Dirty Daddy: The Chronicles of a Family Man Turned Filthy Comedian (22 page)

Jim was very kind and told Mr. Stewart that I was a nice young comedian who had gotten bumped that night. Jimmy Stewart shook my hand and said, “Well, niiice to meeeet ya . . .” I stammered back how amazing it was to meet him and then I did what some people do when they are in awe—I stood and stared at him, saying nothing, making him just uncomfortable enough. Probably a good seven interminable seconds went by with no dialogue.

The moment finally ended, to Mr. Stewart’s benefit, and I walked away feeling like I’d just shaken the hand of God. I was getting ready to leave and go home when the producer of the show, the sweet Peter Lassally, came over to me and apologized for not getting me on the air that night. Peter was the main reason I got to be on
The Tonight Show
as a guest in the first place.

He felt so bad that, as he was escorting me out of the hallway, he asked if I would like to meet Jimmy Stewart, having no idea I had already just met the legend. I don’t know why I did this—I guess I was that starstruck by the man who was George Bailey—but I acted as though I hadn’t just met Mr. Stewart: “Yes, I’d love to.”

Peter took me into the
Tonight Show
stage and there, behind a flat, was Jimmy Stewart again, now sitting in the dark backstage, a half hour before the show was to tape. Peter walked me over and introduced me for the second time in ten minutes (in James Stewart time), and explained to Mr. Stewart that I had been bumped that night.

Mr. Stewart said, “Welll, welll, wellll, didn’t I jjjjust meeeet you before?” I couldn’t lie to the man who starred in
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,
so I said, “Yessir, I’m sorry, I just wanted to meet you again.” I didn’t stay too long this time or stare at him creepily. But I did notice him give me a justified look of concern afterward, as if saying, “Something’s wrong with that boy.” And he was right.

So yeah, I’ve done to people what gets done to me, but I ain’t kidding myself, folks. I know I ain’t no Jimmy Stewart. That would be Tom Hanks. I’m just saying I get that occasional fan who thinks of me that way.

I’ve been on both sides. I admit I acted like a sycophantic wannabe hanger-on with Jimmy Stewart. And I admit it’s satisfying sometimes to be around people who think you’re cool, for whatever reason. But what I don’t go for is fame-seeking and superficial relationships or materialism and self-indulgence, and the kind of people who flock to that lifestyle. I’ve been involved with too many people like that. One of my foibles I’d say I’m guilty of is being a talent whore. But deifying Jimmy Stewart falls under its own special air.

Some thoughtful people who’ve made a lot of money will tell you: money doesn’t bring you happiness—but it does make your life easier. And some of the wealthy bitch-boys in the world will tout a variation: “money isn’t everything—it’s the hookers and blow you buy with money that are everything.” These boys are just adorable. Makes me wish I had a son. To cut off.

Back to what sells books: I have never been with a hooker. I mean, I’ve been in the same room as a hooker, but I’ve never paid for sex. Well, I’ve had sex with someone and paid for everything they’ve asked me to pay for, but they weren’t a hooker.

Okay, I just looked up the word
hooker
in the Urban Dictionary—“prostitute, started in the Civil War when Gen. Hooker of the Union Army (the first pimp) tried to protect his troops from VD by buying the best chicks and pimping them to his corps of 20,000 men. Originally hooker’s girls.” Oh yeah, sorry, I wasn’t totally correct. I did pay for sex once with a woman who’d been with twenty thousand men during the Civil War. She just laid there. A good mummy will do that.

A fortunate few on this earth have
never
had money concerns. Never even had to work. Trust-fund kids. And some of them are very nice people. Some of my relatives have wanted to know about anyone rich and famous I’ve met over the years. They ask, “Are they nice?”

“Well, Cousin Sheryl, I actually heard he is cruel to women and not much of a father.” And her response would be, “Oh, okay. But is he
niiice
?”

I used to envy people born into money, because I was not. But at some point along the way I began to appreciate the value of being self-made, of starting from nothing and turning into something. And I know that’s subjective. I couldn’t be prouder that I was a deli clerk for five years while I finished high school and supported myself working through college.

I couldn’t be prouder that I lived in a single apartment and had a strong inherited work ethic that propelled me to just keep moving forward even though the future occasionally looked bleak. And I couldn’t be prouder of how many people I’ve been able to support because I was fortunate enough to have some luck grace my career.

What the fuck am I talking about? Trust-fund kids rock!! I wanna be the Facebook twins!! Who doesn’t? Yikes. Truth is, if I’d have been a trust-fund kid I wouldn’t have had the experience of getting to know my noble father and all the hardships he boldly faced. Then again, I’d have been getting laid since I was thirteen and flown on jets to Paris instead of working in that fucking deli . . .

Nah, my dad was right. It’s all bullshit. I would not trade a moment in this life that got me to where I am today—and to where I will be tomorrow.

Whatever your journey is, it’s
your
journey. And most people have, through no fault of their own, very difficult journeys. And it’s not because their series didn’t get picked up. That kind of thinking makes you wanna throw up in your mouth again, doesn’t it?

Actually, no, that’s a bad expression. Nothing makes me wanna throw up in my mouth. All right, one thing does: young girls who say, “That makes me wanna throw up in my mouth.”

The best things in life often happen when you’re not trying so hard. There were times I was busting my ass so hard to break through the door and nothing would budge. Then there were times when the door just opened and the opportunities arrived.

Other times, things came in through the door but it was basically the “doggy door”—something entered my life uninvited, like a crazed squirrel getting in through those dog flaps. Nothing worse than a crazed squirrel who breaks into your house through the doggy door, shits right in your living room, and eats your puppy. And then leaves the same way he came in . . . through the dog flaps. Never will see that again in print . . . dog flaps.

Even if it doesn’t feel like it at the time, the hard work eventually pays off. But we never appreciate things while we’re going through them. Time is the bastard. You take it on faith, you take it to the heart, the waiting is the hardest part.

Weird that most people in show business complain if they’re working . . . or if they’re not working. Better to be able to complain about the former. Smarter not to complain at all. And yet I was prone to complain . . . for so many years of my career I felt like my comedic nut was not being cupped.

One of my nuts was happy-go-lucky and appreciative, but the other was confused and angry over unrequited moments in comedy it felt it was missing. And there’s one thing you want out of life as a male artist: for both nuts to find a happy medium.

Rodney Dangerfield was a guy I would go to for Yoda-like advice. He’d been beaten down so much; he knew what it meant to be a survivor. Talk about the ten-years theory—he went from being named Jacob Cohen to changing it to Jack Roy to finally being dubbed Rodney Dangerfield. Years and years of television appearances, club after club, before catching his biggest break in
Caddyshack
at the age of fifty-nine, which led to a monumental resurgence with his doing exactly the kind of comedy films he wanted to do.

One time when he was living at the Beverly Hilton, I went over to his place, walked in, and started venting about how I was frustrated creatively—even with my two hit shows on the air, both being in the top ten.

I told him I was sick of only doing “family stuff” and wanted to move into edgier comedy but that I was concerned it was too late, because people have a way of branding you with what they perceive you to be. I went off to him about how the commercial shows had gotten so big that I thought it would be impossible for people to ever see me in a different comedic light.

Rodney listened to me intently, then looked at me with his big intense eyes and told me, with these exact words: “You don’t know
cock
.” I just stared at him. I’d never heard the word
cock
used to replace the word
anything
before. And with that unique turn of phrase, he set me straight.

He told me how he’d struggled and how long it took for him to get through his various stages. And how long it continued to take him to get to his next stages. I valued his frankness. His wisdom was only slightly diminished by the fact that he wore a robe all day long, and as he’d adjust his robe, his balls would occasionally peer out to see how things were going. Though it was distracting, his wisdom was my takeaway.

There’s one funny story about Rodney that people always ask me about, wanting to know if it’s true—and it is. This happened like twelve years ago. I’d called Rodney and scheduled a dinner with him for the following Wednesday at seven. I was going to take him to the Palm for a lobster. He was pissed at the Palm because ten years earlier he’d ordered a lobster and they brought him one with one giant claw and one little claw.

He was still angry about it and hadn’t been back since. “Imagine, man, they did it on purpose! One big claw and one little claw!!” I tried to explain that I didn’t think it had been on purpose; shit like that just happens.

Eventually, I got him to agree to give them a second chance. We made a plan. I was to take him to the Palm and get him a lobster with two giant claws. All was cool till I showed up a week later at his condo on Wilshire Boulevard at exactly 7:01
P
.
M
.

There was an elevator that took you right up to his apartment. I rang the bell and was greeted at the door by Rodney, in a robe—open as always, and you could see his junk hanging out. Not a pretty picture, especially before dinner. But Rodney was Rodney. His wife was on her way out with a friend. Rodney was shocked to see me. “Bob, what are you doing here?” I reminded him we’d made dinner plans.

“But you didn’t call to confirm, man.” He felt terrible because he had assumed our plans were off—since I hadn’t called to confirm—and instead invited the porn star Ron Jeremy up to his place. It was for Ron to sign a one-sentence release so Rodney could use him in his book.

Ron was a huge fan of comedy who also happened to be famous for being a man with the ability to go down on himself. Not a tall man, but apparently a limber man—like a roly-poly pill bug. With no spine. And a gigantic penis. Don’t see how I’d have any trouble getting him to sign a release for this book after that description.

Rodney invited me to stay and hang out with Ron and the two women he was bringing—“Sorry, man, I didn’t think you were coming, so I invited Ron Jeremy and two hookers up for a little while to hang out.” He offered me a joint.

“Sorry, Rodney, I think I’m just gonna go home. I don’t do well hanging out with hookers, and Ron Jeremy always wants to shake my hand when I run into him at the Comedy Store and I always picture where it was right before the handshake.”

I told Rodney I had nothing against Ron and explained I’m just a bit OCD. Told him, “It’s cool, man, I gotta go.”

As Rodney walked me to the elevator he adjusted his robe and I saw the huge long scar down the middle of his chest where, just a couple years earlier, they had apparently—as he described it—taken all of his guts out, laid them next to him, and then put them back in.

There he was, standing in front of me, sad that I was leaving, and waiting for Ron Jeremy and two ladies of the evening. As I got in the elevator I looked at him with all sincerity and asked him, “Rodney, how are you doing?”

He gave me a Rodney look. “You wanna know how I’m doing, Bob? I’ll tell you how I’m doing.
You’re
leaving, and I’m waiting for a guy who can suck his own
COCK,
that’s how I’m doing!”

And then, as if timed for the perfect take, the elevator doors slowly closed as we both realized how funny what he’d just said was.

It’s all about surviving. And getting back up after you get knocked down. The band Chumbawamba said it best: “I get knocked down, but I get up again. You’re never gonna keep me down. I get knocked down, but I get up again. You’re never gonna keep me down.” How can you refute something so positive and motivational, recited in that song a thousand times and performed so eloquently by Chumbawamba?

“My Way” and “That’s Life” have always been my musical mantra go-tos. Sinatra had the ultimate swagger: “I’ve been up and down and over and out, but I know one thing—each time I find myself flat on my face, I pick myself up and get back in the race . . .”

That’s a lovely metaphoric lyric. Taking it literally would be taking it to extremes, but it’s fun to riff about. Imagine you’re running in a marathon and you trip over your feet and fall flat on your face. Then imagine every other runner racing past you, and your nose is broken beyond recognition, blood gushing out of it.