Dynomite!: Good Times, Bad Times, Our Times--A Memoir Page 12

  To those who create it, comedy is not a joke. Comedy is serious. In my early days a Phil Foster might give me a line for my debut on the Paar show or friends like Landesberg or Nadler might feed me jokes over coffee at 2 a.m. at the Camelot. Thanks to a decent steady paycheck from Good Times I could afford to pay a staff of hungry writers. Thanks to the show, I was offered more and better-paying stand-up gigs too. I was off the chitlin’ circuit and into Mr. Kelly’s in Chicago, the hungry i in San Francisco, the Copacabana in New York. Except for one year during the show’s six seasons, I made more money from those gigs than from CBS. But the only way to keep up both the volume and the quality of the jokes I would lay on audiences was to have a staff of writers.

  Success paid for them, but success also made them necessary. When no one knew who I was, much of my material came from observing everyday life. I could walk around in the general public and interact with people. But once I made a name for myself and was instantly recognizable, that was no longer possible. When you come into people’s living rooms every week and then they see you in person, they can’t believe you escaped from the TV! Instead of being able to listen in on conversations, I was the conversation. Instead of being the watcher, I was the watchee. I needed access to the eyes and ears of less visible comedians.

  I knew Leno from our days in New York. He had moved to the West Coast and was establishing a beachhead at the Comedy Store. But no one was being paid there. He could pick up $150 a week working on jokes for me. He also told me about a friend of his, Gene Braunstein, a former classmate at Emerson College in Boston where their comedy team Gene and Jay played area coffeehouses. Leno asked if Gene could join our meetings and I said yes. Braunstein aka the Mighty Mister Geno quickly became my comedy coordinator.

  I received my Good Times script on a Thursday or Friday. Mister Geno and I would get together on Saturday morning and run it for two or three hours—however long it took for me to memorize my lines. I wanted to have the script down pat so when I did my stand-up that night at the Store, I would not be distracted worrying about my “other job,” the one at CBS.

  During the week, as soon as I left the Good Times set in the afternoon, I jumped into my car and headed for a Chinese take-out place, where I would grab some food and phone Mister Geno. I would tell him I was on my way and then call one or more girlfriends to pick up pizzas, sandwiches, and sodas for everyone.

  The writers arrived around five or six o’clock. At times there would be nearly two dozen of them in the room. The better writers were invited nearly every weekday, the lesser ones just once a week. The goal was for each of them to bring in twenty jokes. One by one they would pitch me their best ones. Most of the time it was every joke for itself. Sometimes I asked in advance for material on a particular subject, such as television commercials. Or I’d start a meeting with, “Did you see that on the news? We need to come up with stuff on that.” Mitchell Walters, who was one of the Outlaws of Comedy with Sam Kinison, once said, “Damn man, this place is packed. Pretty soon we’ll be having meetings at Dodger Stadium. You’d hear over the loudspeaker: ‘Anyone with material on the economy report to second base!’”

  I had a guideline sheet I gave prospective writers:

  AREAS TO AVOID:

  ALL MATERIAL MUST BE AS NONETHNIC AS POSSIBLE

  1. NO religious jokes

  2. NO ethnic humor (especially NO black humor)

  3. NO abortion, Kotex, dildo, vibrator, prophylactic jokes, dick jokes

  4. NO “GOOD TIMES” jokes

  5. NO ghetto humor

  6. NO bathroom humor

  Allan Stephan, another of Kinison’s Outlaws, would pitch jokes that were too dirty or too rough. When he saw the guidelines, he said, “What jokes does this guy do?”

  Along with telling writers what not to submit, the guideline sheet did list subjects I wanted jokes for: the economy, women’s rights, family, parents, kids, doctors, lawyers, mechanics, dating, marriage, divorce, school, television shows and commercials, smoking, driving a car, diets and exercise, the post office, white-collar crime, and more.

  We did not take a poll or a vote on each joke, but there would be a general reaction. If it was positive and I liked it too, I told Mister Geno to write down the joke in his notebook. If there was a lot of grunting and “That sucks!” or I said “No way,” the joke was tossed and we moved on. But any critic had to be a little careful—their joke might be next on the firing line. Later, Mister Geno typed up a run-down of the finalists, and at the beginning of the next meeting he passed those sheets around. Often it would be Leno who would say, “Know what might make that work” and offer a fix on jokes that needed improvement.

  That room was like the Roman Coliseum of Comedy, except everyone sat on leather couches and the only blood was from egos being stabbed. The writers were incredibly competitive. Their self-esteem was on the line and so too was money. Although I paid many of them on a weekly basis, others would get paid only if I bought a joke, usually for $25. They could be vicious with each other, much like when we hung out at the Camelot in New York or, now in LA, at the Jewish restaurant Canter’s or Theodore’s coffeehouse.

  They would even go after me, the guy writing their checks! Jeff Stein, who partnered with Frank Dungan for what I referred to as Frank’n’ Stein the Monster Comedy Writing Team, would gripe to me when I turned down one of his jokes: “You don’t like that joke because you’re not funny! That’s why you’re not getting the laughs you think you should get.”

  You had to have a thick skin to absorb all the hits. It also helped to be vocal and forceful to push your jokes ahead, to fight for them to get noticed and appreciated. But slugging it out like that was not part of Letterman’s self-effacing personality.

  I first saw him at the Store not long after he drove out from Indianapolis in 1975 in his red truck and sporting a bushy reddish beard. I thought he had some good quirky ideas but also felt that he probably was not going to be a tremendous stand-up. He was too uncomfortable on stage in the stand-up format. Maybe, I thought, he could be a host of a talk show or game show. George Miller, who roomed with Dave and was another comic I had become friends with, vouched for him, saying, “I think this guy is funny.” When I asked Dave to join our writers’ meetings, he was very happy. Our sessions were becoming legendary, and he admired many of those in the room—none more than Leno. He was thrilled just to be around those guys.

  His wife, Michelle, came with him to LA, but she eventually returned home. When he told me they had split, I said he should get a divorce rather than leave the relationship unresolved.

  “You never know what could happen,” I warned him as he sat in my townhouse. He looked at me innocently and asked, “What could happen?” I had my lawyer, Jerry, explain to him what he could lose if suddenly he hit in Hollywood. Jerry then helped Dave get his own lawyer and the resulting divorce was without hostility.

  I put him on salary at $150 a week even though he thought he was ill equipped to write for a black comic. He has been quoted as saying, “[Jimmie] wanted me to write jokes with a black point of view. He was the first black person I had ever seen.” That was an exaggeration. In truth he didn’t have any problem coming up with “black jokes,” as shown by these he brought to our meetings:

  Birth control is one of the big problems in the ghetto. When I was a kid going out with girls, they would always say, “If you try to make love to me, are you going to use contraception?” I was never sure what that meant, so I’d say, “Hell, I’ll use hypnotism if I have to.”

  (December 14, 1975)

  You see where police broke up a homosexual slave ring? We had homosexuals back in the old plantation days too. You could always spot the gay slaves. They were the ones picking daisies.

  (March 19, 1976)

  I used to be real interested in camping. I’d find out when ya’ll were away on a camping trip, then I’d come over and do a little shopping.

  (April 12, 1976)

  Among his nonethnic sub
missions was a doctor joke you could almost hear Rodney Dangerfield do:

  On my tricycle at eighteen months old, probably for the last time because I never learned to ride a bike!

  Courtesy Jimmie Walker

  A typical class photo. No inkling of a road comic in the making.

  Courtesy Jimmie Walker

  My sister Beverly and I during a stay in Alabama. This is about as close as we ever got, and she is obviously not happy about even that.

  Courtesy Jimmie Walker

  We were all unknowns at the time, as evidenced by the misspellings of the names of Bette Midler and a very young Irene Cara.

  Courtesy Jimmie Walker

  Working the Apollo theater, wearing my safari jacket and one of my lucky turtleneck sweaters. I still have all of them, hoping they’ll come back in style.

  Courtesy Jimmie Walker

  At the Improv in New York in the late ’60s. Did I mention how much I loved turtleneck sweaters?

  Courtesy Jimmie Walker

  My first publicity photos, except for the one with the broom. That is a current photo of what I’m doing now.

  Courtesy Jimmie Walker

  As you can see, they spared no expense advertising my appearance at a local event in Harlem.

  Courtesy Jimmie Walker

  Was it something I said?

  Courtesy Jimmie Walker

  Sell, sell, sell!

  Courtesy Jimmie Walker

  My mother explaining to me why none of my jokes are funny.

  Courtesy Jimmie Walker

  Courtesy Jimmie Walker

  Dynamite magazine from Scholastic Press premiered in March 1974, the month after Good Times, but there was no connection between the two—until I was on the cover in April 1975.

  Mom and me on the Mike Douglas Show. What’s with the handholding, Mike?

  Courtesy Jimmie Walker

  Look ma, on top of the world!

  The Comedy Store Bombers, 1978. We were a very serious basketball team, as you can see by our center, Corky Hubbard, holding the basketballs. Standing (left to right): David Letterman, Tim Reid, Lue Deck, Big Roger, Darrow Igus, me, Johnny Witherspoon, Tom Dreesen. Kneeling: Jimmy Heck, Joe Restivo, Daryl and Dwayne Mooney (aka The Mooney Twins), Roger Behr, Jimmy O’Brien, Bobby Kelton.

  Courtesy Jimmie Walker

  Friends and others, circa 1976. Seated (left to right): Elayne Boosler, Gene Braunstein, me, Adele Blue, Jay Leno, Michelle Letterman (Dave’s wife). Standing: Helen Kushnick, Wayne Kline, Budd Friedman, David Letterman.

  Courtesy Jimmie Walker

  One happy family on Good Times with the original cast. Top row: Me, Bern Nadette Stanis, Ja’Net DuBois. Bottom row: Ralph Carter, Esther Rolle, John Amos.

  The only one who seems to be really happy is me!

  Sax with his beloved sax, which I still have today.

  Courtesy Jimmie Walker

  You have to wait forever to see a doctor. Had the forty-eight-hour virus. Went to see my doctor. It cleared up in the waiting room. (February 8, 1976)

  Unusual for Letterman would be a sex joke, such as this one:

  The University of Washington conducted a study that proved girls with big chests get more rides when hitchhiking than flat-chested girls. Used to be all you needed was a thumb. Now you’ve got to have two handfuls. (February 8, 1976)

  Occasionally he offered a joke that embodied that sharp wise-ass attitude of his, a joke that would probably kill on his show today:

  I love professional golf. Only game in the world where a guy gets applause for his putts. (February 8, 1976)

  Leno, his idol, rarely submitted any jokes. He would riff on the fly or comment about someone else’s joke. He and Mitch were like jazz musicians, playing off the other instruments. Leno was the absolute best punch-up comic. Many times a joke would be close but not quite there. Something would be missing or needed to be tweaked for it to work. Jay was a master at that. He could save a joke like no one else.

  However, Jeni and Schimmel were not enthusiastic about writing for me and did not contribute much at the meetings. But they needed the money. That was okay; I was doing well. If I could help them feel as though they were in show business and keep them from having to take a day job, then I was glad to do that. Sometimes, when they needed it, I would just give them $100. I considered it an investment in my career, one that might pay off later. Sometimes, such as when Schimmel needed money to help pay medical bills for the birth of a daughter, it was just the right thing to do.

  Jeni was one of the best stand-ups comedy has ever had. Schimmel wasn’t far behind, with a stunningly outrageous and explicit act. They thought, why are we writing for this guy? We’re better than he is! Schimmel would tell me, “I’m writing jokes for J. J.? I’m not doing any fuckin’ dyn-o-mite stuff!”

  Louie Anderson was among my second wave of writers, but he was reluctant to come on board because he did not consider himself a joke writer. His style was closer to that of Cosby—more a storyteller. Mitzi Shore, who ran the Comedy Store, didn’t think he was much of a stand-up at all and refused to put him in the line-up. “He’s just a fat guy,” she said. “I can’t stand the fat stuff. All he does is the fat stuff and I can’t stand the fat stuff.”

  I knew Louie was better than that, so I encouraged him to focus more on his stories about his large family and growing up in Minnesota. When he was ready, I forced Mitzi to watch his act again. The next week Louie became a regular. He would later pay it forward when he discovered Roseanne Barr when she opened for him in Denver. I then suggested to Mitzi that she team them up at the Comedy Store’s new room at the Dunes in Las Vegas. Both became major stars.

  I had a few women comedy writers on staff, though Boosler, my all-time favorite female stand-up and a friend from the New York Improv days, was the only one of note. Without question, the women had the dirtiest, funkiest jokes. When they told them, all the guys would cringe. One of Boosler’s more mainstream lines was:

  Some guys expect you to scream “You’re the best” while swearing you’ve never done this with anyone before.

  Byron Allen was one of the black writers on my staff and the youngest of anyone. He was only sixteen years old. Wayne Kline had seen him perform at the Store, told him I was looking for people to write jokes, and invited him to a writers’ session. He came with his mom! He pitched and pushed his jokes like everyone else—while his mom waited patiently in my kitchen.

  Teachers always say if you cheat you only hurt yourself. I say, “That’s okay, I can take the pain.” (Byron Allen, date unknown)

  The best pure joke writers were not performers: Wayne Kline aka Wayne Wayne the Joke Train and Steve Crantz.

  When Wayne entered the room, everyone thought, “Oh shit. We can’t beat this guy.” He was so fertile that if you said, “I need a couple of jokes on trees,” he would ask, “The bark or the root?” Among his contributions at the meetings:

  Black folks have a hard time getting credit. The first question they ask is, “Is this the first time you’ve been turned down for credit?” (December 10, 1975)

  I love to watch how men pick up women. Some guys are so uncool. You know how guys brag they never paid for it? I’ve seen guys out there look like they never got it free. (March 26, 1976)

  Used to be black folks couldn’t get jobs. Now look in the paper. They got ads just for us. Wanted: bright industrious black college grad. Must have own shovel. (April 14, 1976)

  Steve Crantz was even more prolific, as if that were possible. I met him via fax. He was about twenty-four years old and living in Pittsburgh with his parents. He faxed me a few jokes and I used them. He also sold jokes to Joan Rivers and Rodney “I Get No Respect” Dangerfield. Rodney used this one from him:

  Oh boy, everybody’s got a family stone. I found out what my family stone was. My family stone was gravel.

  Crantz would send me fifty jokes—not a week . . . a day. No other writer would do that. He was amazing. Finally I asked him to come out to Hollyw
ood to write for me and travel as my road manager. He was hesitant because he had never been away from home. But I had my lawyer, Jerry, call his dad, Dave, and assure him that Steve would have a place to live and be taken care of. When he arrived, I put Steve up in an apartment and gave him the use of a car.

  The first time he came to a writers’ session he fit right in. He was so funny, and he was funny all the time. His business card read: “Comedy Writer . . . I buried more people than Forest Lawn.” He was a joke writer, not a sitcom or movie scriptwriter, not a performer. But he was so gregarious—talking all the time—that some people thought he was doing an act. He even looked offbeat—short and, though a young man, completely prematurely gray, and he was a chain smoker, two packs a day. He was totally out there, always “on.”

  Because he talked constantly, was always doing jokes, having Steve on the road was great because he took the pressure off me. I could just sic him on whoever was talking my ear off, and pretty soon they said, “Okay, I gotta go.” But as much as Steve disliked living in LA—it was way too different from Pittsburgh for him—he hated being on the road even more. Two days here then move, one day there then move—that was not a lifestyle he enjoyed. Also, when he was away from LA, he was worried about everything—his apartment near Hollywood Boulevard, his car, anything, and everything.