We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives (36 page)

The audience went crazy, and I immediately started vamping on harpsichord the opening chords of “I Got You, Babe.” The tremendous energy released by Dave’s request was too
much for Cher to resist. She and Sonny got up and performed their immortal hit. When he sang the line “Put your little hand in mine,” he actually grabbed her hand. As Doc Pomus would say, it was a “Magic Moment.” As LaVerne Baker would say, “I Cried a Tear.”

Their triumph electrified all of us. After the show, we were glowing. I was rushing. My band and I had to speed to the airport to catch the last flight to L.A., where, the next morning, we were due onstage at 9 a.m. to rehearse our stint on
Comic Relief 2
.

Then calamity struck. Our limo was nowhere to be found. There we were, on the curb, waiting in vain. Frantic calls did no good. It looked like we’d miss our flight.

“What’s wrong, Paul?” asked Sonny.

“Our limo’s gone missing.”

“Take my limo, please.”

“I couldn’t do that, Sonny.”

“I insist,” he said, and with that he practically pushed me and my band members into his limo.

“You’re a prince, Sonny,” I said, “but what will you do?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Paul. I’ll catch a ride with Cher.”

As we pulled away, I glanced back to see the scene at Cher’s limo. First Cher got in, then her wardrobe gal, then her makeup artist, then her manager, her agent, then her press agent, then daughter Chastity, and then, finally, squeezing in where there could not have been an inch of extra room, was her former husband, mentor, and producer—the gallant Mr. Sonny Bono.

I admire Federico Fellini. Who doesn’t? I admire his film 8½. As is widely known, the movie is deeply autobiographical, a reflection of both the artistic and romantic confusion that surrounded his hectic life.

I am not saying that my life in the late eighties was as hectic as Maestro Fellini’s. Nor would I ever compare my meager creative talents to his. But I do admit to considerable romantic confusion in my early life, and following in Fellini’s footsteps, I did attempt to chronicle this confusion in a TV special.

My tack was humor. To unearth that humor I needed to be comfortable. I needed a creatively stimulating environment. Fellini liked Rome. I liked Vegas. Rome reflected the decadent culture that intrigued Fellini. Vegas reflected the decadent culture that intrigued me. Fellini liked to escape into the wild images that fed his imagination. I would do the same. Through this somewhat bizarre TV special, I would work out the problems of my life.

What were those problems?

I loved Cathy. Cathy loved me. Cathy wanted commitment. I was not ready to commit. Cathy wanted marriage. I was not ready to marry.

“When will you be ready?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Your fear of commitment is what keeps us fighting,” she said. “Then when we fight, you begin to question whether the relationship will last.”

“I need time,” I said.

“How much time?” Cathy had to know.

“I don’t know.”

“When will you know?”

“I can’t say,” I said.

“Then maybe we should break up.”

“Maybe we should,” I halfheartedly agreed.

It was our breakup, and my new freedom to play the field, that prompted the idea for
Viva Shaf Vegas
. Cathy had become a booker for the Letterman show, and suddenly Cathy was everywhere. I felt the pressure of the time. I had to make a decision: marriage or no marriage?

I remember Dave Letterman giving me advice. “You know, Paul, it’s hard to find someone you can relate to at all. So if you do find that someone, maybe you shouldn’t let her go.”

Dave, of course, was right, but I just wasn’t ready. I decided not to marry, at least not now. So Cathy and I broke up and both decided to date other people.

On the heels of this new and somewhat uncomfortable freedom came a fascinating offer: Cinemax asked me to do a television special. They wanted an hour-long program of my own
design. Harry Shearer would direct and cowrite a script with me and Tom Leopold. I would star and work out my inner demons through the medium of film.

“Make it as edgy as you want,” said Cinemax. “Put in all the ‘inside’ show-biz humor at your command.”

Creative freedom was ours.

Of course Fellini had Marcello Mastroianni as his alter ego. I suppose I could have asked Woody Allen to play me. After all, Ronnie Spector had once called me “the Woody Allen of rock and roll.” But Woody, whose dedication is to Dixieland jazz, hates rock and roll. And besides, my one meeting with Mr. Allen wasn’t exactly encouraging.

I was at a restaurant when I bumped into Jean Doumanian, former
SNL
producer. “I’m having dinner with Woody,” she said, “and he’d love to meet you.” I followed Jean to a corner table. There was the great comic auteur himself. “What a great pleasure to meet you,” I said, reaching out my hand. He offered his, limp as a dishrag. That was it. He gave me a quick glance and not a single utterance. My expectation of being asked to join his party and discuss the nature of American comedy was dashed. I turned around, went back to my table, and finished my oxtail soup alone.

No, Mr. Allen was not a likely candidate to play the part of Mr. Shaffer. For better or worse, Mr. Shaffer would have to play Mr. Shaffer.

It was Mr. Shaffer Goes to Vegas—that’s the idea that Tom, Harry, and I brainstormed. Here’s how it would go:

Mr. Shaffer is having trouble with Hope Crosby, his love interest, as he navigates the single life in New York City. “I don’t know whether to date you or do a road picture with you,” he tells her. She wants commitment. He doesn’t. He can’t resist
fleeing to Vegas, where he’s offered a headliner’s show in the main room of the Tropicana. Obviously it’s a fantasy. There are topless showgirls. There’s the acrobatic duo of Carlo and Carlos, whose bodies are spray-painted in gold. My pal Tom plays himself, a screenwriter who sees my existential dilemma—to commit or not to commit—and directs me toward a Vegas guru, Sam Butera of Sam Butera and the Witnesses, the original Louis Prima backup band and a legendary lounge act. Sam asks a probing question—“Paul, are you regular?”—but leaves me to search for my own answers. My Odyssean journey takes me into the loneliest of lounges, where I’m invited to sit in with a Blues Brothers tribute band. That doesn’t thrill me, but seeing the Checkmates does. The Checkmates are playing at a downtown dive, the Mint, and ask me to play on their hit “Black Pearl.”

My dive into the deep sea of Vegas sleaze doesn’t uncover a black pearl, but it does get me a white one. Her name is Donna and she’s ready to rock. The morning after, she tells me that her mother was once
Gallery
magazine’s Gatefold of the Month. Donna takes me to the trailer park run by her dad, who turns out to be rock and roll royalty. He was the sax man for the Rockin’ Rebels. Suddenly we all break into a video-style romp, doing the Rebels’ 1962 smash, “Wild Weekend,” and everyone in the trailer park is dancing up a storm.

Donna is cool, but Donna’s boyfriend, who plays in the Blues Brothers clone act, isn’t happy about her dalliance with me. Donna disappears. I find another female friend and take her back to a suite for a tumble in the hot tub, only to find out that, underneath, she isn’t a female at all. I send her packing, “Sir,” I say, “take your leave.”

Hope comes in from New York and finds me nursing my wounds at the Mint. She says she still loves me. I still love her. But what to do?

As I’m hesitating, Hope takes off with the Belushi guy from the tribute band, and I get jealous.

Has the fantasy of flying my freak flag in the freakiest of entertainment frontiers run its course?

I appear that night in my show at the Tropicana. I play, I sing, I dance. My topless gals surround me with love. I incorporate Robert Goulet and Redd Foxx into my act. But finally, in Fellini-esque fashion, I find myself doing what the Italian director did at the end of 8½. I join all the elements of my life and fantasies in a circle of love. I make them all dance. I bring Hope onstage. Harry, as a bearded rabbi, runs out to marry us. There is a chuppah, a canopy symbolizing the home that Hope and I will share. The topless gals gather around us; Tom is best man; and the fabulous duo of Carlo and Carlos are our head ushers. A unicyclist rides in with our rings. Vows are exchanged. With my right foot, I smash the glass that has been placed on the floor, the traditional ritual that reminds us of our responsibility to help repair the world. Here in Vegas, my own life has been repaired. All the disparate elements—the Blues Brothers cover band, the Checkmates, Sam Butera and the Witnesses—are now aligned.

In my fantasy film, I have embraced Hope.

In my real life, Hope is Cathy.

Cinemax says that the film is too “inside.” This after they urged us to make it as “inside” as possible. It doesn’t matter. The show airs at 1:15 a.m. People like it.

In my fictional life, Hope and I are married onstage.

In my real life, Cathy and I are married in
shul
. It is a small, family wedding.

Before the wedding, Dave Letterman throws me a bachelor party at 21.

After the wedding, my bachelor days are but bittersweet memories.

This happens in 1990. I am forty years old.

A Pop Culture Analysis

Back at the University of Toronto, I majored in sociology. You might remember that I wrote my thesis on the subculture of avant-garde musicians. I got an A on the paper along with my professor’s remark that I had a knack for analysis. The aforementioned topless bars drew me away from academia, but academia left its impact on me.

As someone who, for more than a quarter century, has been in the privileged position of watching celebrities up close, I have made a study of this group. They are a funny lot. Many are sincere. Some are not. Most are sensitive. Most are ambitious. Most crave love and approval. Some are cautious, some reckless, some caring, some quite insane. Many overreact—to a less-than-flattering review or an innocent remark that they may take as an insult. You can never tell what will trigger a celebrity or what the result will be.

I know.

I was involved in such an incident.

And I have reason to believe that my behavior may well have
changed the landscape of our pop culture and, in a vastly more important way, even changed the always-sensitive dynamic between Christians and Jews in the United States of America.

Mr. Mel Gibson, one of our most enduring movie stars, is Mad Max, Lethal Weapon, and Braveheart all rolled into one. Before he became the Christ, however, he came on Letterman to publicize one of his many splendid films. During that particular show, we had a funny bit going called “May we turn your pants into shorts?” Members of the crew and staff would come onstage, only to have Dave and me, with scissors in hand, cut off their trouser legs at the knees. Dave would snip the left leg while I snipped the right.

After Mel had charmed his way through Dave’s graceful interview, Dave asked him, “May we turn your pants into shorts?”

“Sure,” said the amiable actor. “Why not?”

I was called over to help circumcise Gibson’s trousers. That’s when my hand slipped and the state of Judeo-Christian relations changed forever.

Believe me when I say that the slip was unintentional. I merely placed the scissors too close to Mel’s skin. In doing so, I cut him. The skin broke. He bled. Drops of Gibson’s blood fell to the floor. Mel looked at me murderously. He was enraged. He had been bloodied by a Jewish piano player.

Because of my Hebrew heritage, I couldn’t help but feel great guilt when I started hearing about Gibson’s bloody movie,
The Passion of the Christ
. I couldn’t help but wonder whether the slip of my hand had caused what some reviewers were calling a blatantly anti-Jewish version of the Crucifixion story. In observing some of the actors whom Gibson had selected to play
the Pharisees, the group urging Christ’s death, I couldn’t help but notice that one of them seemed to resemble me.

For a moment or two, I considered sending Mel a Christmas or Hanukkah gift—a pair of fine woolen Brooks Brothers trousers or perhaps madras Bermuda shorts. I wanted to let him know that the shedding of his blood had no sacrificial symbolism on my part. But I never sent the pants and I never sent the shorts. I wondered, though, if I should invite Mel over to the house for Passover dinner. Instead I took Cathy’s suggestion and sent him a first-aid kit. I never heard back.

The coda to this story took place in the exclusive celebrity-hangout restaurant Nobu in the downtown Tribeca district of New York City. I was dining with Harry Shearer when who should walk in but Mr. Gibson himself. As he walked by our table, he stopped, regarded me, and said, “Ah, the Slasher.”

“Hi, Mel,” I said. “I hope the first-aid kit helped.”

“Very funny,” he replied with a hearty laugh.