Laugh Lines: Conversations With Comedians (45 page)

Corey: After working with them on the spin-off, which ‘Golden Girl’ was the hottest?

Cheech: Ha, ha, ha. Definitely Betty White, only because she had the biggest rack.

Prop comic Carrot Top, who as of late has taken on a disturbing, pumped-up and face-lifted look, had to cancel a show in St. Louis on September. 11, 2001—for obvious reasons. He was playful once we did catch up though.

Corey: Do you prefer to be called Carrot Top or Mr. Top?

Carrot Top: You can call me Scott. Scott’s fine.

Corey: I’ve been referring to you as ‘The Top’ all day.

Carrot Top: The Top? OK, good.

Corey: The last time you were in St. Louis it was Sept. 11, the day of the attacks. What was your initial reaction?

Carrot Top: I think it was like everybody else. I was doing what I’m doing now, being interviewed, a radio interview. I was up and doing my thing, and I called one station, and they said, ‘Oh, my God. Did you hear what just happened? A plane just hit the Trade Center.’ I just thought it was a little private plane. Somebody had a heart attack or something, or it was cloudy or something, and they hit it. I hung up and turned on CNN and was like, ‘Oh, shit.’

Corey: When did you realize you weren’t going to do your show that night?

Carrot Top: When the second plane hit. I realized even before the news people said, ‘Oh, my goodness. They aren’t just hitting these buildings; they’re hitting them to knock them down.’ So, I realized this was a terrorist thing, and I knew right then, no way. The first plane I thought it was a heart attack; I didn’t think it was a terrorist attack. By the second building, and when they came down, I said, ‘There’s no way I’m doing a show tonight.’ I made the decision early on, and I called my manager and said, ‘I’m not doing a show.’ And he said, ‘The promoters are making that decision now,’ and I said, ‘Well, I’ve already made mine; I don’t want to go on.’

Corey: Your hair is pretty recognizable, a trademark. Do you have it insured?

Carrot Top: Yeah, me and J. Lo went down to the insurance place together. J. Lo and C. To together. No, I don’t know if I have it insured. I should probably look into that. This is my trademark.

Corey: Do you have any special instructions when you go and get it done.

Carrot Top: Yeah, I have a guy. In fact, I’m going right now to get my hair cut. I’m doing an AT&T commercial tomorrow.

Corey: A lot of upkeep involved?

Carrot Top: No, not too much—really just lots of conditioner. I’m like a chick; I play with my hair like every day. Women are like, ‘What do you do with your hair?’ It’s like Carrot Top’s tips on hair.

Corey: Some of the women around the office were wanting to know if the curtains match the rugs.

Carrot Top: Wow! You tell them they’ll have to find out. Come on out to the show in St. Louis because I’m a desperate man. I’m on the road, and I look like this. So anything you can do, Corey, to help, I’d appreciate it.

Corey: If somebody was putting together a biography-type movie about Carrot Top, who would you like to see play you?

Carrot Top: Oh Brad Pitt, probably. Probably Engelbert Humperdink. Engelbert Humperdink as the Beaver.

I had to leave a message on actor, author and stand-up shorty Leslie Jordan’s voicemail and this is what I heard:

“
I can only please one person per day and unfortunately today is not your day—and tomorrow is not looking really good, either. (laughs) Leave a message and we’ll see what we can do.”

It made me rethink my own outgoing message.

Leslie has been in dozens of TV shows and movies—even deep-fried by Jason Voorhees in a “Friday the 13th”!—but has had a fulfilling career as a recurring performer in Southern (and brilliant) playwright Del Shores’ productions, such as creating the role of institutionalized Tammy Wynnette impersonator Brother Boy in the play, movie and TV series, “Sordid Lives.”

It was a St. Louis production of “Sordid Lives” in which I played the role of Wardell—the star-crossed man in Brother Boy’s life—and where I met my partner and future husband, Kendall.

So Leslie and Del will always hold a special place in our history. Leslie also had a starring role in Shores’ play, “Southern Baptist Sissies.”

Did I mention Kendall was raised a strict Southern Baptist?

Corey: I understand ‘Southern Baptist Sissies’ has been selling out in Texas, smack dab in the Bible Belt.

Leslie Jordan: It’s really popular here, and I think that’s because of the message. It’s not really an anti-Christian message. We talk a lot about the separation of church and state. I would like to see the separation of church and hate.

That’s sort of the message. That’s something I learned a long time ago. If you want to combat homophobia, there’s two ways. One is humor. I learned that during dodgeball in junior high school, where they would say, ‘Smear the queer,’ and I had to tap dance or get creamed. I learned a wonderful way is through humor. Another way is to put a face on it. These characters in these plays are real. They’re wildly funny, but they’re real people.

Someone had a wonderful quote; it’s not mine. ‘In America there’s two classes of gays; there’s the fabulous, and there’s the fearful.’ Those of us who live in big cities, we’re the fabulous. We forget there’s a huge country out there, and there are homosexual men and women who are in fear of losing their jobs, getting beat up.

To raise money for the film version of ‘Southern Baptist Sissies,’ we had a little investor party last night, and Miss Delta Burke brought out her beauty pageant crown—the very first crown she ever won. It’s the honor system; whoever whispers in her ear the highest amount will get this crown. We raised about $800,000. It’s a $2 million budget, so we’re almost halfway there.

Corey: Congratulations on your Emmy win for ‘Will and Grace.’ How do you think it’s going to impact your career?

Leslie: Thank you. It’s opened some doors. I think I’m gonna be the Heather Locklear of the new millennium.

Corey: Did you get to keep your ascots from the Beverly Leslie character?

Leslie: The only thing I got out of eight years was a wonderful Versace shirt I wore once. It was vintage, none of this Donatella mess. Gianni Versace. I begged for it, and they said, ‘We’ll have to sell it to you half price.’ I said, ‘You cut it to fit me, though. It will never fit anyone. You shortened the sleeves.’ ‘We’ll still have to sell it to you half price.’ So I said, ‘How much?’ ‘Four hundred.’ ‘OK, that’s 200.’ They said, ‘No darlin’, 400 is half price.’ I’m not gonna spend that on a shirt. The very last night they gave it to me when we shot the finale.

There was a velvet smoking jacket I wore when I flew out the window in the finale. I said, ‘Can I have that?’ The producer said he asked for a velvet smoking jacket, and that there was no such thing available in the United States. They went everywhere. They went to Turnbull and Asser. It cost $4,000. They said, ‘We’ll sell that to you for half price. Two-thousand dollars!’ ‘No!’ So I don’t know what they did to it. They had to cut it up. I was in a harness—sort of a Jon Paul Gautier strap thing—with Velcro straps going up my hind end and all around. They had to cut the smoking jacket down the seams for a hook, so I could fly like Cathy Rigby. I don’t know what happened to it. There’s some $4,000, chopped-up, green, velvet smoking jacket floating around somewhere.

Corey: Was the finale the episode you won for?

Leslie: They sort of cheated but not really cheated. I didn’t think I was eligible. I always thought I was supporting or recurring but apparently if you do less than five episodes in one season, you’re considered a guest star. And I never did more than five in any season. I usually did three, maybe four. They did a compilation from different scenes from that season. I was actually nominated for the finale. They used some scenes from ‘Brokeback Jack,’ the cowboy episode.

They presented my award at the technical ceremony, a tiny disappointment. I wanted to give my little speech at the big Emmys. I did get to present. I got that $51,000 gift bag.

Corey: Aren’t they making people pay the taxes on the gifts in the gift bag now?

Leslie: I don’t own a home. I’ve never made much money in this industry. This year I did out of the blue. I have no deductions. Nothing in the gift bag is transferable. A gym membership at the finest gym in L.A. I don’t run unless something’s after me. I don’t lift anything. I should probably get into that at my age, at 50. How do you donate that to charity? It’s non-transferable. There’s also a membership to Yoga Works. I went to yoga one time, and they said we’re gonna do the rest position which is called the down dog. Your butt’s up in the air. There’s nothing restful about this. I like the sleeping child position where you lay down on the floor. Anyway, I have a year’s membership to Yoga Works. People would die for that.

I have a trip to New Zealand. The deal is this. When you’re poor, nobody gives you anything. When you start making money, everything’s free. I travel so much, the last thing I want to do when I get a little downtime is travel to New Zealand. I’m really truly on the road eight months out of the year.

Corey: Can’t you refuse the gift bag?

Leslie: You can, but you have to do that before they send it. I tell you what I do love about it. It was in a Dooney and Bourke rolling suitcase. It was so huge I could practically fit in it. There was a lot of spa stuff, $500 at one spa. $1,000 in facial products. Being the old queen I am, I’m gonna find out.

Corey: How did you prepare for the role of Brother Boy?

Leslie: It was such a journey. I gave Del Shores a book of short stories by this writer I love. She’s from Kentucky. She wrote ‘Feather Crowns,’ Bobby Ann Mason. She’s a wonderful short story writer. Her short stories, I laugh ’til I hurt. They always have a little oomph to them, a little meat and potatoes. Sort of like Whoopi Goldberg’s stand-up act, where you’re laughing and laughing and laughing, then all of a sudden you’re like, ‘Woah,’ and she drives home some little message.

I said, ‘Del, you can write like this.’ He started writing short stories. The first story he wrote was called ‘Nicotine Fit.’ It was about these two sisters and auntie fussing about burying the mother in a mink stole. Then he wrote one called ‘The De-homosexualization of Brother Boy,’ and it had nothing to do with ‘Nicotine Fit.’ It was a separate story. It was about a man in a hospital who thought he was Tammy Wynette, and he was being de-homosexualized by this real mean therapist. Then there was one about a woman who came in a bar and held her husband up, high on valium, because he had been caught in an affair. Somehow over the course of the next year, he combined all those into a play. And the first time I saw it, I said ‘My God, you have three plays here.’ It came together in the funeral scene. It all came together.