I Must Say (30 page)

Over the course of the program's run, Jiminy had his way with Jerry Seinfeld, Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Jon Stewart, Steve Martin, Mel Brooks, John McEnroe, Goldie Hawn, Ben Stiller, and Ice Cube (Jiminy: “I love Rex Harrison, he was one of the first rappers”), among many others. All of this with me now in my fifties. It was welcome reassurance that the well of comic invention had not run dry.

Eugene Levy has said that Jiminy is my greatest creation, which, coming from my oldest and dearest friend, is an especially moving compliment. Not that Jiminy was particularly reverent toward Eugene. He pronounced his last name incorrectly on
Primetime Glick
(as “LEE-vy” rather than “LEH-vy”) and greeted him by declaring with an accusatory pointed finger, “You're not exactly who I assumed you'd be.” The interview carried on for a couple more minutes, with Eugene holding forth on some subject, when Jiminy brusquely interjected, “Gabe Kaplan! From
Welcome Back, Kotter
!
That's
who I was hoping you would be!”

Jiminy is the most interactive of my characters. He is, by definition, an interviewer, and therefore needs an interview subject once he has finished puffing himself up in his introductory remarks. And speaking of puffing himself up: when I was doing
Primetime Glick
, I wore carefully applied latex makeup to appear Jiminy-obese, along with a very convincing and elaborately conceived fat suit. But in my live stage show, since I have to do a lot of quick costume changes, there isn't time to re-create Jiminy's look as thoroughly.

Instead, I have a special Jiminy mask that is split at the back and quickly Velcros together, and a wonderful, custom-built, easy-in, easy-out fat suit that I simply step into and zip up the back, as if it were a store-bought child's Halloween costume. The fat-suit costume is filled with foam and includes a blazer, striped shirt, necktie, and matching trousers. When it's drooping unused on a hanger, it looks like a carefully deboned Halliburton executive.

I first started doing live Jiminy interviews during the 2006 run of
Fame Becomes Me
on Broadway. Originally, we had famous ringers in the audience that I pulled onstage—Jerry Seinfeld, Nathan Lane, and so on—but we soon realized that it was just as funny with a civilian. A dentist, say. Because Jiminy is the egotist and the anarchist who sucks up all the oxygen, all the interviewee has to do is play it straight.

That said, I do try to have my office book a local luminary to join Jiminy, simply because it's good promotion; if the popular deejay or weatherman in your city knows he's going to be onstage with Jiminy, he'll plug the upcoming Martin Short
concert all week. I also like having mayors on, because they're good straight men and women, inherently self-conscious about their images. Occasionally Jiminy will get aroused by a lady mayor and will jump her and start pumping her. But all in good fun; she merely feels the soft impact of foam padding for two or three seconds, whereupon Jiminy collapses back into his seat and lights up a cigarette.

Before I let Jiminy speak for himself, permit me to provide you with an abridged version of the bio I wrote for him back when
Primetime Glick
was heading to air.

Jiminy Glick was born in 1948, in Akron, Ohio, the youngest of eleven children born to Omar and Isabella Glickman. After graduating from Gale Gordon High School, he enrolled at the prestigious DeVry Institute of Technology, but left after the first semester when he won the role of Onlooker #2 in a bus and truck theater production of
Forty Carats
, starring Miss Lana Turner.

By the time he was thirty, Jiminy had grown confident enough to move out of his parents' house and pursue a career in acting. Sure enough, he landed a job as a busboy at Chasen's, where he stayed for the next eight years. He worked only occasionally as an actor, most notably as Buddy Ebsen's kleptomaniac nephew in a
Barnaby Jones
two-parter.

Jiminy found acting jobs few and far between and was ultimately forced to take a position as a personal assistant to the legendary Charles (
Death Wish
) Bronson. He remained in that lofty capacity for five turbulent years. Then, in 1991, while moonlighting as a bartender's assistant at Roddy
McDowall's People's Choice Awards after-party, he befriended former
Laugh-In
producer George Schlatter. As luck would have it, Schlatter was looking for a host for his new syndicated celebrity interview show,
LaLaWood
. Glick got the nod, and after two short years,
LaLaWood
rocketed to the top 100.

Jiminy now lives in Tarzana with his wife of twenty-two years, Dixie, and their four sons. When he's not hosting his current show,
Primetime Glick
, you'll most likely find Jiminy coaching his sons' Little League team, rebuilding the engine of one of his classic steam-engine cars, or browsing for antiques.

“Thank God he's a man and he's so fat, or I'd be worried about my job. He's
that good
!”

—Diane Sawyer

T
om Hanks had this habit with Nancy. We'd all be gathered somewhere, being loud and boisterous—at a dinner party, say, or on vacation—and he would ask her, “Don't you ever get tired of laughing at Marty's jokes?”

And Nancy would always say, “No, I actually don't.” And it was true. Nancy was the opposite of the stereotypically obeisant show-business wife, but she loved to laugh, and she never wearied of hearing the same jokes (and I mean the
same
jokes) time after time. Laughter was central to our relationship. And here's the other really important point: Nan was hysterically funny herself. Way back in 1974, when we first hung out together at the jazz club with Paul Shaffer and Mary Ann McDonald, we were amazed to discover how similar our senses of humor were. By the time we were parents and longtime marrieds, we'd become comfortably complementary.

Nan and I could tell a million stories of our adventures together, some of them pretty embarrassing, but nearly all of them uplifting in some way, or at least worth a chuckle. The first time
we ever took a getaway trip on our own, without the children, we went to Hawaii for five days. We were, like all exhausted parents of young kids, psyched to grab a literal moment in the sun. I called Carlos, the driver we always used, to take us to the airport. He told me that unfortunately he would not be available when we needed to leave, but he would send someone else from his car service.

I looked out the window and saw a big limo pull into our driveway. And out of it stepped a six-foot-four African American man, beautifully dressed in chauffeur's livery—much more proper than Carlos, and very elegant and poised, like a character in a Wes Anderson movie. Right as he was pulling up, Nancy called out to me from the bedroom, asking if Carlos was picking us up. I shouted back to her, “No, he's sending someone else.” That is all I said.

I ran upstairs to bring our bags down, and by the time I did, Nancy was outside with the driver, introducing him to the children and the nanny, and kissing the kids good-bye. We got in the car and hit the road. As we were moving along, Nancy leaned forward and said to the driver, “Oh, Bumpkiss, you know we're going to American Airlines, right?” And he said, “Yes, I know.”

Nancy wasn't done. “Bumpkiss,” she said, “are you gonna take the Marina or the 405? What do you think is the best route?”

The driver looked at her a little longer this time through the rearview mirror before announcing, “The 405 is clear.”

I, meanwhile, hadn't even been officially introduced to him, so I'm thinking, Wow, what a name—I've got to use that name. So I said, “Oh, Bumpkiss, you know that we've arranged to have a greeter meet us at the terminal, right?”

He stared at me through the rearview mirror for a beat longer than he just had with Nan, his eyes a little deader than before. “Yeah,” he replied.

Something seemed off. I stage-whispered to Nancy, “How do you know his name is Bumpkiss?”

She stage-whispered back, “Because
you
told me!”

Whaaat?
“What are you talking about?” I hissed. “When did
I
tell you his name is Bumpkiss?”

Nancy whispered, “I asked you, ‘Is Carlos picking us up?' and you said, ‘No, Bumpkiss is.'”

“I did
not
say that!”

“You certainly did!”

Fantastic. Not only were we calling the driver by the wrong name, but we had also assigned him some vaguely racist name straight out of Margaret Mitchell or
Show Boat
.

Flushed with embarrassment and liberal guilt, I whispered to Nancy, “What are you talking about? I said, ‘He's sending someone else.' That doesn't sound anything like ‘Bumpkiss'!”

Bumpkiss—er, the driver—delivered us to LAX's American terminal in prompt fashion. After he and I finished unloading the bags onto the skycap's cart, I pulled out a wad of hundreds and gave them to him as fair recompense for our unintentional psychological abuse. “Thanks, and I'm so sorry,” I said. “There might have been some, uh . . . some confusion about—well, I'm sorry, what is your name?”

“My name is Larry,” he replied with a tight smile.

Once we landed upon the beautiful island of Kauai, though, the tension went away, and Nancy and I had the most romantic, Zen vacation of our lives. Apart from one harrowing experience, that is. We paid a visit to Brennecke's Beach, a place famous for its bodysurfing, and couldn't resist testing its waters. We quickly paid for our curiosity—the two us were pummeled by a giant wave that we didn't see coming. It threw us high into the air, and we each landed with a heavy thud, facedown in the sand. The beach
was pretty crowded, and when I stood up to see if Nan was okay, I saw her getting to her feet, unaware that the top of her two-piece was now missing. “Can you believe how
big
they are?” she shouted over to me. She was referring to the waves. But all the guys on the beach who were now smiling and doing double takes didn't necessarily see it that way.

E
ven though Nancy and I had a lot of fabulous show-business friends because I happen to be in show business, the truth of our social world was that Nancy was very often the greater engine of our social life. She and Rita Wilson, for example, became very close very fast—playing tennis together, recognizing in each other kindred competitive-jock spirits, and sharing thousands of laughs—and their friendship accelerated the development of my own with Rita's husband, Tom Hanks. Nancy and Nora Ephron bonded over being voracious readers and witty, tart conversationalists—trading books, articles, and poison-dart commentary about how insane everyone but they were—and that's how Nancy and I became a frequent dinner quartet with Nora and her husband, the author and screenwriter Nick Pileggi.