Dynomite!: Good Times, Bad Times, Our Times--A Memoir (26 page)

Showing just how strong a figure Mitzi was to our era of stand-up comics was a conversation I had with Letterman during a break on his show more than a dozen years after the strike.

“How do you think it’s going?” he asked me.

“I think we’re doing okay,” I answered, assuming he was talking about our on-air banter at his desk.

“No, I mean the show. How do you think I’m doing?”

“Dave, you’re doing fine.”

“I have a feeling the network wants to get rid of me.”

“Really?” Like I said, there is no happy comedian.

“I just wanted to know what you thought,” he said. Then he added, “Mitzi called. Do you know why she would be calling me?”

By this time Dave had headlined his own talk show for many years. He had Emmys, was well respected, was pulling in millions of dollars a year, and could do almost anything he wanted in show business. But still he was worried about talking to Mitzi.

I told him I had no idea why Mitzi would call him.

“God, I don’t know what she wants,” he said nervously. “I have to call her back, right?”

“You’re David Letterman!” I said, trying to drown out his insecurity. “You don’t have to do anything Mitzi wants anymore!”

He thought for a second. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess you’re right.”

If Mitzi could wield such power with a Letterman, imagine her influence over lesser comics, such as Steve Lubetkin. I had seen him perform in New York and thought he was a decent talent. Others hyped him much more, hailing him as the next hot comic. That hard-to-match reputation preceded him to LA, and everyone looked forward to seeing what all the fuss was about. He was immediately given good spots in the lineup at the Store. But his performances were a letdown. I do not know what happened, but when he arrived on the West Coast, he lost his funny. After bombing hard, he was given less advantageous spots, early in the evening, like 8 p.m., or very late, like 1 a.m. Soon he did not justify even those. Within months he was out of the rotation completely. In desperation, he teamed with his girlfriend, Susan Evans, to form a duo, Lubetkin and Evans, and was sent to Westwood. After that failed he returned to the solo spotlight at various venues, but not at the Sunset Store.

Feeling increasingly dependent on Mitzi for his career, Lubetkin was reluctant to go on strike. But one night he did take to the picket line. Mitzi saw him and completely severed her relationship with him. That threw Lubetkin into an emotional tailspin, and he turned on Mitzi. The strike became his obsession. On the picket line outside the Store, he was like a rabid dog. Standing on the sidewalk, he went on and on about how much he hated Mitzi. When the strike ended, knowing that retribution was coming his way, he felt hopeless and helpless.

Late in the afternoon of June 1, 1979, the thirty-year-old went to the roof of the Sunset Hyatt, next door to the Store, and leaped off. Many believe he was so mad at Mitzi that his intent was to go through the roof of the Store, crash into her office, and crush Mitzi sitting at her desk. Instead, he fell into a dumpster in the Store’s parking lot. The suicide note in his pocket said, among other things, “I used to work at the Comedy Store. Maybe this will help to bring about fairness.”

But Lubetkin’s death, though dramatic, had no effect on the settlement or the work situation of the comics. Mitchell Walters, who opposed the strike, said of Lubetkin, “He bombed to the very end.”

Yeah, I know: That was an ugly thing to say. But it gets ugly among comics. That’s how we are. People laughed at us when we were kids. Then we had them laughing with us. Then we had everybody laughing at each other. For most people it hurts too much to say funny things about themselves. But we comedians always laugh at ourselves. Because if we don’t laugh, we’re going to cry.

Early in my New York Improv days Brenner invited me one night to his apartment. I went to the doorman and he rang Brenner for permission to let me up.

The doorman put down the phone and said, “You can go up.” I headed for the elevator. “No, no, you have to use the delivery elevator.”

“I’m not delivering anything. He’s a friend of mine.”

“I just spoke to him. He said for you to use the delivery elevator.”

When I reached Brenner’s apartment, I was furious. He opened the door, and there he was with Landesberg, laughing their asses off. It gets ugly among comics. That’s how we are.

The strike set a precedent for showcase comedy clubs around the country: Comedians should be paid. My generation of comics made that happen. There are young stand-ups today who don’t even know such a time existed when you did not get paid and you paid for everything you ate or drank.

Perhaps the only good to come from the strike other than the welfare of comics was that the picketing of the Store allowed the Improv to get on its feet and inspired the Laugh Factory to open. Jamie Masada was just sixteen years old when he started the Laugh Factory right down the street from the Store.

His first performer was Richard Pryor. The story goes that when Masada tried to pay him, Richard handed him a $100 bill instead. He wrote on it, “You need this for your rent, boy.”

9

A Black Sheep among Black People

NORMAN LEAR AND I WOULD HAVE LONG CONVERSATIONS ABOUT politics and social issues—and we disagreed about everything. He really got upset when I said the NAACP, though useful during the struggle against segregation, had become ineffective and should dissolve. “I can’t believe where you’re from!” he said. Because I was a black from the South Bronx, apparently it was inconceivable that I would believe such a thing. Meanwhile here he was—white, Jewish, and from New York—and a charter member of the NAACP!

As Groucho Marx once said, “I don’t want to belong to any club that would have me as a member.” I don’t like marching in lock step with everyone else, even if they are black like me. Blacks are supposed to think a particular way about society and vote for particular people in an election. If you do not, we are told, then you are not really black. I disagree. My view is that everyone—black, white, or whatever—should have their own mind and speak that mind. What I call myself politically is “correct.” Whoever I vote for is the “correct” one!

You see the movie
American Graffiti
, about the ’50s? They told me I couldn’t be in it though because there were no black people in the ’50s. All the black people holding out waiting for the ’60s, saying, “Damn, when the ’60s coming? That’s when the riots gonna be, ain’t it?”

When I worked at WMCA, there was a mosaic of voices, from extreme liberal to extreme right wing, from Alex Bennett to Bob Grant. I heard it all.

Grant pioneered confrontation talk radio. He might open his show with “I’m coming into work today, I’m in a cab and you think an American would be driving the cab, because they’re American cars, but he’s not. I go to get a bagel and who’s making them? Some guy from Puerto Rico. The waitress comes over, she can’t speak English. What is wrong with this country? Are there no Americans left in America? Today on
The Bob Grant Show
, Americans only! If you are an American, call me. I do not want to hear from anyone from foreign countries. Alright, first call. This is Bob Grant.”

Of course, it would be someone with an accent.

“Who put this guy on? Get off my show!”

I was the engineer behind the board.

“These black people. I’ve had enough,” Grant would rant on. “Civil rights, Affirmative Action—this is garbage! We’re all Americans! You think I’m a racist? I have a black engineer!”

When someone called and said, “I’ll never listen to you again,” he fired back with “I didn’t want you to listen to me in the first place! Get off my show!”

I was a little stunned in the beginning. I had been blackenized with the Last Poets. I heard all of the Panthers firsthand. Now, in the hallways of WMCA, I saw Kathleen Cleaver leaving the
Alex Bennett Show
as Bob Grant was walking in. I truly heard both sides of a story. When someone said something that made sense to me, I thought, “That’s a good point.” It did not matter to me if they were black or white, liberal or conservative.

I learned about other cultures too.

Every Saturday night I engineered for a show hosted by Malachy McCourt, an actor and writer born in Brooklyn but raised in Ireland. He would bring on fantastic Irish musicians such as the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem as well as tremendous storytellers like his younger brother Frank (who would later write his
Angela’s Ashes
memoir) and actor Richard Harris. They opened the show at 8 p.m. by singing Irish songs, fueled by the bottles and bottles of Irish whiskey they brought into the studio. Listeners called in and joined them, singing along on the phone. It was crazy and funny and I loved it.

They also talked about Irish history and culture. When they hit Irish politics—especially the troubles in Northern Ireland—the show turned very serious, so the serious drinking commenced. They would get so drunk that often there would be dead air. By the end of the show, at midnight, they were passed out and sleeping on the floor. I would shut down the studio, and as scheduled, the station would air tapes of other shows. The engineer who came in at five in the morning would find the Irish guys, wake them up, and hustle them out.

Being behind the board opened my horizons. When you are in the ghetto, you know nothing beyond the ghetto. Whether it was other cultures, such as Jewish or Irish, or other viewpoints, I was exposed to more of the world than most of us from the projects had been. Diversity should not just be about color but also about ideas, including different political ideas.

I always liked politics, even in junior high and high school. Various Kennedys, including Bobby, would come to the South Bronx to speak, and I was interested in what they had to say. I just wished they would not always use the gym for their speeches because that meant my buddies and I could not play basketball there that day. However, they did give us free T-shirts with some campaign slogan on it in exchange for us sitting in the audience. I admired the effort of the Kennedys to come to the ghetto. No one else in their position did. I think they really cared.

I was politically aware enough as a teenager to be impressed by Lyndon Johnson when he became president after John F. Kennedy’s assassination. Here was a traditional Southern Democrat who was on the side of black people, pushing integration and the War on Poverty. I took advantage of those government benefits too. When I was on the receiving end of poverty programs, Affirmative Action and minorities-only efforts like SEEK (which still exists today), I was all for them. They did help many people, including me. But Affirmative Action and the rest outlived their time.

I believe in compassion not condescension, equality not entitlement. Affirmative Action put us into the category of second-class citizens. Standards had to be lowered so we could move forward. We were stigmatized as being less capable than whites, that we had not earned our opportunity. Those programs were needed once, but like being in first grade, you can’t stay there forever. You have to move on.

There was an awful lot of waste and abuse in government poverty programs. At the time I did not mind. We could go bowling! Black pro bowler Bobby Williams came to the hood to give us pointers, and we went bowling at local alleys for free. Arthur Ashe did the same for tennis lessons.

I ran into Ashe years later at the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach. He was there with his little niece and nephew. “Give them an autograph!” he demanded. It was one of the few times in my life that someone did not ask politely. I imagine he was thinking, “You owe me for the tennis lessons, man!”

We did not need bowling or tennis lessons, at least not paid for by the government (i.e., taxpayers). What most kids needed then—and still do now—was education.

I wish I had been held back a grade or two in junior high. That’s right, people! Pushing me and my buddies through school to the next grade, without the most basic of reading and writing skills, hurt most of us later on in our lives. Some of us overcame, but most did not. Too many black leaders play the race card and say don’t hold back black kids because it makes them
feel
inferior. Well, if they can’t read and write, then they
are
inferior. It is not about race; it is about education. Holding them back in school may be the only way for them to get ahead in life.

There were exceptions in the ghetto, kids who were self-motivated and blessed with brains and went on to achieve. Sonia Sotomayor was born of Puerto Rican parents and raised in the projects of the South Bronx by a single mother. Her inspiration to become a lawyer? The
Perry Mason
TV series! From the age of ten she knew exactly what she wanted to do with her life. When I was in the Melrose projects, thinking that someone from my neighborhood would graduate from Princeton and then Yale Law School and then become a Justice on the US Supreme Court was pure fantasy. Hers is an amazing success story because it began in the same poor ghetto I came from.

But most of the rest of us had no interest in school. If we had standardized testing that meant something—you pass or you aren’t promoted to the next grade—we would have been forced to pay a little more attention and maybe learn what we needed to learn. Putting a kid in a class he isn’t ready for does more harm than good. The teachers cannot spend the time bringing him up to the level of everyone else when there are so many other kids who need attention and show more promise. When the kid is ignored, he loses whatever desire he may have had for education. He gives up. Those were the kids at the Melrose projects who sat on park benches all day doing nothing.

I know this because I was one of those kids. But then I simply got lucky. Early enough in my life I found that one thing I absolutely loved to do, that something that gave me joy and could create for me a life and a living. I found comedy. But the exceptions do not justify the system.