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.

Don't Piss Off the Bees

A friend recently posted that she had become upset when she caught her then 17-year-old son having sex with his girlfriend. Always one to be helpful, here is my advice to her:

“We all have our sexual traumas throughout our lives, but people are emotionally flexible and often survive these events undaunted. My first such incident was when my Parish Priest brought me into his office, closed the door, dimmed the lights, and put on some Johnny Mathis. He got out the Sacramental wine, pour two glasses and then told me he "only liked me as a friend." He polishd off both glasses and said he much preferred the dark, hulking, type Altar Boy. I've tried to be darker and hulkinger ever since.

Then, when I was only 19, my Dad tried to explain the birds and bees to me using a GI Joe doll plus actual birds and bees. It was going well until he accidentally knocked the hive loose with his pointing stick. GI Joe was stung multiple times on his Chiliwhacker, and Dad suffered three stings, two on his hands and one to his pointing stick.

His next attempt involved describing how sex works by explaining how he bred our beloved pet Boxer. Now I can't get in the mood without a couple of Dog Yummies first, and can't finish unless someone throws a bucket of water on me. I've lost a number of partners that way, including Aqua Woman.

But as you can see, I've turned out normal enough, so I'm sure your son will too. I hold out little hope for you, however."

A CorkComment360. Comedic insights, advice and inaccuracies in 360 words or less, designed to better serve you, the distracted, multi-tasking, short-attention-spanned, dimwitted Reader.

Attack of the Old Fat Gym Rat

A CorkComment360.  Comedic insight, insults and/or inaccuracies in 360 words or less, designed to better serve you, the distracted, multi-tasking, short-attention-spanned--Oh look! Cows!-- Reader.

Because I worked in the Business of Show a long time, I’m a member of Old Show Business Veterans and Geezers Center on Spielberg Drive, off Mulholland, across from the Chix Quix.

I could live there when I’m older and feebler but I’ve instructed my loved ones otherwise. When Elvis has Left the Building for good, I say put me on an Ice Flow with a Barcalounger, DirectTV and a case of Maker’s Mark.

(Thanks to the Fossil Fuel Industry and the God Wants Us to Ruin Earth Religious Right, there’s a good chance I’ll outlive Ice.  So I’m looking into military surplus rescue rafts.)

I’m currently too old and too fat for my own good—hell, I’m too old and too fat for anybody’s good—and am of the belief exercise is best enjoyed in the comfort of one’s home while watching infomercials. Nothing makes a Cheese Nacho tastier than seeing those Insanity Idiots run around like headless chickens proving Darwin wrong.

But it hasn’t been the same since Tony Little went to Infomercial Heaven. The last time I saw one, it was a guy with a bad hairpiece and a Martian accent claiming people should eat Omega Oils until they poop Codfish.

Where the hell is that “Get Rich Quick by Peddling Get Rich Quick Books” huckster or the Hair-in-a-Can guy when you need ‘im?

Anyway, my doctor commanded me to exercise and lose weight. I nodded politely because you don’t want to piss off a guy who can order you to turn around and drop your pants. 

Because I worked in Show Business long enough for brain damage, I qualify to use the Old Folks Gym for $10 a month. So yesterday, I went.

I rode a recumbent bike, which, sadly, is not a Metaphor. It sits facing a picture window looking out at the Jodie Foster swimming pool. I recumbed for 20 minutes. My aching ankle didn’t. I got home and watched Jodie in “Contact” on AMC.

It’s a sign. I’m going back today.