Rubber Balls and Liquor (14 page)

 

6

First Impressions, Lasting Tributes

I'm known for my impressions. I don't mean to blow smoke up my own ass, but ever since Mayor Bloomberg made it so difficult to smoke in New York City, I'm having a hard time finding someone to pucker up and do it for me. Plus, I'm the kind of guy who likes to call a spade a spade, even if it pisses him off and he winds up beating the crap out of me in some alley.

In all fairness to me—and, to belabor the same damn point, this is my book so it's only natural that I tend to favor the author—I've always had an ear for voices, which is a whole lot more practical for a comic than having a face for voice-overs, and one of the ideas behind this book is to share my many gifts and body parts with my loyal fans. This has been my credo, for as long as I can remember having a credo. To share my gifts and body parts. Freely, and often. It's my reason for being, if you will. And, now that I've taken up the pen—which, in case you were wondering, is not
really
mightier than most swords (it's just an expression, apparently)—it's my reason for writing as well. It's my own little writer's credo. If I had a desk, and if I was the sort of writer inclined to work at it, instead of just scribbling away on loose scraps of paper while I ride the subway, I might even print out this credo on a plaque or one of those desk nameplates and display it prominently, for inspiration. But that's not about to happen, so I'll just scribble it down and make note of it.

A writer is supposed to write what he knows, right? Well, I know voices. It's uncanny, the thing I have with voices, and I mean to share it with you here, dear reader.

Also, I'm told that my writing style resembles that of Judy Blume, the famous Young Adult novelist who writes about cramps and pimples and not being invited to the prom, and Onslow Stevens, the long-dead and little-remembered American character actor who appeared in
House of Dracula
opposite Lon Chaney, Jr. I mention Onslow Stevens in this context because I can't help myself, and his appearance here in an aside meant to accentuate a small piece of preamble that will soon enough take us to a longer, more sustained bit comes with an unexpected bonus. You see, I have an Onslow Stevens story.

Now, it's not every day that you come across a conversation starter like that one:
I have an Onslow Stevens story
. To be sure, we all have our Onslow Stevens stories, but since I seem to have the floor I'll share mine here. When I was in elementary school, in first or second grade, the teacher decided to fill the time by having us name famous people to correspond with various sets of initials. When she worked her way around the room to me, I had to come up with a name to match the initials O.S. So of course I blurted out a name that would have been on the tips of first- or second-grade tongues all across this great land: Onslow Stevens.

What the hell did she expect me to say? Oskar Schindler? He hadn't even started his acting career yet, so how was I supposed to know who he was? O. J. Simpson? He hadn't even started his killing people career yet, or his running through airports career, so that pretty much left Onslow Stevens. I was just five or six, but good ol' Onslow was the O.S. to end all O.S.'s, if you asked me.

And so, back to my Judy Blume–Onslow Stevens writing style. This is a good and winning combination, I'm told by my publishers, because apparently Young Adult–type people seem to enjoy books about pimples and vampires.

Ah, kids these days …

But every writer has his own style. However, in this part of the book I won't be focusing on style. No, the emphasis here will be on my God-given and self-nurtured talent for brilliant mimicry. (
Self-nurturing
 … another one of my strengths, but that's for another chapter.)

Read on, and you'll get what I mean …

Here I am, doing Jack Nicholson:

“You can't handle the truth.”

Wow. What more can I say? Just in case you were wondering, again, that impression was spot-on. A virtuoso performance. I really, really nailed it. Sounded just like him. You'll just have to trust me on this. Granted, that impression would be a whole lot funnier if you could just imagine me pounding my fist in an emphatic way on the witness stand, which for comedic purposes could be made of simple pine instead of the traditional walnut or mahogany. Or, even funnier, you can picture me and my Jack Nicholson impression out of context. That's always an effective comedic twist. In comedy graduate school, it's known as juxtaposition. In my doctoral thesis, I even referred to this technique as desperation—or, in academic terms, “trying anything and hoping it works.” It's been the basis for my entire career, so I might as well reach for it here. Let's say we're walking into a pizza place and we're hungry for a slice. Let's also say that the guy behind the counter has some difficulty “handling” our order, so we lean in and pound our fist in an emphatic way on the glass counter, to make ourselves understood.

Got it? Good, now let's try it again:

“You can't handle the truth.”

Not bad, huh? Pure comedy gold, if you ask me. And, if you ask the guy sitting next to me on the subway, reading over my shoulder.

Now imagine that I'm Al Pacino and I'm heading into a car rental place, looking for a subcompact. Here goes:

“Say hello to my little friend.”

To make it even better, dear reader, it helps if I'm sweating profusely as I say this, and for me to have a tiny bit of spittle flying from the corner of my mouth, and for me to pronounce
little
as
leeeetle
, in true
Scareface
mode.

Pretty fucking funny, right?

Like I said, uncanny.

I've also got another Al Pacino impression up my comedy sleeve. Think of it like a two-for-one deal. You pay for the book, expecting just the one Al Pacino impression, and I overwhelm you with a second. That's a real value, if you ask me.

Ready? Here goes:
“Hooo aaahhh!”

Notice, dear reader, that my follow-up “homage” to Al Pacino features an extra
“o”
at the front end, and an extra little surprise at the back end. Most hack comedians, they do Al Pacino in
Scent of a Woman,
they go,
“Hoo ha!”
But they're wrong. Be assured, my way is correct, and for a treat I toss in that extra
“o”
in the
“Hooo”
part. And there's no hard
“h”
sound at the front of the
“aaahhh”
part.

I choose to slather it on pretty thick, because nothing's too good for my fans. I make the extra-effort. My comedy recipes are made with the finest ingredients. I give, and then I give some more:
“Hooo aaahhh!”

(And, as a bonus, I show admirable restraint in avoiding any snide comments about one of the most unfortunately titled movies in the Al Pacino canon, which invariably turns up on several lists of all-time titles of mainstream movies that could be mistaken for porn movies. It's right up there with
Reservoir Dogs
and
The Last Temptation of Christ,
don't you think?)

I could go on and on with these groundbreaking, print-equivalent impressions—and I guess I will, because in comedy parlance this is what's known as being on a roll, which of course is not to be confused with the subcategory of comedy parlance that refers specifically to a series of successful jokes about World War II (being on a
Kaiser roll
).

Next: Marlon Brando, from
Apocalypse Now
—and for this one it helps to imagine me with a fat, bald head, emerging in half-shadow from the heart of an unimaginable darkness, somewhere deep in the jungle. Close your eyes and picture it. Okay:
“Oh, the horror!”

It's a gift, I know, but I'm only too happy to share it here, dear reader. That's what I do, I share. I'm a giver. It's my nature. Also, I'm a cutting edge kind of giver. As far as I know—which, frankly, isn't very far—I'm the first comedian to even attempt doing voices on the page, so I'm figuring it out as I go along. We're all in on the ground floor of this literary innovation, and I suppose it might punch things up a bit if I do a little comedic sleight of hand before each impression. I'm open to suggestions, to trying new things. Where you're on a roll, like I am here, you're too busy concentrating on rolling, and then (relatedly) on not getting sick from all that rolling, so you don't always take the time to tweak. But that's not me. I take the time. I tweak. There's always room for improvement, right? So indulge me a moment, while I give myself some notes. First, I should turn around, my back to the audience, as I get into character. Then I should make all these elaborate gestures to suggest that I'm fixing my hair, tugging on my collar, transforming myself into the person I'm about to impersonate. Like Rich Little used to do, only bigger.

Dustin Hoffman, in
Rain Man
:
“I'm an excellent driver.”

As a comic sweetener, imagine if you will that Dustin Hoffman is about to board the
Back to the Future
roller-coaster ride at Universal Studios in Orlando, Florida, after waiting on an unusually long line, beneath an unseasonably hot midday sun. All around him, the Universal Studios patrons are disgruntled and restless and a bit out of sorts, after such a long wait, but not Dustin Hoffman. All right, that sets the scene. Now jump back up a couple lines and reread my impression as Dustin Hoffman takes his seat in the front of the roller coaster and laugh among yourselves.

I don't just
do
men, by the way.

(Wait, that didn't come out right. I know this because the guy sitting next to me on the subway reading over my shoulder just moved away from me, looking uncomfortable.)

Let me try that one again: I don't just
do
male voices. I also
do
women.

(There, that's more like it.)

And so, for all of you readers who are fans of the fairer sex and old movie classics, here's my Bette Davis impression:

“But you are in the chair, Blanche.”

Oh, wait. I forgot to tell you the stage directions. I'm smoking a cigarette as I write this. Repeat.

(For a moment there, I was going to write “Rinse, lather, repeat,” but then I realized it was the punch line to some other bit I may or may not get around to writing.)

Meryl Streep, with that wonderfully thick Polish accent she used to such dramatic effect in
Sophie's Choice
:
“Aw, you might as well take the one on the left. He was never going to amount to anything, anyway. Plus, he has his father's nose.”

Sandra Bullock:
“Honey, take your tattooed biker dick out of that stripper's pussy and help me find a place on the shelf for my Oscar!”

Now, another thing they teach you in comedy graduate school is the big finish, and I'm way ahead of you here. As you can see, I've built up this literary impression routine in such a way that we're now in the middle of a rollicking crescendo, which really is the best kind of
crescendo
, and headed for a grand finale, where I intend to leave you rolling in the aisles. Hopefully, wherever you're reading this, in whatever format, there will be some sort of aisle nearby. I've set it up so you now have no choice but to appreciate my ability to cross genders and genres with my impressions, so you're ready for anything. You are fairly helpless against my powers as an entertainer.

But wait. Before my boffo close, I believe it's important to point out my disinterest in the scene I am about to reinterpret. In fact, I am one of the only people in my acquaintance (and I happen to be one of my very closest acquaintances) who didn't laugh at Meg Ryan's famous
climactic
scene in
When Harry Met Sally.
I didn't even crack a knowing smile. It really didn't do anything for me, that scene. I just didn't get it—but that didn't make it any less memorable.

And so, in rousing conclusion, I offer my virtuoso Meg Ryan impression:

“Oh, oh, oh, oh … Mmmmmm … Oh, oh, oh, oh … Oh Jesus God, no … I mean, Oh Jesus God, yes … Yes, yes, yes, yes … Oh, oh, oh, oh … Yes, yes, yes, yes…”

And so on. And so forth. And so help me. And, with a little bit of an exclamation point in the form of me pounding my fist on the table in front of me, for emphasis.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I should probably mention here that I am physically incapable of faking an orgasm. I know this because I've tried, on many occasions. I haven't had a lot of practice, mind you, but I've made the most of my opportunities. In fact, the few times I've gotten lucky in my life, I was always made to feel it was because God had somehow stopped paying attention. It's like He had to leave the room to go to take a leak, and the world tilted on its axis in such a way that my pants fell to my ankles and the girl I was with at the time didn't run from the room in horror. Either way, God or no God, it hasn't come up all that often, but I'm pretty sure I can't fake an orgasm.

Women seem to have no problem in this area, especially around me. Sometimes, they're so disinterested, they don't even bother faking. They just tell me to go away. Me, I can fake an erection, but for some reason my orgasms are almost always authentic, and the “impersonation” of Meg Ryan's fake orgasm in a Jewish deli that you just enjoyed a brief moment ago falls into the authentic category, I'm afraid. Yes, that was really me, coming. All over the place, I was coming, which probably makes this the first time in recent publishing history when it was a good thing to be reading a book in one of those newfangled digital formats, because as far as I know it's impossible for my ejaculate to travel from my own handheld device to yours.