The Night Sid Caesar Almost Cleaned my Clock

Sid Caesar, who just died this week, in addition to being a comedic genius, was also freakishly strong and given to fits of temper—a nice combo for chaos. Mel Brooks tells of the time they were crossing a New York Street and a cab almost ran them down. Caesar reached in through the vent window and asked the cabbie if he remembered his own birth.  He then threatened to re-enact the event by pulling him out through the window.  The terrified cabbie apologized and missed the chance to literally be reborn.

But mostly Caesar was funny, thanks in no small part to his writing staff. When a play about the writer’s room opened in LA years ago, I got to review it. Neil Simon’s “Laughter on the 23^rd Floor” featured barely disguised versions of Caesar and writers like Brooks, Woody Allen, Larry Gelbart and others.

I brought my son Andrew as my Plus One because a father who doesn’t help develop his child’s appreciation for comedy is guilty of child abuse.  The house was energetic and filled with anticipation but hushed expectantly when the lights went down. All except someone  directly behind us who nattered on to his companion as the play began. I considered turning around and shushing him but didn’t want to cause a scene with my son present, and the guy soon piped down.

 No sooner had the Act One curtain fallen than the show’s producer came out to welcome the opening night crowd, talk about the show’s history, and encourage everyone to stay for the reception.

Oh and introduce a special guest.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please give a hand for a great man sitting in our audience tonight— Mr. Sid Caesar!” 

Applause! Applause! Applause! I craned my head right, but couldn’t spot him. Craned my head left--nope. So I stood and joined the standing ovation for Sid, who, as it turned out, had been sitting directly behind me.

Never have I gotten so good a lesson to keep my pie-hole shut. I doubt he’d have done anything physical, but my own embarrassment would have been more than enough punishment.

SAVING SAM: The Speech Whatsisface MUST Make after being Sam Jacksoned

"My Name is Sam and I Am A Prosopagnosiac"

Sam, it's your old buddy Cork, from back in the day? Remember me? Channel Nine? Hope you haven't confused me with Roger Ebert again...or Katie Couric

You have to come out of the "Face Blind Closet" to earn sympathy and make this go away.

I know "Repartee is the art of what you wish you'd said" and I have 20-20 hindsight here.  But I've studied the tape. You went the apology route. But the gleam in Denzel's Sam's eye meant he smelled comedic blood in the water. You couldn't stop him, you could only top him. The instant you saw where it was going, you needed to shout him down and take the momentum. Like this:

"Sam! Sam! Sam!!! Wait! Whoa! Let me save your career before you say something you'll regret. Do NOT make this a racial thing. It's not!!! Don't think because I confused you with Lawrence Whatsisface that I  can't tell only rich black men apart.

No, I can't tell white folks apart either! Or Spanish or Chinese. I once called Cheech Marin "Mao." I thought Hector Elizondo did those crying Indian ads. This news team? I've worked with them for ten years and I still don't know who the hell they are. But despite this handicap, I've survived. I'm a minority too. I'm a Prosopagnosiac-American and proud of it. It's not easy for me in a business where stars have such huge egos they insist people remember who they are. So Google it, Arsenio, and you may begin to appreciate what other minorities have to put up with. But first, I'm waiting for your apology." 

Is it too late? To paraphrase what Tupac said to you yesterday "Oh Hell no!" Just announce you suffer from the real ailment, but were afraid to admit it. You may have to attend a few meetings, but it will blow over and you'll be superceded by the next media punching bag.

The Night I Didn't Join The Beatles

I've never told anyone this story before. But now, after 53 years, I think it is time for the truth to come out.  So here it is, told the very night of one of the most significant Anniversaries in the history of pop culture.

I was in Liverpool during summer of '61 just wandering about the many pubs. This shaggy-haired very young guy stopped me on the street and said "Hey mate, you play the traps?"

"A little" I replied modestly.

"Name's Paul," he said. "If you're telling the truth, the other lads and I could use you, as our regular drummer is sick."

He pulled me into a dank rehearsal hall, and I sat at the kit while he and the other two "lads" tuned up.

"You know 'Twist and Shout'?" Paul asked. I hit the snare and the high hat and away we went. I could tell these guys had real talent--plus all three had the same haircuts.

When we were finished I was covered in sweat and they were all smiling.

"You passed the audition. Play with us tonight and if you're that good we'll fire our drummer and put you in the band."

"Sorry, I have dinner plans," I said. I realized as I left I'd forgotten to ask the name of their group.

Fifty years ago tonight, I watched the Ed Sullivan Show and found out something very unexpected. That's right, that Liverpool band with the funny haircuts I'd tried out for, passed an audition for, and then blew off? They weren't The Beatles.

I don't know who the hell they were. Never found out.  

Good times, though. Good times.