Rubber Balls and Liquor (20 page)

Here I am, staring right up Lauren Tewes's skirt—and from the looks of things it's no wonder she hasn't worked all that much in the intervening decades, considering the disinterest she seems to take in the area of personal grooming.

Most times, you know exactly where you stand on the celebrity ladder, but it can get confusing. I like to think I have a good handle on how famous I am at any given moment, but sometimes I'm a little off. One afternoon, I was walking around Manhattan, on lower Broadway, feeling quite full of myself. This doesn't mean I'd just come from a nice lunch, just that I was feeling content with myself and my semi-celebrity existence. My career was going well. Nobody had sued me in quite some time. The chafing around the base of my penis that seems to represent a chronic condition was in a kind of remission. All was right in my peculiar corner of the world—and then, just as I was feeling particularly content, I walked by a group of paparazzi. All of a sudden, my cheerful afternoon took a dark, distasteful turn.

Don't you just hate when that happens? Well, when you're a major semi-celebrity, as I am, you react in a number of different ways to such an intrusion on your privacy. First, you feel a little scared. You can't help yourself. It's like you're being attacked, and you have to gather your wits (which, inexplicably, had just fallen to the sidewalk, like so many loose marbles). You go into survival mode—but when you walk about in the fine sliver of limelight that illuminates your days and the days of all those who cross your path, you get used to this sort of thing. You adjust. You cope.

Second, you become angry. You get your back up. You snarl your teeth a bit, and allow yourself the small, self-satisfying thought that you should perhaps resent this intrusion on your privacy. You lose a little piece of yourself.

And finally, you reach a place of acceptance. You embrace your role in the strange dance of semi-celebrity, and you go with it because there's nothing more you can do. It's the contract you signed the moment you sought fame and fortune on the world's stage—and the agreement seems to be binding even if things don't quite work out, and you haven't managed to become as rich or famous as you'd hoped.

So that's where I was, in this place of acceptance, trying to think how I might renegotiate my semi-celebrity fame contract, when out of nowhere this group of paparazzi seemed to rush toward me, cameras pointing. And do you know what? I was no longer scared, at this point. I was no longer angry. I was numb to those emotions—beaten down by them, really, and now simply willing to play my part. I steeled myself for whatever would happen next, and if you haven't steeled yourself in a while let me assure you it's not always the most pleasant experience. However, just as I prepared my best, camera-ready smile, the photographers shot right past me, like a pack of wolves in search of better, more interesting prey. And as I turned, I could see where they were headed … straight for hotshot young actor Liev Schreiber!

I thought,
What the hell is he doing here
?

Apparently, hotshot young actor Liev Schreiber had climbed right past me on that ladder of fame. I should have known, because the celebrity list is updated on a daily basis, usually at the close of show business each evening (Pacific time), but I guess I wasn't paying attention. Conveniently, there's an archive. Go back a few years and you'll find me at #1,994, just ahead of a guy named Victor Willis, the cop from the Village People, and just below Donny Most, from TV's
Happy Days.
If you must know, I was ahead of Ralph Malph for most of my time in show business, but then he started calling himself “Donald” and his career took off—and as he passed me I thought,
All credit to you, my good man
.

(After that, I wished him
Godspeed
.)

(Then, after that, I wished he would change his name back to “Donny.”)

For many years, I didn't know the first thing about this celebrity list, and merely assumed that my occasional rise and fall in popularity had to do with the quality of my work, or the work of my publicist. I couldn't have been more wrong. In fact, there was one curious celebrity exchange from early on in my career that I must now reconsider from an entirely new perspective, now that I know about these daily rankings.

It was back in the early 1990s, although it's possible it took place in the 2000s. In any case, I'm almost certain it happened quite a while ago. Whenever it happened, it happened in Las Vegas—and I'm here to report that it's a myth when they say what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, because this exchange has stayed with me over the years. I was in town to do a series of stand-up shows, and found myself with an evening to kill before starting my run, so I went to see Wayne Newton. Why? Because I could get free tickets, that's why. And because Wayne and I had once worked together in a movie called
The Adventures of Ford Fairlane.
Most people don't remember that we worked together in that movie, but that's only because most people didn't bother to see it.

And so for these reasons and a few others I don't wish to get into here in such a public setting, I went to see Wayne Newton perform. That's the setup. Now, here's what happened: Wayne Newton mentioned me from the stage. That's pretty much it. It doesn't sound like much of a story, I know, but it struck me as such a classic, old-time show business moment, because of course he didn't just mention me. He
introduced
me. (In classic, old-time show business terms, there's a big difference.) I sat there in the audience, and for a brief moment I felt in some small way what it must have been like to be Sammy Davis, Jr., back in the days when everybody in show business seemed to know each other. I think I even closed my eyes and imagined it—although, in the interest of accuracy, I only closed one eye, because that's what Sammy would have done.

It was a great, great moment in my career, I'll admit. Not quite a highlight, but certainly a light, as I will soon make clear. Allow me to further set the scene: Wayne Newton was pretty much oozing his Vegas-style warmth and insincerity from the stage, introducing war veterans and public officials and a few other show business types who were marginally more and less famous than me. He'd give a little shout-out to each person, and there'd be a tiny wave of recognition or admiration or whatever was appropriate, and then he'd make a grand showing of sending over a bottle of champagne to that person's table, typically to enthusiastic applause.

Then he got around to me. Finally. Or at least I thought he was finally getting around to me, but he took such a long way around that for a beat or two I couldn't be sure. On his way to wherever he was going he said, “Ladies and gentleman, what a great honor it is for me to introduce you to a dear friend of mine. And what a great honor it is for me personally that he took the time from his own busy career to come out and see my show.”

At this point, I started to think he might have been talking about me, but only because he'd already introduced just about everybody else in the audience. There was no one left, really. Plus, in all likelihood, management was by now all out of champagne, so even if he was finally getting around to me I'd probably just get a glass of water out of the deal.

Then he motioned to the lighting guy up in the booth. He pointed toward me and said, “Can we get a spotlight please?”

And then, with a wave of Wayne Newton's magic hand, the spotlight shone on my table, so I did what most people do when an impossibly bright light is shined in their eyes. I put my hand against my brow like a salute, and squinted like a Navajo Indian and made a concerted effort to look out at the crowd through the glare.

A highlight, no. A light, yes.

“Gilbert Gottfried, ladies and gentleman,” my lifelong pal Wayne Newton declared from the stage, as if he were introducing the Pope. To a roomful of Jews.

To thunderous applause, he introduced me. Well, maybe not
thunderous
applause, but it felt for a moment like it might rain. Then my good show business friend Wayne Newton said a few more nice things about me and went back to his show, and as he snapped his fingers in time to the next song I couldn't help but think,
Hey, what about my fucking champagne?

It was a reasonable thought, wouldn't you agree? I mean, here he'd just given out a dozen bottles of champagne, to lesser luminaries than me. Some of these people were so far down on the ladder of fame it might as well have been a step stool. I didn't even like champagne. I just wanted what was coming to me, but instead I sat there like an idiot, waving from the narrow cone of spotlight that shone briefly on my table.

A couple songs later, my good friend Wayne Newton motioned for the lighting guy again. He shined the spotlight on my table again. In time to the opening bars of the next song, Wayne Newton said, “Let me tell you something about my good friend Gilbert Gottfried, ladies and gentlemen. You know, when you're a performer, the last thing you want to do on your night off is go out and see a show. That's why it's such an honor to have this man in my audience. He's a comedian. He's a movie star. He's so talented, I hate him.”

(This was my good friend Wayne Newton adopting a playful, teasing tone.)

Then he waved his hand again and said, “A round of applause, please, for my good friend, Gilbert Gottfried.”

There followed another round of applause, because these Vegas crowds tended to do what they were told, and the next thing I knew Wayne Newton was deep into his next song and I was still without my bottle of complimentary champagne.

I was outraged. Well, maybe not outraged, but somewhat put out. Like I said, I didn't particularly care for champagne, but that wasn't the point. The point was it felt to me like I'd been snubbed—relegated to a lower rung than I surely deserved.

Soon, there was another lull in Wayne Newton's between-songs patter, and he asked the lighting guy to seek me out again. This time he said, “And hey, if you don't have plans tomorrow night, go see my good friend Gilbert Gottfried at the House of Blues. And if you do have plans, cancel them.”

Still, no champagne—and yet I'd somehow gone from a little put out to a little bit thrilled. Why? Well, this was the sort of inter-celebrity repartee I'd grown up admiring, the kind of back-and-forth that might have passed between Frank Sinatra and one of the lesser Rat Packers. It was all so
inside
and corny, and I loved it and hated it all at the same time. Still, it felt exactly right and good and cool. I could almost forget for a moment that my good friend Wayne Newton was wearing a sequined jumpsuit.

Now, the curious thing about this exchange was the Vegas factor, which must be considered. In Vegas, Wayne Newton is a much bigger deal than he is in the rest of the world. Nothing against my good show business friend Wayne Newton, who is generally considered Las Vegas royalty. In Hollywood, however, he's more like one of the huddled masses. In that theater, on that night, he had me by a couple hundred rungs, easy, but anywhere else we were a pretty even match. Hell, on the
Hollywood Squares
set, I could bring him up as the butt of a corny joke. Anywhere else, he would have sent over that bottle of champagne—which, anywhere else, I would have promptly thrown right back at him, if I didn't happen to throw like a girl.

You never know where you might stand on the depth chart of celebrity, from one day to the next. You can be up one day and down the next, and the day after that you're nowhere. It's harsh and cruel and arbitrary. Some days, you're all these things at once. At some other low point in my career, I found myself on the same famous plane as Marlee Matlin. Sort of. At least, it was a plane.

Perhaps a bit of setup is necessary. Readers will remember Marlee Matlin as the once famous Academy Award–winning deaf actress who eventually found herself typecast as a deaf person. Or maybe they won't, but that's not the point. The point is that I looked a lot like Marlee Matlin's interpreter. Marlee Matlin was so famous after winning her Oscar that she traveled for a brief while with a full-time interpreter, who just happened to look like a short, whiny Jew who told filthy jokes and disrespected women for a living.

And, as much as it pains me to admit, for that same brief while this interpreter fellow was a couple dozen rungs ahead of me on the celebrity ladder, as I recall. Everywhere I went, people would look at me with an odd flash of recognition, and I'd think for a moment that they were trying to place me, from a particularly memorable role in this or that film, but then it would turn out that they had me confused with Marlee Matlin's interpreter. They'd come up to me and say, “Hey, Marlee Matlin's interpreter, could you please tell Marlee she's a silent inspiration to deaf people everywhere?” Or, they'd just flap their hands and make all these foolish gestures and signals as if they were trying to communicate in a secret language based on foolish gestures and hand signals.

On many occasions, Marlee Matlin would show up at an industry event or awards show and someone in charge would come out to greet her and wonder why the hell she'd brought Gilbert Gottfried with her. One talk show host even thought we were dating—which would have been just fine with me, if anyone had thought to ask.

Most young actors, they get their first big breaks in Hollywood and people start confusing them with Robert Redford or Paul Newman. Me, I got confused as Marlee Matlin's interpreter—which would have been helpful in the unlikely event that a casting director ever uttered the phrase, “Quick, get me a Marlee Matlin interpreter–type!”

Okay, so that's the setup. Now, here's the payoff. A couple months into all of this mistaken identity business, I was on a plane to Los Angeles when someone tapped me on the shoulder. (See, I told you there'd be a plane.) I turned around and it was like I was looking in the mirror. It was
him
! Marlee Matlin's interpreter. Apparently, while I'd been going about my days, getting confused for him, he'd been going about his days, getting confused for me. It was a regular two-way street, and now that we had bumped into each other on it he thought he'd introduce himself. Marlee Matlin was sleeping, a couple rows back, so we passed a few pleasant moments chatting and comparing notes. (It turned out he had some of the same difficulties getting laid, which led me to believe it wasn't just
me
, after all…) We talked and talked. He was a pretty good guy—and, a good talker. Or maybe he was just so excited to be talking with his mouth that I couldn't shut him up.