Remembering the Original Improv

It was a late summer, sweltering, early 1980 Sunday morning in Hell’s Kitchen. I had found street parking somewhere near 44^th Street (all things were possible then) and stopped at the Smiler’s Deli on 9th Avenue and picked up a coffee, buttered roll and the Sunday Daily News.

I was 28 years old, pretty late to be a baby comedian, but this was the last best dream I had to be in show business. I couldn’t give it up, you see, it just meant everything. If I was wrong about being a comic, then I was wrong about all my life choices up till that point because they all had been made to realize that dream. Auditioning at the Original Improvisation and passing auditions meant that I had run out of excuses for failure. I was either going to make it in show business or not, but I resolved not to live the rest of my life wondering ‘what if’? Being a regular at the Improv was not a guarantee of success, but it was a huge door to walk through in finding my way to it.

Hot and humid, that’s how I remember it. At 7:30 in the morning, the smells of cooking garbage put out the night before from the restaurants in the area, coupled with various other scents from the people living in the doorways created a uniquely New York state of mind.

There were no other auditioners outside the Improv when I parked myself on the sidewalk. Soon however, they would trickle in, and sit, and sit, and wait throughout the day for someone to give out the numbers for a three minute audition later that night on the famed stage.

By three o’clock, the line of hopefuls had grown to at least 25-30 people. We line ‘veterans’ were already sneering at the latecomers because we had heard that at most, only ten numbers would be given out. Of course, the number ten had been made up by the first ten people on line. We had no idea how many auditions were to be allowed. Already we were learning about the hierarchy of comedy.

At around three-thirty, a Checker cab pulled up and Budd Friedman stepped out of it, monocle and all. He explained to the gathered horde, that whoever got a number had to be back at the club by 7:30 pm or they would lose their spot.  He then began to hand out cards randomly to whoever got to him first. I got number 3. Second comedy lesson leaned? Don’t expect to get noticed unless you make yourself noticed.

As mysteriously as he had appeared, Budd re-entered the Checker and off it went. It was to be my one and only encounter with him.The line dispersed and we who had numbers were elated.

I arrived at the Improv at the appointed time and we wide-eyed auditioners were herded toward the far corner of the bar, next to the pay phone (look them up) and away from the veteran comics, who looked at us with disdain. We were, to them, life forms not worthy of their malicious glances, talentless hacks and wannabes who had no business invading their sanctum sanctorum. We were also a future threat to them. Talent coordinators and Casting people were forever coming into the Improv looking for new talent and we posed a threat to some of the older comics who had not yet gotten their big break.

A young man with curly hair came our way and introduced himself as Joe Piscopo, our emcee for the evening. On the cards that Budd had given us earlier, Joe told us to write down something about ourselves so that he could bring us up.

That’s all I remember about the actual audition. I must have done well because I was told that I could begin ‘hanging out’ and by doing so earn my way onto the stage.

Back then, I stood outside the other clubs in NY to get numbers. Freezing cold outside the Comic Strip, driving rain outside Catch a Rising Star over and over again in those early years. But it was the Improv, and my one and only encounter with Budd Friedman which set the course on which I’ve sailed for 42 years.

It turned out pretty well I think. Silver Saunders Friedman, Budd’s ex, took over the club and I spent my formative years there. I saw the world of comedy at the very beginning of the boom and rode that wave and beyond it to a career which I love.

Budd passed away yesterday. But we comics owe him and Silver a huge debt. Without them, none of this comedy business would have existed and the world would never had the opportunity to enjoy the fruits of their labor. Thanks.

Why I hate Halloween- a short story of horror

 

 

I’ll make this short and sweet. I hate Halloween and here’s why. In 1962, I was a 10 year old who had already outgrown the idea that Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy and the Holy Ghost were peacefully coexisting somewhere in the ether, the netherworld or Fairview, NJ, which was where I was.

This particular Halloween, I was bound and determined to practice my holdup skills, by knocking on doors and demanding candy… or else. I would smudge my face with dirt, and when my victims would answer the door, I’d scowl at them, menacingly tossing a raw egg up and down like George Raft’s coin flipping in the original “Scarface” (1932), while holding my pillowcase open with the other.

Continuing my night of mayhem, I’d roam the streets, tripping the smaller kids and take my favorite treats from their cute little Trick or Treat bags-- the Hershey Chocolate Bars (without friggin nuts thank you) and the Three Musketeers bars. Yeah, I was a punk kid destined for the hoosegow, the State Penitentiary, and probably the CHAIR by the time I was 12, and I was proud of it. Halloween was for mooks and dweebs, not tough guys like me. 

Okay, the truth is, none of that really happened. And there was a time when I was actually pretty cool with Halloween. But 1961 changed everything.

My mother really didn’t give a rat’s ass what I did for Halloween. There were no store bought costumes because there was no money for them. I clearly remember Halloween 1958. I cried—no sobbed uncontrollably because I didn’t have a costume. My stupid bawling must have tugged at her heartstrings, because she borrowed one of our neighbor’s (Mr. Swanson in Apartment 4) dry cleaning bags, threw it over my head, and I went as a 1 Hour Martinized suit.

So you can imagine my surprise when, on October 30, I returned home exhausted from a hard day of thanking Jesus for saving me from the eternal fires of Hell at St. John the Baptist Catholic School to find on my bed, the COSTUME THAT FOREVER RUINED HALLOWEEN FOR ME.

It was primarily a large plastic head about 3 feet in length. Attached to the head, was some cloth with cutouts for my arms and legs.

“It’s Huckleberry Hound,” best friend Frankie Lamonico said, stifling a laugh. “Holy shit. You’re not going to wear that, are you?”

I shrugged. “Hell no! I hate Huckleberry Hound. If she knew anything about cartoons, she’d have known that Huckleberry Hound is a douche. What are you going to be?”

“My mother’s making me an Ed Norton costume!”

I snickered. That’s not a costume. It’s a tee shirt, a vest and that goomba hat your father’s always wearing.”

“I’d rather wear that than that stupid dog head your mother got. Jesus, Fuckleberry Hound…you’re gonna get crap from everybody. I can’t wait to see it.”

“Fuck you, Frank.”

“I’m going home. We’re having fish sticks and spaghetti with butter for dinner and I don’t want to miss it.”

As I closed the apartment door behind him, I could hear him laughing all the way down the stairs and out onto Walker Street. He was right. This one idiotic moment, if I wore the costume, would cost me all the street cred I had built up in the neighborhood as a rising star in the world of juvenile delinquency. It must not take place.

My mother had different ideas.

“That costume cost me $2 at W.T. Grant. You’re going to wear it or you aren’t going anywhere tomorrow!”

We screamed back and forth for about an hour. I finally relented only after she had broken two wooden spoons on me and then threatened to take away all my other clothes and force me to wear the mask of THE HOUND for a week everywhere, including to school.

Back in my room, that big, dumb dog face stared up at me from the bed. I threw it into my closet and slammed the door, but the seeds were already planted in my head. That night, nightmare after screaming nightmare paraded through my kid brain, all in the guise of some Hanna-Barbera cartoon character.

At one point Huckleberry Hound, Deputy Dawg and that annoying robot from the Jetsons stood at the foot of the bed and dragged me out on to the floor. They were forcing me to wear the costume and had plans to make me go door to door in the neighborhood. Only instead of getting candy, I had to give a card with my name, a picture of me in full Hound costume, and the phrase, “This is what an ungrateful child looks like!” written in big, bold letters. It was a long night of terrors and night sweats, but I finally fell asleep around 1 a.m.  

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 31, 1961—HALLOWEEN MORNING

We lived at 359 Walker Street. Though it looks a little different now, in 1961 the street level apartment housed a candy store owned by Mary and Tony Famigliaro. Located directly across the street from St. John’s Church and School, it was an essential part of the neighborhood, especially for the local kids. Whenever we had a nickel or a dime, we could get a soda or an egg cream. When stickball season rolled around, Mary’s was the source for ten cent ‘pinkies’ or if we chipped in, the high-end 29 cent ‘Spaldeen’ whose high bounce and hard rubber body was guaranteed to add several points to our stickball batting average.

Every morning, my mother sent me down there for the same thing; the NY Daily News, the Mirror and a pack of Camel cigarettes. Tony always reserved the papers for us and kept them on the radiator with ‘Nina’ written across the top. I would scoop them up, go get the cigarettes from Mary, and head back upstairs. This day was no different.

Tony was emerging through the sidewalk cellar doors with a wooden case of Pepsi Cola and placed it gently atop the case of Cokes and Seven-up bottles already on the sidewalk.

“Need help with those, Tony?” I offered, standing on the stoop.

Tony smiled. “I’m good, kid. Thanks. I’ll get the rest tonight before we close.”

“Okay. I’m getting the papers from Mary. See you later!”

Back upstairs, my mother was pouring herself a cup of instant Maxwell House coffee from the saucepan she used each morning. She would fill it up, pour several teaspoons in the pot of water, and it would last the entire day, so that by evening, it bore little resemblance to coffee. She would bring it to a boil and the apartment smelled like the roasting fires we smelled from the Savarin coffee plant down in Edgewater.  My mother had singlehandedly, completely destroyed the concept of it being ‘instant’ coffee.

I laid the papers and cigarettes on the Formica kitchen table, and poured myself a bowl of Rice Krispies.

“Don’t go Trick or Treating until I get home from work. I want to see you in that costume I bought. Do you hear me?”

“yes,” I mumbled.

“WHAT?”

“YESSSSSS!” Jesus, how could I NOT hear her?

At school that day, some of my classmates wore their costumes. Judy Mattioli came as actress Yvonne De Carlo, and got pissed off at us because no one knew who Ms. DeCarlo was. Thalia Gonzalez came as the Blessed Mother’s sister, Lupe. Thalia got pissed at us because no one had ever heard of the Virgin Mary having a sister, much less one from Mexico. 

Among the boys, there was the usual assortment of lame-o ghosts, goblins and Frankenstein monsters. No one had a Huckleberry Hound head.

True to his word, Frankie showed up as the Italian Ed Norton, lunch box and all.    

During lunch we sat on the school steps. “Where’s your costume, big shot?” he said, grinning stupidly, as he unwrapped the greasy waxed paper from the peppers and egg sandwich his mother had packed.

I gave him a ‘noogie’ with extra knuckle. “What time are you coming over? I don’t want to go out until dark out and nobody can see me. Then I’ll take the costume off, stuff it somewhere and we can go trick or treating. Then when I get home, I’ll put it back on, we’ll have candy as proof we went and I can show my face in public tomorrow. Hai capito?

Frankie rubbed his shoulder. “Yeah, I understand. And don’t do that again. I hate noogies.”   

“Okay, don’t a weenie. Listen. Be at my house around 6. It’s dark enough by then and all the big kids won’t be hanging out in front of Mary’s. We can make a clean getaway.” 

The afternoon dragged on. Outside, in front of Mary’s I could hear Joey Dwyer making fun of some poor kid’s costume just before he took a handful of the kid’s candy for himself. Kids were knocking on our door right and left and by 5 o’clock we were out of candy.

“Give them pennies from the jar,” my mother ordered. “And don’t take any for yourself.” I didn’t have to. All I had to do when I needed money was open her pocketbook and scoop up the loose change that hung out down there.

Frankie showed up right on time. My mother started mooning over his costume the minute he walked in.

“Look at you!” she screamed. “A little ginzo Norton! You’re adorable!” That was the happiest I had seen her in like…EVER. She turned to me. “Jesus, I should made you a Ralph Kramden suit. How funny would that have been?”

“There’s still time,” I mumbled.

“Go put your costume on. I wanna take a picture. I got film for the Kodak today.”

“No.” I said adamantly. “No pictures.”

“Put your goddamn costume on and come out here so I can take a goddamn picture of you two. If you don’t, you aren’t going anywhere.”

Frankie chimed in. “Just do it. C’mon. We’re missing all the good candy!”

“Alright, stop whining. I’m going.”

I shuffled down the hall to my room and donned the dreaded dog suit. The mask went from my head to my chest. It was gigantic, as if Huckleberry had somehow been exposed to radiation that cause his head to grow to twice his size. Frankie and I walked back to the kitchen for the picture. 

 ‘It’s tight,” I muttered.

“That’s because you eat too much.” So Frankie was adorable, and I was a giant tub of lard like Ralph Kramden. I wanted to die.

She handed me a pillowcase. “Go have fun. But be home by 9 o’clock.”

We started down the stairs. Frankie wouldn’t shut up. You’d think he’d never seen candy before.

“Okay Frankie. You’re gonna be my lookout once we get out there. This stupid mask…I can only see directly in front of me, not on the sides.”

“I will be there for you Huckleberry. Ed Norton never lets a friend down, even if that friend is a fat dog.”

We stood in the vestibule for several minutes while I tried to screw up the courage to go outside. Frankie was growing more and more impatient. Finally, I couldn’t take his whining anymore.

“Alright. On the count of three, I’ll say MAKE A RUN FOR IT! We jump out the door, onto the sidewalk and head to 4^th Street before anyone can recognize me. Are you ready?”

Frankie nodded.

“Okay here we go. ONE…TWO…THREE!!! MAKE A RUN FOR IT!!!!!!”

I have to pause here to emphasize the importance of peripheral vision. Had the mask not taken mine, I might have been able to see that the sidewalk cellar doors were open. I might have also seen that Tony was bringing up candy from the basement. I might not have tripped over the door and gone ass over teakettle into the basement. I also might not have survived the fall if Tony hadn’t broken my fall and by doing so caused me to break two of his ribs when we both fell to the floor.

People, and by people I mean primarily the police, firemen and Tony’s screaming spouse Mary along with curious passersby began to crowd around the opening of the sidewalk cellar entrance. What they saw was an obese 10 year old with a giant Huckleberry Hound mask splayed out on top of a 60 year old man screaming in agony in Italian.

Life was never the same after that night. Tony and Mary closed up their little store and opened another one in Gutenberg, a town that was a safe distance away from Fairview. Frankie grew up to be a priest and is still a huge fan of the Honeymooners.

And me? Well…it’s funny how the universe works its magic. Instead of wanting to grow up to be a gangster, I found that the sound of laughter made me feel really good, even if I did almost kill poor Tony.

As the years went on, that story got bigger and more embellished, and the laughs got bigger each time I told it.

And that’s why I hate Halloween folks. I haven’t worn a costume since. I still hate Hanna Barbera cartoons, but I love to make people laugh.  

Chappelle: What I think.

 

In the past week, I’ve been asked by no less than ten people what I thought of Chappelle’s “special”.  Here’s what I think. Do with it what you will. It’s my opinion ONLY.

He has a right to say what he wants. That is freedom of speech.

Netflix has a right to put whatever it wants to on its airwaves, regardless of whether I or anyone else thinks it smacks of ignorance and intolerance.

You have a right to watch whatever you want. If you think he’s a genius, so be it.

As for me, I didn’t much care for his comedy before, so I’d be lying if I used his vehement disgust of trans women (no mention of how he feels about trans men, I guess) as the focal point of my opinion of him.

Based on the clips I’ve seen of his recent program, his definition of a woman is whether or not she can bear children. He leaves out any mention of women who for medical reasons cannot conceive or bear children. Are they not women either? Just asking.

He goes into a protracted discussion of Trans women’s “Pussies” and how they gross him out.  I presume that he’s seen many of them and would ask, what is his fascination with Trans women and what is between their legs? Does his definition of womanhood ignore all the beauty, intelligence, talent, and nurturing that makes a woman a woman get ignored or does he just admire them for the beauty of their genitalia and whether or not they are worthy to bear his children?

He needs to know that the violence perpetuated against Trans women is disproportionately aimed at women of color and his alignment with “Team TERF” supports the hatred of a marginalized group of people who want only to live an authentic life in peace and happiness, with the same rights as everyone else. EVERYONE else.

So let Dave be Dave. Let him say what he wants. That’s what America is, after all. There will always be those who buy into what he says. But all I ask is that you watch and listen. If you find what he says disturbing, don’t support him. You have the power to click that remote. It doesn’t require a lot of strength. Cancelling people is not the way. If we keep cancelling ideas and trying to eliminate people like him from the culture, we are committing the worst kind of cancelling--- free thought. I don’t want to live in a world like that. Do YOU?