It's Not Easy Bein' Me Read online

  Before that second HBO show, Sam and his brother Bill came to see me. They were very worried. They said Sam had pissed off some Mafia guy who was now after him. They thought this guy was going to kill Sam.

  I said, “Ah, I don’t know about that…” I’d met plenty of Mafia guys, and I was pretty sure Sam had nothing to fear. So I told him, “You got nothing to worry about. Concentrate on your show. The guy’s just trying to scare you. I’m telling you, nothing’s going to happen.”

  Sam said okay, and he felt better. And of course, nothing happened to him. But because I had been so sure that nothing was going to happen, Sam and his brother got the idea that I had made a phone call to someone in the Mafia. Sam and Bill were now under the impression that I was connected, that I was “mobbed up.”

  If you never saw Sam’s act, do yourself a favor and buy one of his albums, or all of them. Sam had a rather strange sense of humor. When his father died, Sam’s mother was very morose. To console her, Sam said, “Ma, look at it this way. You’ll have more closet space.”

  Sam had a lot of great bits. Here’s one: “Today, everybody’s sick. They even have dog psychiatrists. I’d like to get in on that racket. ‘What’s that, Mr. Raven? I’m sure Spot’s a good boy. Let me take him inside and talk to him for a few minutes. Wait here. I’ll see what I can do.’” Then Sam would walk to the other end of the stage and pretend to open and close a door. Then he would yell at the imaginary dog, “What the fuck are you doing? Behave yourself! You’re a fucking dog! You shit in the street.”

  When Sam got hot, I told him to make sure he only worked in places where he could be himself, where he didn’t have to censor himself. “You’re a big hit on HBO,” I told him. “But if you go on network television, they’ll be cutting you and cutting you. ‘You can’t say this, and you can’t say that.’ It’ll drive you crazy.”

  So I suggested that he stay with HBO. I said, “The audience will find you.”

  About six months later, Sam’s manager convinced him to do Saturday Night Live. He said, “It’s Saturday Night Live! How can you turn it down?”

  So Sam did it, and he had huge problems with the censors for doing two bits that the network guys had told him not to do. One was about the drug war and the other was about Jesus getting nailed to the cross.

  Since the show was live from New York, people on the East Coast saw Sam’s full performance, but his bits were cut for the rest of the country.

  Sam wasn’t just banned from Saturday Night Live, he was banned from NBC, which meant no Tonight Show.

  That would have killed the career of a lot of comedians, but it didn’t hurt Sam. He just kept rolling.

  If you saw my movie Back to School, you’ll remember Sam as the crazed Vietnam vet–history professor. As soon as I knew the movie was a go, I wrote a part for Sam. He exploded on-screen, as I knew he would.

  Sam was killed in a car accident while driving from L.A. to Vegas in 1992. He was just thirty-eight.

  I went out to L.A. for the service, to pay my respects. He was lying there in a coffin and it was so strange, because the morticians had made him look so peaceful. He seemed to be smiling—like he was happy to be in that damn box.

  I looked down at him, lying there, and just to make sure, I, like an idiot, whispered, “Sam…? Sam…?”

  He didn’t move.

  I thought to myself, He’s either dead—or very snobbish.

  Thinking about Sam dying and movin’ on reminded me of one of his very best bits:

  Up in heaven they asked Jesus to come back down to earth. They said, “C’mon, Jesus, it’s been two thousand years. Why not go back down, spread a little peace and joy.” And Jesus says, “Sure, man…JUST AS SOON AS I CAN PLAY THE FUCKIN’ PIANO AGAIN!”

  I first met Tim Allen when he came to New York from Detroit to audition for one of my HBO specials. He was very funny and I wanted to put him on the show, but I screwed up—I had too many guys I was obligated to use for that show. When I told Tim, he took the news like a gentleman. When we did the next HBO show, he was my first call.

  Years later, he was a big star, with his own sitcom, Home Improvement.

  Tim is not just a guy who tells jokes. He proved himself to be a very good actor.

  When I did a guest shot on Tim’s show, I felt funny talking money with Tim’s people, so I said to the show’s producers, “I tell ya what. I don’t want to hassle with lawyers and things. Tim knows me, so pay me whatever you think is fair.”

  Okay. Good. Everybody’s smiling.

  I do the show, everything is great. But when they gave me my paycheck, it was much lower than what I had expected. I didn’t think they had been fair, but I forgot about it.

  A few months later, Disney—which owned ABC and Tim’s show—came to see me about a project. We did our business, and then I said, “Let me ask you something. Do you think what you paid me for Home Improvement was fair?”

  “There’s nothing we can do about it now,” they said. “What’s done is done.”

  “I tell ya what,” I said. “The raincoat I wore on the show was nice.” Some shows will give you your wardrobe, but not Disney. They keep it all. I said, “Leave the money where it is, throw in the raincoat, and we’ll call it even, okay?”

  They said, “Fine.”

  A week later, they sent it to me. It turned out to be an Armani.

  Now I’m the only flasher with a $5,000 raincoat.

  * * *

  My wife has a temper. She keeps yelling at me, “You’re an animal, an animal!” So I took a leak in the living room and I told her from now on that’s my territory.

  * * *

  I first met Jim Carrey when I was working in Toronto, back in the early eighties. Someone told me to catch a young local comic who had something special. They were right.

  Jim was about nineteen or twenty then, which means we’ve now been friends for more than twenty years.

  Anyway, I caught his act in Toronto, and I thought he was fantastic. His mimicry was wild, and he had a rare gift for physical comedy. I saw he had talent to burn, and when he smiled you had to love him. So I hired him to open for me on a few dates.

  He did a few one-nighters with me in Canada, and then I took him to Las Vegas to open at Caesars Palace.

  When Jim first started working with me, he was mainly an impressionist, a sensational one. Who else can take his face and make it look like Mao Tse-tung, Brezhnev, Clint Eastwood, and Sammy Davis, Jr.?

  But Jim wanted to stop doing impressions and be himself onstage. I could relate to that, because I’d gone through the same kind of thing as a young comedian. I used to do an impression of Al Jolson singing “Rock-a-bye Your Baby.” It was good enough that I would close my act with it, but I got to the point where I had to lose it, because I wanted to create my own voice, my own identity onstage.

  So I understood what Jim was trying to do with his act, and I knew that it wouldn’t be easy. When he stopped doing the impressions and just did his bits, it didn’t go over with the audience. He was bombing every night.

  Most headliners would say, “I gotta get a guy who gets laughs.” But I just said, “You’re great, Jim. Don’t worry about it.” I knew Jim had something special.

  I have no respect left. I gave it to Jim.

  Courtesy of the collection of Rodney Dangerfield.

  In 1994 the American Comedy Awards honored me by giving me the Creative Achievement Award. Jim Carrey was very gracious when he accepted the task of introducing me and presenting me with the award. I was very moved by his words. His introduction of me was one of the highlights of my life.

  * * *

  I live in a rough neighborhood. One night I was held up, but the guy had class. He used an electric razor. This guy, he took my watch, my wallet, and a little off the sides. Actually, I blame myself. I was standing right next to an outlet.

  * * *

  People often ask me what it was like to meet Elvis Presley. While I was working at the Sands in Las Vegas b
ack in the late sixties, I got an invitation to attend Elvis’s closing-night party at the Hilton Hotel. So when my show was over, I went to the party.

  Elvis was very warm and friendly. He walked in and said, “Hey, man.”

  I said, “Hey, man.”

  With our “Hey, mans” out of the way, we had somebody take a picture of us, and we chatted awhile.

  I still have that picture on the wall at my club, which is why Dangerfield’s has the distinction of being the only nightclub robbed over two thousand times. When Dangerfield’s opened, we put that picture of Elvis and me on the wall in the bar area, along with the many other pictures of me with big shots. That picture has been stolen at least once a week—more often during prom season. In fact, the club has been open over thirty years and that’s the only picture that has been stolen.

  One night I was standing in the bar area and a girl said, “Hey, Rodney, can I take a picture?” She was kind of cute, so I straightened my hair and my tie and said, “Sure, honey, go ahead.” She said, “Thanks,” grabbed the Elvis picture off the wall, and walked out.

  I was working at the Tropicana Hotel in Vegas in the seventies when those Elvis impersonators became so popular. During that period there were ten Elvis impersonators working on the Strip at the same time. You didn’t even have to look like Elvis—if you wore an Elvis outfit and sang an Elvis song, you were a big hit.

  One night I went backstage to visit an Elvis impersonator before his show. This guy was fat and very unattractive, but I heard him tell somebody, “The girl I want you to bring back after the show is the third girl I give a rose to.” Then he grabbed his guitar and waddled out to a screaming audience.

  This photo’s been stolen hundreds of times from my club. I told Elvis it was a real kick to meet him. So many people tell me we look alike.

  Courtesy of the collection of Rodney Dangerfield.

  Years ago, when you spent $25 to see a show, you saw a star. Today, you pay $50 to see someone impersonate a star.

  * * *

  My wife and I, we both love Las Vegas. She likes to play the slots, and I like to play the sluts.

  * * *

  I met Barbra Streisand when I was tapped. It was at Elvis Presley’s party in Vegas. I was sitting at a table talking to a couple of guys. All of a sudden I felt a tap on my shoulder. I look up and it’s Barbra Streisand.

  She was very nice. She said, “Rodney, I just came over to say good night.” She was about to leave.

  I said, “Barbra, remember the Bonsoir in Greenwich Village? That was the first time I saw you.” I recalled the story to her.

  I was there with a friend of mine. We were ready to go home when the maître d’ said to us, “There’s a girl auditioning now, and I hear she’s very good. You might want to see her.”

  I said to my friend, “I tell you what. We’ll get our coats, we’ll stay for one song, and we’ll cut.”

  She came on, and about forty minutes later we were still standing there holding our coats in our arms. We were mesmerized by the voice and the whole thing. That’s the first time I saw Barbra.

  The next time, they’re having a show in New York—a benefit show in Barbra’s honor—and they asked me to be on the dais. So I do about four or five minutes. One of the jokes I told was about that night:

  The first time I saw Barbra at the Bonsoir, it was a very unusual evening for me. It was the first time I went over the minimum.

  I met President Reagan when I performed for him at the Ford Theater in Washington. Prior to the show, we all went to a reception at the White House, where I had my picture taken with both the president and Nancy Reagan.

  After the show, I didn’t feel like hanging out with the senators, governors, and all the other political big shots—I got high on some shit and went outside and hung out with the limo drivers. I figured I had less chance of getting in trouble out there.

  The next day I showed the picture of me and the Reagans to my housekeeper Thelma. I said, “Hey, do you know this couple right here?” She looked at the picture. Her eyes got real big, and she said to me, “Did you meet them in person?”

  I was hoping to show the president how to inhale, but I never got the chance.

  Courtesy of the collection of Rodney Dangerfield.

  * * *

  My wife is the worst cook in the world. At my house, we pray after we eat.

  * * *

  President Reagan wasn’t the only president I met. I like to tell people that President Clinton slept on my floor. In the nineties, I was living at the Beverly Hilton Hotel when Clinton came to L.A. for a speech. He decided to stay in my hotel that night, so they gave him a suite on the eighth floor, the same floor I was on.

  The Secret Service said that no other guests could stay on the eighth floor because the president was sleeping there. They had moved all the other guests out, and were getting ready to evict me, but Clinton said, “Rodney doesn’t have to move. He’s okay.”

  I thanked him, and we had our picture taken together. He was very cordial—we chatted about fifteen minutes. When I got back to my rooms, though, the Secret Service was there. They had two dogs running around, sniffing everything. I had some pot in my place, so I was sweating it out.

  I got away with it. And I tell ya, these dogs, they were hip. On the way out one of them winked at me.

  * * *

  I tell ya, the dog drives me nuts. Last night he went on the paper four times…three times while I was reading it.

  * * *

  I did The Tonight Show one time when Bill Gates was on. Before the show, he told me he was a little nervous.

  I said, “Bill, what are you worried about? You just have to talk. I have to get laughs.”

  I wanted to befriend him. I felt like saying, “Bill, come on, will ya? You got billions and billions. What do you say you give me one billion? Do me a favor, okay? I’ll owe you one. What’s it mean to you? I’ll do things for you. I’ll get you girls, anything. I know the best massage parlors. You won’t be sorry. I know the right people. A friend of mine runs an all-night crap game.”

  * * *

  Nothing works out. I bought an Apple computer. There was a worm in it.

  * * *

  Here I am alone with Bill Gates. The girls never showed up.

  Courtesy of the collection of Rodney Dangerfield.

  It’s strange how getting up in front of a big crowd brings out fear in some people. To me it was never that difficult. I started in amateur shows when I was seventeen, and I’ve been doing it most of my life. But most people would fly to the moon before they’d stand up on a stage all by themselves and try to make people laugh. I know that for a fact. I was working at the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas, and after the show, Neil Armstrong—the first man to walk on the moon—came backstage to say hello. We shook hands and he said, “Wow, I wouldn’t want your job.”

  I told him, “I wouldn’t want your job either.”

  * * *

  When I was a kid, I got no respect. I was kidnapped. They sent my parents a piece of my finger. My old man said he wanted more proof.

  * * *

  Back around 1995, people started saying to me, “Adam Sandler keeps talking about you in all his interviews.” He would speak very favorably of me.

  I’d never met Adam, so I was touched.

  I finally got to know Adam when he asked me to be in his movie Little Nicky. I had a very small part, but Adam and I got to hang out a bit. He told me that when he was fourteen years old his father took him to see me at the Sunrise Theater in Fort Lauderdale.

  Recently I was extremely honored when Adam presented me with the Comedy Idol Award at Comedy Central’s award show, the Commies.

  I like Adam, and I like his comedy. I think Adam and I are the only comedians today who have a clearly defined image. You can be a big star without having an image—Jim Carrey proved that—but Adam Sandler has an image that really works. In his movies he’s a likable lug, and you’re rooting for him when things go wrong. A
nd when he finally wins at the end of the movie, he wins for everybody.

  Adam gets involved in all the aspects of his movies, the writing, the directing, the casting, the producing, and all of his decisions are right on the money. I wouldn’t be surprised if someday he owns his own studio.

  Chapter Twelve

  Stuck in a Bag of Mixed Nuts

  Last time I saw a mouth like that, it had a hook in it.

  —CADDYSHACK, 1980

  When the credits roll at the end of my movie Back to School, there’s a line that reads Estelle, thanks for so much.

  I get a lot of letters wanting to know who Estelle is and what I’m thanking her for, so instead of answering every one of those letters individually, I’ll tell the story here.

  When we opened Dangerfield’s, my publicity man was Richard O’Brien. Estelle Endler worked for him. After four or five years, she moved with her husband to L.A. to take a shot at doing publicity on her own. She was there about six months when I got a call from her. She said, “This agency, APA, would very much like to talk to you.”

  At that time in my life, I didn’t want any hassles. I didn’t want to meet anybody. I didn’t want to deal with money, with problems. I didn’t want any of the hassles that come with life on the road. I didn’t want to get caught up in the business side of show business. I just wanted to stay in my club and work it like a nine-to-five job. So I told her I wasn’t interested in meeting with APA.

  “But they really want to talk to you,” she said. “They think they can get you some great jobs.”