John DeBellis's Blog, page 5
September 8, 2012
Money Can’t Buy Me Sex Part 3
Money Can’t Buy Me Sex Part 2
Money Can’t Buy Me Sex Part 1
September 7, 2012
How Do Comedians Find Their Stage Persona?
September 4, 2012
Stand-up Comedian the Hardest Job in the World?
Whenever I tell someone that I was a stand-up comic, quite often they say, “That’s got to be the hardest thing in the world to do.” First off, there are quite a few professions they certainly didn’t include in their analysis: crime scene cleaners, porn theater janitors, a bomb disposer (especially near retirement age), animal inseminator, snake milker, and odor tester to name a few (these are all real jobs). Ok, I realize their statements are exaggerations, but I also see the truth in their declarations, which are based on who they are as individuals. I’m sure there are some out there who are natural pet food tasters, or garbage bin archivists or even livestock masturbators. For me, even in the entertainment field, there are so many scarier jobs. Being an actor frightens me–having to recite other people’s words under the watchful eye of writers, directors and producers, hoping that you have interpreted the lines correctly without bruising any ripe egos. As a stand-up comedian I get to say my own words, my own way, in front of an audience that judges me by instinct. After my set, I looked forward to receiving how-to advice from fellow comics, even musician friends (musicians naturally have sick senses of humor). I’ve never had to ask a fellow worm picker: “If a worm breaks should I, throw it out, or keep both halves and do they count as two?”
Sure, having no prior performing experience made my early sets scary, fearing the audience’s hatred or their vocal taunting, but after awhile, getting past the nastiness just becomes part of a process. It’s no more fearful than making mistakes in other professions like having hiccups if you’re a knife throwers assistant. I’ve never worried about removing the wrong lung because I was operating from the wrong side of the body. As a stand-up comedian, a poor performance, no matter how bad (even on TV), does not do physical harm to your self (except in the case of Larry David, but that’s another hundred stories, ones he didn’t use on Seinfeld or Curb Your Enthusiasm) or put other people’s lives at risk. The point I’m trying to make is: what we fear is relative to who and what we are. Disarming a bomb to someone is less frightening than just bombing on stage. I will always be a stand-up comic at heart, although my thirst to get laughs has subsided to a level of near sanity. Going on stage in front of 300 people is far less scary than being a body farm caretaker, who has to drag bodies out of grave and remove the insects from the remaining flesh (sounds like something Gilbert Gottfried might act out on stage). I once spotted a pretty girl in the audience, who I knew off stage I wouldn’t be able to talk to, so rather than get rejected face to face, I stopped in the middle of my set and asked her out. Of course, she rejected me, but I made it into a joke, protecting me from the pain of rejection—I got turned down of by a pretty woman on stage in a night club, an environment that felt natural to me. I am a comic; see me get humiliated and then see me make you laugh your head off.
August 31, 2012
Fred Willard the Best in Show and in Character
For now, Fred Willard is persona non grata on television. For what, for being caught in an adult theater behaving in a manner that is probably more normal that abnormal in place like that. He wasn’t driving drunk, wasn’t abusing drugs, or yelling out anti-Semitic remarks. I wish the network execs would have taken the time to consider what a good man Fred Willard is—a man of humility and the kindest of souls—the Fred Willard I know. I first met Fred at the New York City Improvisation in the late seventies. He had come in to watch the show. Afterwards we introduced each other and we spent about five minutes talking comedy, before our conversation turned to baseball. Within a few minutes of meeting Fred it was evident that he was very shy, soft spoken, and humble.
I met him again years later on the syndicated TV show, D.C. Follies, a Sid and Mary Krofft production. The show was a political satire that took place in a fictional bar in Washington DC, where the world’s VIPs, all portrayed by life-sized puppets, unwound with their beloved owner—Fred Willard. Fred, even though he was the only human star of the show, had the ego of a puppet extra. During meetings he would sit quietly and treat everyone, no matter their job, politely and with respect. During breaks he’d spent much of his time attached to his Sony Walkman, listening to Elvis and old Rock and Roll—music that would have been played in the vintage cars he drove; and I’m not talking about old muscle cars. No, much like his personality, they were unassuming vehicles, Dodge Darts, Ramblers, and old Plymouths
During production he gave the writers and our scripts respect that we never experienced in Hollywood. He would literally, and I’m not exaggerating, ask if it was okay if he switched the word “the” for the word “a.” If, on the rare occasion, he had a joke or line suggestion it would emerge from his mouth only slightly louder that his exhale, then would genuinely be surprised by our acceptance.
We ended each show with Fred at the bar talking to either the puppet of Ronald Reagan or Richard Nixon, both voices done by John Roarke (an ex member of the show Fridays and also a friend of Larry David). John and I would often walk around the set imitating Larry, who at the time was unknown by most of the world. Fred would look at us and smile politely amused by our ramblings.
D.C. Follies was well received by critics and had good ratings. One of the things that made it so effective was that Fred had amazing chemistry with the Puppets. He humanized them—we’d often forgot they were made of foam rubber. Taping the end of the show was the most fun for me. In the rehearsals, right before the final credits would roll, I’d let Fred and John ad lib for the last three minutes. I’d record it, edit it, have the best stuff typed, hand it to them for the taping of the final scene and let them adlib off that. Their conversation often went in unexpected directions like an electrically stunned fly. Fred and John, as Reagan, had discourses that created an indefinable logic that often had us in hysterics. From years of doing shows, I knew that ad libs made in front of a crew, often weren’t funny when later seen on tape, mainly because they were said in the moment. The ad libs that Fred and John created followed a logic that was independently funny and transcended the live aspect. Of course, when the taping was finished the staff and crew would applaud. Fred demurely thanked everyone like he was just a byproduct.
In the years since D.C. Follies any time I called Fred I was always greeted with such good cheer and warmth it made it clear that I was speaking to a very good, very special man; a man who will always have my admiration and respect; a man who like all of us has flaws. And like all of us should be judged, not by one victimless incident, but the sum total of all he is. Just the thought of his character in Best of Show makes me grin and reminds me of what a special talent Fred Willard is and how his decency and humanity dwarfs that big talent.
August 22, 2012
My day with the late great comedian Phyllis Diller
John DeBellis and Phyllis Diller from D.C.Follies
I don’t remember the exact jokes, although I do recall Fang, her legendary husband. At the mention of Fang, her cathartic laugh leaped from her moth with such force I’m surprised it didn’t split any atoms. Phyllis Diller was not a trend breaker; she was a trend shatterer. She looked other-worldly; white hair not so much styled as it looked rearranged by an air plane propeller. She held a long white cigarette holder, the female equivalent of the cigar; a male timing device. She wore outfits that looked like they were made from a creature that was half sequins and half sasquatch and fit her like it was taken off a broken rack. Her jokes were wild and created an imaginary world. She didn’t just make me laugh, she took me to a place that Alice (from Wonderland) would have found quirky. She was probably my first comedic influence and propelled me towards Jackie Vernon, Woody Allen, and Rodney Dangerfield. Most of the time I would be watching her from the TV in my basement. Between jokes I’d run upstairs repeating her punch lines. Delivered from a ten year old kid, I think they lost some of the impact, especially when my parents were either arguing or my grandfather was yelling at the Untouchables, on TV, because the mob guys were getting caught. My grandfather thought working on the wrong side of the law meant being a cop, if you get my drift.
Years later, I’m talking lots of years, the mid to late eighties, I got a chance to meet and work with Phyllis Diller on a show called D.C. Follies; a political satire that used life size puppets. When performing she still had that definitive laugh, the crazy image filled jokes, the outlandish persona, but off stage she was so sweet, quiet, and complimentary. Once you got to know Rodney Dangerfield he was like that; only a few quantum leaps more neurotic. I told Ms. Diller, how much I admired her work and how it influenced my career. She, of course, reacted in a self-depreciating manner, fitting of her character, but so genuine. Her eyes listened along with her ears and sparkled like a kid watching fireworks. We chatted about comedy, politics and then took a picture together, but what made that day even more special was when she delivered lines I had written. It was my comedy life coming full circle. She passed away two days ago. The first person I told was Richard Lewis, who had already heard the news and loved Phyllis. He sent me a recent picture of him and his wife and Phyllis. Phyllis wore an unusual headdress that made her look like the Cleopatra of comedy. I will miss her several times a day. Next to my desk one of her albums hangs on the wall, Phyllis dressed to kill (as in murdering with laughter), cigarette holder in hand, about to launch a laugh that still echoes through my ear drums, and then I imagine her delivering the next surreal joke – probably about her crazy husband Fang.
August 21, 2012
Why can’t I be more mature?
John DeBellis, Larry David, and Bobby Kelton
I’m not sure if it were 1976-77 or even 1978. Larry David, Bobby Kelton and I had decided to watch the All-Star game at Larry’s place—an old railroad apartment that led from the tiny kitchen through the bedroom finally to Larry’s living room. We were all in our mid-twenties, which was about the same age as the many of the ball players. During the game we argued about our usual trivial things, Larry and Bobby going at it with more ferocity. To this day we’d have serious and sometimes heated discussions about things like: would Julius Caesar rather have lived as Emperor and be dead now, or would he prefer to live now as a middle class blue color worker? These discussions could go on for hours with no resolution. In the meanwhile the American league was getting slaughtered. Catfish Hunter gave up several runs in his one or two innings of work. During the game he was interviewed. He had already showered and was dressed in a grown up suit. Catfish was in a calm, almost jovial mood. We were all amazed at his attitude, none more so than Larry, he couldn’t believe how Catfish, who had just gotten bombed in front of millions of people, was acting so mature. After all, one audience member with a disparaging expression on his face could ruin Larry’s set and entire night.
The game had become a route so Bobby and I decided to leave. As we walked out, Larry started screaming, about how come he couldn’t be that mature, he’s as old as Catfish. He could be that mature. Bobby and I turned around and looked down the long hallway into the LD’s living room, and there was Larry wearing his Yankee batting helmet, Yankee T-shirt, and pounding his fist into his glove, screaming, “I could be an adult. I’m an adult. Why can’t I be more mature!”
