listen, I get it from them and the rappers. This is what I hear. I hear ‘genius.’ ‘General,’ they call me ‘General.’ Robin Williams calls me ‘Maestro.’ He was the leader of the man, that’s what they say to me. The reason is, if I hadn’t done stand-up, stand-up would be different. The whites, blacks, Latinos, whatever, I kicked the door in for them. They were scared ’til I started doing it. The difference between Richard Pryor and Dick Gregory is they talk to white people; I talk about them. That’s a gift from God. Things come out of my mouth. They’re shocked? I’m shocked.
I said something about black women last night. It’s ornate; it comes from God. Last night I was talking about black women, how a black woman will do anything for you and that’s true. I said, ‘They’ll do anything for you—and to you.’ Now, see, am I right or wrong?
Corey: You’ve been involved with Civil Rights for 30 years. Were you ever scared?
Mooney: No. I’ve always been what they call militant, radical, uppity. I was born in the South. I’ve always been like that. My grandmother’s influence. My grandmother always taught me I was better than anybody, black, white, red, yellow. I was all that and a bowl of grits. I loved that old lady. She was a trip, OK?
And would beat anybody’s ass. Yours, mine, anybody else’s. And she only said something once. She’d say, ‘Are you hard of hearing? You better go to the ear doctor.’ She never repeated herself. Talk about whipping kids (referring to a proposed law where parents would not be able to spank their children). She would be on death row. ‘I’m whoopin’ ass this mornin’. I’m passin’ out lollipops and ass whoopin’s and I’m fresh out of lollipops.’
She’d say, ‘A dog better bring a bone or take one.’ And ‘Always talkin’ about the grass is greener on the other side, but remember what they got to put on their grass to make it green?’ The females in my family, they’d stay gone three or four days and she’d go off. ‘You retarded-ass bitch, you come back here broke? Didn’t I ever teach you anything? Don’t you know that a wet pussy and a dry purse don’t match?’
She was a mess as you can see. That’s where I got my sense of humor. She would tell the truth, but funny. That ability, I realized that was a way to get people to listen and think.
Corey: In the past, your comedy was littered with the ‘N’ word, but after the Michael Richards thing, you’ve retired it?
Mooney: I want to live in a world where there is no ‘N’ word. I’ve been touched. Richard was the first to stop using it after he went to Africa. I was married to the word. I couldn’t see the ‘N’ word for the forest. Now I’m divorced from it. And Michael Richards—who I’ve known for 20 years—when I saw that video, I went into shock. And it’s hard to shock me, OK?
The word’s not an equal opportunity word. Little Latin kids, Asians, white kids, everybody’s using it. And they say ‘We spell it with an “a” instead of the “e.”’ It doesn’t matter. If you cook a goat, whether you sauté it or barbecue it, it’s still a goat.
Corey: Why don’t more people in the country want to talk about race and prejudice in the country?
Mooney: Bill Cosby’s the only person I’ve never seen talk about race. Must be voodoo, because he never mentioned it on stage. Off stage he would. The only racial joke I saw Bill Cosby make, Bill, Dionne Warwick and myself, we were doing a tribute to Ella Fitzgerald, and Mel Torme was alive then, and he sounds black. We were behind the stage, and Bill was emceeing. And I said, ‘Tell Mel to stop pretending he’s white; we all know he’s black.’ Bill got on stage, ‘Mel Torme ought to stop playing…’ and he took it out of my mouth, and I was stunned. He was an ambassador for white folks.
Corey: You talk about all groups. Who do you catch the most flack from?
Mooney: You know me. It’s an equal opportunity thing to get you. It’s a racial thing. America. Melting pot. With Michael Richards, I felt part of it, because I was an ambassador for the ‘N’ word. I felt responsible. White America should definitely take responsibility. Just like a pimp said, ‘All women have whore in them. It just takes the right man to bring it out in them.’
Bobcat Goldthwait
Corey: Are you normally a morning person?
Bobcat: No, but that’s the thing, being a comedian, you think it would be fun, hanging out in comedy clubs and sleeping in. But a good portion of my life, I’m up really early talking to wacky morning DJs.
Corey: Does that get old, going on radio shows across the country?
Bobcat: Yeah, sometimes I feel like I’m in that movie ‘Groundhog Day.’ There’s certainly way worse jobs.
Corey: How often are you on the road?
Bobcat: I do stand-up clubs once a week, sometimes on the weekend, sometimes in the middle of the week. Whenever they hire me.
Corey: What kind of things have you been talking about in your act?
Bobcat: My act has always been a combination of what I can remember and current events. And also it seems like the folks who come out to see me have a lot of different questions, so I end up having to incorporate, you know, questions people have about me and my life.
Corey: You have a Q&A session?
Bobcat: Yeah, I don’t mean to, but after having people yell out ‘Where’s your hair?’ you eventually have to write a couple bald jokes into your act.
Corey: At this stage in the game, why do you think people feel like they can heckle you?
Bobcat: I don’t know what it is about my act. I don’t intentionally try to encourage it, but it seems to just happen. Maybe people feel like they do know me since I’ve been in the public eye for so long.
Corey: Is there a Bobcat Goldthwait character that people want to meet and the real Bob Goldthwait at home?
Bobcat: Yeah, but I think that holds true for everybody. There’s the persona and then there’s who the person is.
Corey: Are people expecting you to start screaming in their face?
Bobcat: It’s not that I’ve done anything other than promo
te that image, so I can’t be startled when people think that. And then there’s dumb people that think that Alice Cooper really chops his head off.
Corey: I remember a show you did in the area about five years ago where a guy was dressed as a clown in the audience, and it seemed to throw you off. Was that not a fan of ‘Shakes the Clown,’ the movie you wrote and directed?
Bobcat: I guess I am afraid of clowns after all. I don’t think it was just him being a clown. I think there was a creepy vibe going on with that guy. It was a little weird. I’ve also had actual clowns get upset with me. Maybe I was paranoid about that, I don’t know.
Corey: The movie has become a cult classic. Does it bum you out that it wasn’t a hit?
Bobcat: I never expected it to play malls. My expectations were that it would be a small movie. I never really thought it would be a huge hit. It’s kind of neat to make a movie that’s kind of still alive for people.
Corey: You’ve got kids. Would you consider yourself a family man?
Bobcat: I don’t know. I don’t consider myself that. I have a stepson that’s off to college. My daughter and I are pretty close. She pretty much lives with me full time.
Corey: What does she think when she looks back at your earlier work?
Bobcat: I don’t know what she thinks. I know some of the guys that are her friends are fans of mine, so I guess she’s not embarrassed. I kind of thought she would be. It kind of backfired on me.
Alison Arngrim
Alison Arngrim had the typical upbringing of Hollywood child stars: her mother was Gumby; her father was gay; and her brother sexually abused her—tales chronicled in her one-woman show and book, “Confessions of a Prairie Bitch.”
Now a successful stand-up, Alison got her start as the bouncy-haired, demon child Nellie Olson—“Half Pint” Laura Ingalls’ nemesis on the mega-popular ’70s-’80s TV series “Little House on the Prairie.”
Fans of the show might be interested to know that Alison’s mom became a successful voice actor and gave life to Gumby, Casper the Friendly Ghost and Davey from “Davey and Goliath.” Her father, Thor, was also in the closet, sort of—the family members were pals with Liberace.
Alison is honest about her parents’ obliviousness to the abuse happening under their roof, as she was molested from the age of six by her older brother, Stefan (also an actor). Somehow, she survived mentally and followed the success of “Little House” with a global comedy career and has long worked for AIDS and child-abuse causes.
But it’s Nellie’s infamy that has followed Alison for decades—with “fans” hurtling insults or soda cans for the memories her face continues to conjure.
Corey: I have many fond memories of the show, but I never had distaste for Nellie. I thought she was the most interesting character on the show.
Alison Arngrim: Thank you! It probably wasn’t as acceptable in the ’70s to say you like Nellie Olsen. It is now. It’s a great time to be a bitch in America. I had a guy at a book signing last night say, ‘Oh, I had such a crush on you.’ ‘Where were you when I was 16?’ Guys thought Nellie was icky, and they wanted Mary. Now, there’s all these guys, my age. ‘You could have called. I was home.’ Now, people are outing themselves as Nellie fans.
Corey: What is your definition of a bitch?
Alison: There are two kinds. Your bitch—as it is thrown around—is almost any strong woman: a woman who is not afraid of expressing her displeasure or anger, a woman who is not afraid of her own power and will speak out—and this freaks people out—even scarier if she does it in a humorous way and slices and dices people.
OK, that’s a bitch. These are often people doing very good things. Then the other kind is actually a selfish, egotistical, narcissistic woman who does evil things to people for kicks. I say, sorry, that’s a cunt. There’s a difference! They are thrown around interchangeably. A bitch is cruel, but fair; a cunt will cheat. If you break up with a bitch, she will tell everyone you were terrible in bed. If you break up with a cunt, she’ll come back and set your car on fire.
Corey: It becomes fashionable after mourning a celebrity for people to drag out the dirt. But you give a very well-rounded version of Michael Landon.
Alison: He was pretty cool. He was a trip. I think at the time, late ’70s and early ’80s, I was making cracks about Michael Landon’s drinking, and people were, ‘Ahh!’, because he was still walking on water—or at least playing Jesus of Malibu that week. When he started doing ‘Highway to Heaven,’ I said, ‘Now Michael is playing an angel. Next week, Joan Collins as the Virgin Mary.’ Melissa Gilbert went chapter to chapter, ‘Michael was drinking at work.’ Melissa Sue (Anderson), too, in her book … Mary has admitted this, and she was blind. The guys on the crew, they came up from ‘Bonanza.’ It was like ‘Mad Men,’ if you didn’t smoke and drink, you weren’t a man.
Corey: It’s kind of a surprise that you turned out as normal as you have, considering some of the crazy things that happened to you as a child. At what point do you look back and go, ‘Wow, how did I not end up an “E True Hollywood Story”?’
Alison: I’ve been to three shrinks in 22 years, and I’ve asked all three of them, ‘Where did I go right?’ At least two said, ‘Not to be rude, but you should be way more screwed up than this.’ I know one said, ‘You may have been ahead developmentally.’ Just as when you’re a little kid and you’re learning to tie your shoes, it becomes second nature. You build those neural pathways. If at the same time in your brain, you’re learning to run, scream, hide (and) you’re being molested, bad news, that goes right on the same groove. Just as you don’t have to sit there and remember how to tie your shoes, all that other horrible stuff is carved right in your head. That’s very hard to overcome.
Corey: I appreciate that a lot of what you detail in your book is matter of fact, not ‘Feel sorry for me.’ Do you think you would be able to include as much detail about your family if your parents were still alive?
Alison: Definitely with my dad. I read him sections while he was still alive. The reason he lived as long as he did was, they asked, ‘Should we perform surgery?’ and he said, ‘I have two books coming out this summer, so I’d like to hang on for a while.’ He was gung ho. I said, ‘You do understand, in the book …’ ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, it will be great.’ I do have to admit, my father would say, ‘Wait, my death is the closer? That’s fabulous! I get a death scene!’ My mother was more private. As an author, she would say, ‘If you’re going to tell the story, tell the story.’
Corey: Do you have a go-to Nellie line or moment?
Alison: One of my favorite ones it from ‘The Cheaters.’ It’s so simple and lovely. The teacher’s son is going on and on about how you get good grades, ‘Well, you study hard.’ And I say, ‘No, I cheat.’ It’s elegant in its simplicity.
Corey: I haven’t seen the musical adaptation of ‘Little House.’ Is Nellie as nasty there as in the TV show?
Alison: She’s fantastic. It’s very ‘Wicked’ is what it is. There’s a number with Nellie and Laura singing, ‘I know everything there is to know,’ and it’s blatantly ‘Popular’ from ‘Wicked.’ Nellie is fabulous. When she first comes out, her dress is pink. Then she comes back, and it’s pinker. Then it’s brighter,
Pepto-Bismol-y pinker. And by the end of the show, it’s like she’s on fire.
Andy Dick
Andy Dick was a big ol’ joke in Hollywood for a long time.
He was a drunk, on drugs, went to rehab and sort of put his life back together. Then things got a bit brighter. He had a hit sketch comedy show on MTV where he made fun of himself. And he released a CD with his band, The Bitches of the Century, with songs about stalking ex-girlfriends (“Love Ninja – The Stalker Song”); sexual addiction (“I’ll Fuck Anything That Moves”); genitalia (“Cock & Balls”); being jealous of Stephen Hawking because he doesn’t have to walk and, of course, the anus (“Little Brown Ring” and “Little Brown Ring Remix”).
Interviewing A. Dick, however, is a bit of a
challenge.
Corey: Good morning Andy, the first thing …
Andy Dick: You have a pleasant voice. I’ve been doing radio interviews all morning, and I just realized after hearing your voice that their voices are so accosting. (In an obnoxious morning radio show host voice) ‘And it’s 7:28 a.m. and we’re here with Andy Dick!’ It’s almost violent, like they’re attacking me with their persona, their voice. It’s almost like they’re raping me.
Corey: It really seems like a lot of those guys try to overshadow whomever they’re interviewing.
Andy: Who? Not Howard Stern.
Corey: No, not Howard, but the local radio guys.
Andy: The guys around your city, which is San Francisco? No, wait, St. Louis, right. The arches?
Corey: The Arch.
Andy: The Arch. One arch. I’m calling about the album.