by Bill Hicks
Bill:
I’ve been traveling a lot lately, I was over in Australia during Easter. It was interesting to note they celebrate Easter the same way we do – commemorating the death and Resurrection of Jesus by telling our children a giant Bunny Rabbit . . . left chocolate eggs in the night . . .
Audience laughs.
Bill (cont.):
Gee, I wonder why we’re so messed up as a race? You know, I’ve read the Bible – can’t find the words ‘bunny’ or ‘chocolate’ in the whole book.
Audience laughs.
Bill (cont.):
WHERE do we get this stuff from? And why those two things? Why not ‘Goldfish left Lincoln Logs in our sock drawers?’ I mean, as long as we’re Making stuff up, let’s go hog wild.
Audience laughs and applauds.
Bill:
I think it’s interesting how people act on their beliefs. A lot of Christians, for instance, wear crosses around their necks. Nice sentiment, but do you think when Jesus comes back, he’s really going to want to look at a cross?’
Audience laughs. Bill makes a face of pain and horror.
Bill:
Ow! Maybe that’s why he hasn’t shown up yet . . .
Audience laughs.
Bill (as Jesus looking down from Heaven):
‘I’m not going, Dad. No, they’re still wearing crosses – they totally missed the point. When they start wearing fishes, I might go back again . . . No, I’m not going . . . OK, I’ll tell you what – I’ll go back as a bunny . . .’
Audience bursts into applause and laughter the band kicks into ‘Revolution’ by the Beatles.
Bill:
Thank you very much! Good night!
Bill crosses over to the seat next to Letterman’s desk.
David Letterman:
Good set, Bill! Always nice to have you drop by with an uplifting message!
Audience and Bill laugh, we cut to a commercial.
During the commercial break Dave asks me how things are going. I say fine, I’m working on a couple of albums these days. He asks me if I’ve lost some weight. I tell him yes, I’ve been drinking about a quart of grapefruit juice a day. Then Mary Connelly comes over to the seat followed by Robert Morton, the producer of the show. They’re both smiling and saying, ‘Good set!’. I ask them again how they thought it went. They say, ‘Great! Didn’t you hear the audience response?’ I’m relieved they feel this way. They leave the desk area. Dave then leans over and asks if I’ve quit drinking. I find this a rather odd question seeing as how I haven’t touched a drop of liquor in over five years and Dave and I have had this conversation before since then. I then tell Dave I’ve started smoking cigars, and I ask him what kind he smokes. He names a brand which I didn’t catch, then hands me one of his very own. I say ‘Thanks!’ And now we’re back from commercials. There’s about fifteen seconds left. Dave turns to me and says something to the effect of, ‘Bill, good to see you again. Good job.’ Then closes the show with . . .
Dave:
I want to thank our guests tonight – Andie McDowell, Graham Parker, and Bill Hicks . . . Bill, enjoy answering your mail the next few weeks. Goodnight everybody.
The audience and Bill cracks up at Dave’s closing line, and we’re off the air. Again Mary Connelly comes up to me and says the show went great. When I enter the green room, everyone’s sitting there watching the taping of the show applauds and says, ‘Great set’. Graham Parker (who I’m a huge fan of) comes up to me with a big smile on his face and shakes my hand, saying, ‘Great! Loved it, mate!’ I finally start to relax a bit. It’s over, and as far as I can tell, everyone enjoyed it. Bill Sheft, a comic and one of the writers on the show comes up to me saying, ‘Hicks, that was great!’ I ask him if he thinks Letterman liked it. Bill Sheft, whose other duties include warming up the audience and getting them to applaud when the show goes in and out of commercials – a job that he performs just to the left of Letterman’s desk – says, ‘Are you kidding? Letterman was cracking up throughout the whole set.’ Now I feel even more relieved. Since I am a fan of Dave’s and the show, it means a lot to me that he would enjoy my work. Finally I begin to relax in general. While it feels good to do a set on the number one talk show in America, and again, a show that I’m a huge fan of – it is extremely nerve racking. The stakes are much higher obviously, playing to eight million people than the typical three-hundred-seat club crowd comics are used to playing every night. The fact that it was over and by all accounts went fine was a huge relief.
At this time, I’d like to tell you the circumstances that led up to me being called at the last minute to do the show . . .
I was scheduled to appear on ‘The Late Show with David Letterman’ on Friday, September 24 – one week previous to the actual day when I went on – the show I just recounted. As I said earlier, the material I was to do was approved and reapproved by Mary Connelly, the segment producer of the Letterman show. I flew up to New York, went directly to the studio, and Mary and I went over the set again then she graciously showed me around the beautiful, revamped Ed Sullivan Theatre. We both agreed every base had been covered, and I went back to my hotel to run through the set again and again – my typical procedure. That afternoon I went to the show. The other guests that night were Glenn Close and James Taylor. The show began, I got made up, and sat waiting in my dressing room for my spot. About half-way through the show, Mary Connelly called my manager Colleen McGarr and me into a hall way and told me she had some bad news – the show was running late, and there wouldn’t be time to get me on. This is known as being ‘Bumped’ in talk show parlance, and isn’t as bad as it sounds.
You still get paid, free hotel room, and your flight back to wherever you’re going. The only downside really is that you’re all pumped up with adrenalin and ready to go on, then – nothing. It’s kind of like a cowboy might feel if he were sitting on the bull, wrapping his hands in the rope, psyching himself up, then the gate never opens. Of course I was a little bummed, because I wanted to get this over with and return to my more familiar world of three-hundred-seat comedy clubs and doing material the nature of which is unexpurgated, and only has to be approved by me.
Mary expressed her apologies, then went on to say I’d be rescheduled as soon as possible, perhaps in a couple of weeks. Colleen, my Manager, and I then went to The Palms restaurant and consoled ourselves with lobsters the size of canoes. We both felt fine about everything, and the next day I flew home.
The following week, I was back up in New York working Caroline’s Comedy Club. On Friday, October 1st, I called up a Florida paper to do an interview for my next engagement at the Comedy Corner in West Palm Beach, Florida. Toward the end of the interview, the reporter said, ‘Oh, by the way, congratulations,’ I said, ‘thanks, what for?’ He said, ‘Well, you’re doing Letterman tonight.’ Hmmm . . . I said, ‘That’s news to me, maybe I should get off the horn here and find out what’s going on.’ He said, ‘Yeah, you better, they’ve been looking for you all day.’ We hung up and I called my Manager’s office. Since Colleen, my Manager, was with me in New York, and was out shopping with her Mom, I assumed she’d heard nothing of this as well, I got a hold of Colleen’s assistant, who went berserk when she got on the line, ‘where have you been all day!? The Letterman people have been trying to reach you all day! They want you on the show tonight! Some other guest has fallen out.’
I was a little embarrassed by this inability to be found, for it was my fault entirely. You see, I had checked into the hotel room under the name Otis Blackwell,72 in honor of the true author of some of Elvis Presley’s biggest hits, including ‘All Shook up’ and ‘Don’t be Cruel’. Another reason I checked in under that name was kind of a private joke between myself and me regarding another comic who will remain nameless – hopefully forever, who had gained some popularity doing routines, mannerisms, and attitudes remarkably similar to my own. And another reason I checked in under an assumed name, and the most obvious in the world, I wanted to assure my p
rivacy and avoid any over zealous creditors who might be lurking about trying to ruin my day and the beautiful weather we were experiencing that fall week in New York. Again, it was all my fault, though I make no apologies.
I hung up the phone and immediately called Mary Connelly at the Letterman show. She too berated me for being so mysterious about my whereabouts, then asked me if I could go on the show that night. I said ‘of course’. It was now 3.30 p.m. Mary told me a car would be by to pick me up at 4.15. I got dressed, the adrenalin started pumping, and I went through the approved set again and again until the car arrived. My Manager, Colleen, and her mom and I excitedly jumped in the car and we headed for the studio. Colleen’s Mom, a Canadian and another devout fan of the Letterman show, had already attended a taping that week. She was doubly excited for the opportunity to see the show twice in one week, and in this instance to experience the backstage goings on as opposed to watching the show as an audience member.
We got to the studio in plenty of time to hear about the guest who had been cancelled from the show – the former cook of the Gambino Crime Family, currently in the Witness Protection Program, had written a cookbook and wanted to go on television to promote his book. (These fellows aren’t known for their brightness.) The stipulation if he chose to go on, from the government, was a) he would lose his protection entirely, and b) he would forfeit his four-thousand-dollar-a-month stipend he receives from the US Government for turning stool pigeon against the Mob. The cook still wanted to go ahead with the show. He must have some unbelievably good recipes in that book. Anyway, apparently throughout the day, the Letterman show received several calls from Italian-accented men who wanted to know if the stool pigeon cook was really going on the show, then, when told he was, they asked, ‘What time does the show tape?’ Understandably, the Letterman people begin to feel nervous about booking the former Mob cook. The Letterman people then decided to cancel his appearance. Unfortunately, the cook, living in a hideout in New Jersey two hours away from New York (perhaps under the name Otis Blackwell), was already en route to the studio. There was no way to contact him until he reached the studio with pots and paws and cookbook in hand.
Now, who exactly was going to tell him he wouldn’t be going on the show after all? Twenty-four-year-old staff member Daniel Kellison drew the short stick and when the Mob cook showed up, Daniel broke the news to him as delicately and gracefully, I’m sure, as he could muster. By all accounts, the cook went berserk. He stormed off, pots and pans rattling, Daniel breathed a great sigh of relief and resumed his much safer duties on the show.
All of this was occuring during, and up to the time they were looking for me, to when I got to the show and heard the story. We all had a good chuckle, acknowledged the strangeness of life, then I went up to be made-up. What I didn’t learn until after the show was that half-way through the taping, young Daniel received a call from the fuming Mob cook, who proceeded to call Daniel every name in the book, then threatened to kill him if it was the last thing he ever did. I was oblivious to this turn of events as I headed down to do my spot in the show. I wasn’t even aware of the extra tension in the green room, the additional security, nor the ashen-faced Daniel standing sadly in the corner, focused as I was on the set I was about to do.
I stood in the wings, taking a final drag from my cigarette, then David Letterman introduced me, and I walked out to center stage and performed the set I recounted in the beginning of this evergrowing saga.
After the show, I returned to my hotel and took a long hot bath. It felt really good. All the tension of the day steamed away. I’d done the show. It had gone well. The pressure was off. I could finally relax. As I was getting out of the tub, the phone rang. It was now 7.30 p.m. Robert Morton, the producer of the Letterman show, was on the line. He said ‘Bill; I’ve got some bad news . . .’ My first thought was that Daniel had perhaps been chopped up and sautéed by the Mob cook. Robert Morton went on . . . ‘Bill, we have to edit your set from tonight’s show.’ I sat down on the bed, stunned, wearing nothing but a towel. ‘I don’t understand, Robert. What’s the problem? I thought the show went great.’ Morton replied, ‘It did, Bill. You killed out there. It’s just that the CBS Standards and Practices felt some of the material was unsuitable for broadcast.’ I rubbed my head, confused, ‘Ah, which material exactly did they find . . . unsuitable?’ ‘Well,’ Morty replied, ‘almost all of it, if I had to edit everything they object to, there’ll be nothing left of the set. So we just think it’s best to cut you entirely from the show. Bill, we fought tooth and nail to keep the set as is, but Standards and Practices won’t back down. David is furious. We’re all upset here, Bill, this has nothing to do with how we feel about you. We loved the set and we take full responsibility for this. We love you and know how hard you worked on this set. What can I say? It’s outa my hands now. We’ve never experienced this before with Standards and Practices . . . and they’re just not gonna back down, I’m really sorry.’ I was trying my best to digest all this. The tension creeping back into my body and my mind. ‘But, Bob . . . they’re so obviously jokes . . .’ ‘Bill, I know, I know, Standards and Practices just doesn’t find them suitable.’ ‘But which ones? I mean, I saw this set by my sixty-three-year-old Mom on her porch in Little Rock, Arkansas. You’re not going to find anyone more mainstream, nor any place more Middle America than my Mom in Little Rock, Arkansas, and she had no problem with the material.’ ‘Bill, what can I say? It’s out of our hands . . . Bill, we’ll just try and schedule a different set in a couple of weeks and have you back on.’
I wanted at that time to say ‘I don’t think I can learn to juggle in that short of a time’, but I just was too stunned. Then Morton said, ‘Bill, we take full responsibility for this. It’s our fault. We should have spent more time before hand working on the set, so Mary or I could have edited out those “hot points” and we wouldn’t be having to do this now.’ Finally, I came to my senses. I said, ‘Bob, they’re just jokes. I don’t want them to be edited by you or anyone else. Why are people so afraid of jokes?’ To which Morty replied, ‘Bill, you have to understand our audiences.’ This is a line I’d heard before and it always pisses me off. ‘Your audiences!’ I retorted. ‘What do you grow them on farms? Your audience is comprised of “people”, right? Well, I understand “people”, being a person myself. People are who I play to every night, Bob, and we get along just fine . . .’ ‘Bill, look, it has to do with the subject matter you touched on, and our new time slot, we’re on an hour earlier you know.’ ‘So, what? We taped the show at 5.30 in the afternoon, and your audience had no problem with the material then. What . . . does the audience become overly sensitive between the hours of 11.30 p.m. and 12.30 a.m.? And by the way, Bob, when I’m not performing on your show, I’m a member of the audience for your show. Are you saying my material is not suitable for me? This doesn’t make sense, why do you underestimate the intelligence of the audience? I think that shows a great deal of contempt on your part . . .’
Morty bursts in with, ‘Bill, it’s not our decision. We have to answer to the networks, and this is the way they want to handle it. Again, I’m sorry. You’re not at fault here. Now let me get to work editing you from the show and we’ll set another date as soon as possible with some different material, OK?’ ‘What kind of material? How bad airline food is? Boy, 7–11s sure are expensive? Golly, Ross Perot has big ears? Bob, you keep saying you want me on the show, then you don’t let me be me. Now, you’re cutting me out completely. I feel like a beaten wife who keeps coming back for more. I try and write the best material I can for you guys. You’re the only show I do because I’m a big fan, and I think you’re the best talk show on. And this is how you treat me?’ ‘Bill, that’s just the way it is sometimes, I’m sorry, OK?’ ‘Well, I’m sorry too, Bob. Now I’ve gotta call my folks back and tell them not to wait up . . . I gotta call my friends . . .’ ‘Bill, I know. This is tough on all of us . . .’ ‘Well, you gotta do what you gotta do . . . OK’. Then we hung up.
So there you have it – not since Elvis was censored from the waist down has a performer, a comic, performing on the very same stage, been so censored – now from the neck up, in 1993. In America. For telling Jokes.
I began getting dressed for my shows that night at Caroline’s. It began to dawn on me there were greater implications than just me being censored. When I went up to my manager, Colleen’s room, Colleen and her mom were getting ready to go with me to Caroline’s. I told them the news. They didn’t believe me at first, but my emotional state and the fact that I kept repeating ‘they’re just Jokes. They’re just Jokes, they’re just Jokes . . .’ finally convinced them it was true. Colleen immediately went into the bedroom to call the Letterman people. I sat with her Mom and ranted for awhile. There were tears in her eyes. I think there were tears in mine as well. ‘What are they so afraid of?’ I yelled, and ‘goddammit I’m a fan of the show. I’m an audience member. I do my best shit for them . . . they’re just Jokes . . .’
My feelings for the show and my relationship with them were undergoing a metamorphosis, as were Colleen’s Mom, I believe. It was like finding out there is no Santa Claus, only the implications of this realization were much more sinister. Here’s this show I loved, that touted itself as this hip late night talk show, trying to silence one man’s voice . . . a comic no less. A show that pretends to be so irreverent, yet buckles at the first hint of anything resembling, in their frightened eyes, edginess. Colleen came back into the room after talking to Mary Connelly of the Letterman show. Mary told Colleen exactly what Robert Morton told me. Colleen asked her if we could get a copy of the tape of my performance. Mary told her, ‘No problem. We’ll get it off to you on Monday.’ Shellshocked, Colleen, Colleen’s mom, and I headed off to Caroline’s Comedy Club where I was to do two shows that night.