It's So Hard To Type With A Gun In My Mouth (53 page)

So one night after the club closes Franklin says to me, "Come with us. We're going to my manager's house. He's baking cookies." I thought it was very strange invitation but the story was, the manager liked to bake cookies and he wanted us to try a batch he had just baked. We all piled into our cars and met at the manager's house, which was a bungalow near Paramount Studio. I remember it because it had very high-pitched ceilings and I remarked at how I would love to live in a place like this. But you must know it was a very humble place, not a palace.

When everyone got there, the manager started to bring out cookie sheet after cookie sheet of the most fabulous chocolate chip cookies I had ever eaten. Being a starving artist, I pigged out and took some cookies home much to the delight of the manager. I never gave it another thought but whenever I would see the manager I would ask if had any of those fabulous cookies he baked.

Must have been about 2 years later I'm driving down Sunset Blvd about two blocks from Hollywood High School when I see a "coming soon" banner on an old House of Pies building. House of Pies had a distinctive roofline with a sharp peak, no matter what you would do to those buildings they still looked like a house of pies. In any case, I drive by and I see the manager standing out in front. I stop and he says, "It's my cookie store." And I thought, "A store just for chocolate chip cookies... you must be insane."

A few weeks later the store opened with much fanfare. The manager had many show business connections and they all showed up. It was a media event and soon the buzz around town was these cookies were special and important people were giving them as gifts. It was the beginning of the gourmet cookie industry and a comedian's manager started it.  The rest is history and I'm sure you've guessed it by now. The manager was Wally Amos and the cookies were Famous Amos Cookies.  Wally was and is just one hell of a nice guy. He took his passion for cooking, his smarts for business and his knowledge of marketing and made himself a multi-millionaire. It's thirty years and I still am in awe of what that man did.  And once again, I, Forrest Gump was there when it all began.  I guess life is like a box of chocolate...chip cookies only in this case you KNOW what you're gonna get. Inspiration.

DECEMBER 11, 2006
- GETTING INTO EMERSON

I had gone to The University of Miami my freshman year. This was the first time I had been on my own. I let my hair grow and had my first drink. I also had the first of many nervous breakdowns. With me, you fart and I have a nervous breakdown. But this was my first. I didn't keep a scrapbook about it, I just remember standing on my bed and slamming my pillow against the wall about a thousand times while screaming, "I can't take it any more." I remember the expression on Mark Hurwitz's face when he walked into my room. "Oh-oh. Looney tunes."  You'd be slamming pillows against the wall too if you were going through what I was going through. I felt everyone was talking about me and I heard voices as I walked through the quad. It was so bad I actually went into the dorm facing the quad maybe I knew someone there and they were yelling out at me.  I remember sitting in a diner and hearing laughter in the background and thinking they were laughing at me. I was a not too well-hinged screen door that was about ready to come flying off.

I made it two semesters and could not take it another moment. I decided to transfer to some school in Boston, some place close to home and close to the friends I loved. I had heard about Emerson. It sounded like the kind of school I would like to go to. It offered Theater and Speech and its student body was known to be bohemian. I sent away for the application and headed home for summer break. Now here's the kind of support I got from my mother's family. "We're so proud of you. You actually lasted two semesters. We never thought you'd last that long." Now you have to understand they were sincere. To them, that was a compliment. It's like saying "Your baby is so ugly...she looks just like you."

I got the Emerson application, filled it out and sent it in. My mother was not happy. She did not want me going any school that offered theatrical training.  However there were two things going on here: a. I wanted to be in an artistic school b. I didn't feel I would be accepted academically in any other school. Emerson was my only hope.

The day of the interview came and I was a nervous wreck. I remember it like it was yesterday. It so amazes me the things I remember, can see in my mind like a photograph. I was ushered into the Dean's office and we began talking. He asked me what I wanted to do at Emerson and I told him I wanted to be an actor or a writer. We discussed movies that were out, we discussed actresses and actors, we discussed plays I had seen and before I knew it the interview was over.  He shook my hand and I was ushered out.

I thought the meeting went well. I felt we had a rapport. I was feeling good about the whole experience and I told my mother that. She was as cold as ice, could care less.  A few days later we were fighting over what I was going to do next semester and I said, "I'm getting into Emerson so there's no need to worry." To which she said, " No you're not. I spoke to them and you did not do well in the interview."  I'm telling you it was like the rug was pulled out from under me. Where was I going to go? What was I going to do?

About ten days later the envelope arrived. I put it on the kitchen table and just stared at it. I couldn't open it. Finally, I did. It started, "The President and Dean of Students are happy to inform you..." I had been accepted. I just sat there staring at the letter. Why had they let me in if I had done so badly at the interview? I guess they felt sorry for me. Later, my mother came home and I told her of my acceptance. "Oh good." She half-heartedly cheered and it was left at that. I was going to Emerson.

The following two and a half years were lack luster for me. I spent my days walking around that school knowing that I had been let in because they felt sorry for me. I never felt good enough around the other students, despite the fact that I had a full social life. When it came down to the "who will be successful in life" daydreams, it was never I. And so I was defeated before I began and I gave up. I never tried out for plays because there would always be someone better than I. I never joined any clubs because I knew they wouldn't have me. I simply walked the halls and barely made it through my classes.

Testing was a nightmare for me. I would get physically ill. I remember one class in which I excelled on all the oral participation and got a D on the final. I was so distraught that I went to the professor to ask if I could take the final again. "What happened, Steve? Why did you do so poorly?"  I opened up to this man and explained about my testing anxiety. He was a real educator and he listened as I told him my story. He asked if I wanted to take an oral exam. I jumped at the chance. I got an "A" on the oral.

The years passed and I made it as a senior. It was then I met Jon Stierwalt and Bob Fisher and got an apartment in town and was truly on my own. My mother was weaning me from being financially dependent on her and insisted I do the work-study program. I protested because, "What could I do that they'd want?"  But I applied and was accepted. I was to work in the admitting office.

I fell into the groove of it right away. They allowed me to show prospective students and their families around the campus. I had it down to a science with interesting facts and funny stories. Word got back to the Dean that I was good on the tours and he commended me. It got me to thinking, if I was doing so well and they liked me... why had they told my mother I wasn't a good candidate for Emerson. It was then I got the idea to look up my file. After all it was easy, I was in the admitting office.  One day when no one was around, I slipped into the Dean's office and went to the student files. Quickly I pulled the "b's" and scanned for my name. There it is. I opened the file and my eyes welled up. Written in large letters in the margin it said, "Candidate is bright, witty and well spoken. An excellent candidate for admittance."  I just sat there staring at the file. Then, I heard someone in the outer office and quickly slid my folder back into its spot in the drawer.

I walked around trying to figure out what had happened. And the answer came up the same every time. My mother, in an attempt to discourage me from wanting to go to Emerson, had told me I had not done well on my interview.  And so for three years I walked around that campus feeling like I didn't belong, like I wasn't as good as the rest of the students, like I should be lucky for being there and all because of my mother's inability to accept my decision to be in the theater.

When my Aunt says things like, "If you haven't gotten over it by now you'll never get over it." She's absolutely right. I probably will never get over what was done to me. What I do is try, on a daily basis, to make it one day at a time. But know that when I watch the Emmys or the Oscars and a winner thanks their mother for all the love and support, for taking them to acting classes, for always being there. I will know that I will never make that speech... even if I never win.

DECEMBER 13, 2006 -
EVEN MORE SIGHTINGS

Sightings are always fun to talk about so why don't I write about a couple I just remembered... since my writing organ has dried up and shriveled into a prune pit.

When I was working in The Tomorrow Shop at Alexanders we would get all sorts of high profile people in to see what was hot for men's fashion. They never bought there, they just looked and then went next door to Bloomingdales and bought there... even in the 70's people were snobs.   One day I'm crossing the floor and I see this ashen looking man standing in front of me. He had the palest skin I've ever seen and thick white hair. I was transfixed on the hair because it didn't look real and then realized it wasn't real...nor was the man, it was Andy Worhol.  All I could think of was, "What was Andy Worhol doing in Alexanders?"  Andy asked if I worked in the department to which I answered "yes" and he stared at me for an instant, you know the look, like you're about to buy something but you want to make sure it's what you need. He reached into his pocket and handed me a slip of paper. "You should come." And walked away. I looked at what he had handed me; it was an invitation to a party at The Factory.  I didn't know from The Factory. I was a kid from a small town. Factories, to me, were places where mattresses were made. 

Now you have to understand why I didn't go. I felt worthless. I never felt I was good looking, nor do I now. I could not understand why Andy Worhol would want to invite me anywhere so I didn't go. Don't think now I didn't contemplate what would have happened to me if I did go. I could have become a Worhol star, I would have met Jackie Kennedy, I would have.... Bullshit. Who knows what would have happened. I certainly will never know. I didn't go to the party; I stayed home and folded socks. I still fold socks. Come to my house tomorrow...it's socks folding day.

Ok so now talk about the bizarre aspects of working for Alexanders. Must have been about six days after Andy was in the shop (please notice I'm on first name basis with him) and who should waltz in but.... Henny Youngman. Talk about being from another planet. He was the yin to Worhol's yang.  He was old school but I recognized him immediately. He never stopped joking as he looked through the $89.00 dollar suits. The man was on 24/7. He was a real comedian of the old guard.

Side note: I swear to you I saw Youngman on the Ed Sullivan show in one of Alexander's $89.00 suits.

New Thought.

I think some of the best sightings come from being backstage. It's where I met Shirley Maclaine and saw Robert DiNiro.  But backstage at The Merv Griffin Show was fun. They had a green room where all the guests waited to go on. I was a nervous wreck when I went on TV... can you imagine me, fear of being judged, Me, facing ten million people.  This one time I'm in the green room and Norman Fell from Three's Company is there (boy can I drop names or what?). He was seated next to the bar. I was across the room. The bartender asked me if he could get me something. I got up and crossed the room saying "Yes, I'll have a...." and at that very moment the bartender sneezed. Without taking a beat I said "nothing" and turned back to my seat. Norman Fell laughed so hard he almost fell off his chair. That's why they called him Norman Fell.  SCHMELMAN! OH DEAN!

Oh! This is a good one. I'm on a plane flying to Canada to do a TV show. I'm seated in first class and who is seated next to me but Yvonne DeCarlo. (Mrs. Munster) She's seated with a yellow legal pad and is furiously writing page after page after page. She never looked up nor did she ever say a word to me. I was dying with curiosity trying to see what she was writing so in my best I'm not looking at you head tilt, I peer out of the corner of my eye as I see her write in bold letters at the top of the page, "DAVID" and she   underlines it nineteen times. I guess she didn't like David.   Then I realize she is writing her memoirs... on a plane... going to Canada.

Next day we shoot the TV show. The limo pulls up and she is standing next to me. She gets in and I follow. She looks at me and says, "This is my limo."  The driver says, "I'm sorry Miss DeCarlo there is only one car to the studio. He will have to join us." And I get in feeling like a leper. I spend the whole fifteen-minute trip staring out the window. We get to the studio and she gets out and slams the door.