Blog #1 - The Accidental Comedian

When I was two years old I got onto an elevator in New York City holding my father’s hand. Moments later, as I observed the other passenger, I pointed to him and asked, “Daddy, why is that man’s face black?” The doors opened, the man stepped out and just before they closed again he turned back and angrily quipped, “Because that’s the way God made me!” My father leaned over and said, “Faithy, baby, repeat after me. . . Hate humanity!” I practiced for hours and at the dinner table that night while my mother tried to force feed me spinach, poorly hidden in the mashed potatoes, I proudly proclaimed, “Hate hoo-manity!” My mother’s eyes darted towards my father. She was not happy, but at the same time, she couldn’t help but laugh.

I’ve always had a love and appreciation for comedy, whether stand-up, sitcom, outlandish, quirky humor, sarcasm or wit. I used to think if you were good at it, then it must be in your DNA—a “funny” gene, but that’s not necessarily true. Trying too hard to be funny tends to make you not funny. Being born funny can be a gift, but it can also be a curse. Having a sense of humor can help some people cope with pain, but others tend to use humor to conceal pain. It’s often easier to joke about reality, than to actually deal with it. People around you may laugh because you come across as funny—whether you intended it, or not; perhaps it’s your word choice, your mannerisms, your appearance, or your exaggerated emotions.

Sadly, we have been witness to the fact that sometimes comics’ lives have not been a laughing matter and have ended tragically. The most naturally funny people who have made me LMFAO, did not benefit from their gifts, for example, the two most hilarious people in my life were my dad and my cousin; like sad clowns, both left this life too soon. I am grateful that I have the funny memories to buffer the insanity and trauma.

Since early childhood, I was drawn to comedy, probably to escape the harsh realities of my dysfunctional family. I even kept a cherished collection of clown statues. I was a fan of Abbott and Costello, Jerry Lewis, The Three Stooges. I also had my female favorites. I was addicted to “I Love Lucy” and I also craved variety shows like The Carol Burnett Show and The Sonny & Cher Show which had me glued to the tube like a little nerd, often tape recording the sketches so that I could memorize them and act them out at the next family gathering. Often times guests would urge my Grandpa Manny to do his spiel as well. I remember his repertoire, (whether original or stolen I don’t know), starting with, “When I was a child I was musically inclined . . . I used to play on the linoleum. Later, when I was in school, I took first prize . . . but they made me put it back. Hey, what’s that cut under your nose? Oh, it’s your mouth.” He’d wind up his routine with a musical number, “Lou-Lou Had a Baby,” and the family would laugh and applaud. I always had my trusty tape recorder and I captured his act for posterity. I’d also go around the room interviewing all my relatives. Grandpa turned the questions on me and asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Knowing I wanted to entertain, I replied without hesitation, “I wanna be a singa, a danca, an ice skata and a motha.”

After school and homework, I’d escape in the fantasy world of TV. I was drawn to quirky characters like Barbara Eden in “I Dream of Jeannie,” (I wanted to be like Jeannie and blink into a happier life). I also enjoyed sitcoms like “Gilligan’s Island,” (which, to this day I consider a metaphor for my life), “The Partridge Family,” (because I yearned for the perfect, Shirley Jones type mother and because I wished I was part of a performing family, but especially because I had a crush on Danny Bonaduce, who was impishly funny). I also loved anything created by Norman Lear whose shows were always socially and/or politically controversial. “All In The Family” is still one of my favorites. The writing was key and the characters were stereotypically irresistible. I adored Jean Stappleton as the “ding-bat,” Edith Bunker as well chutzpadik female characters, like, Bea Arthur, as Archie’s cousin Maude, who then starred in her own spinoff and the Bunker’s neighbor Louise “Weezy” Jefferson, played by Isabel Sanford, who starred in “The Jefferson’s” spinoff, and what about their hysterical maid, Florence, played by Marla Gibbs? She was real wise-cracker.

As a teenager, I was drawn to stand-up comics like George Carlin, Billy Crystal, Robin Williams. I wish I could say I had more female comics to admire besides the late Joan Rivers, (on the dirty side), and Ellen DeGeneres, (on the clean side), but historically, there just haven’t been as many notables who have made it to the big times. It’s been an uphill battle for women since their early days of vaudeville.

Of course, the domestic goddess, Roseanne Barr, went from stand up to having her own hit sitcom Rosanne, which will be interesting to see again when it is resurrected in 2018 with many members of the original cast. With a shortage of female stand ups to influence my earlier years, I was drawn to multi-dimensional comediennes and their characters, like Whoopi Goldberg and Tracy Ullman. Today, women like Melissa McCarthy also inspire me. Of course, I grew up watching decades of sketches on SNL which had its share of memorable female stars even though they were the minority.

Ever since I was a kid, it was pretty easy for me to memorize lines and act funny, but I never thought of myself as being funny. Quite the opposite; I am a serious person—too serious, at times. Growing up there wasn’t much to laugh about—I was too busy ducking for cover so I wouldn’t get hit in the head with a shoe. My parents were divorced when I was eight years old. My mother suffered from depression, drug addiction, alcoholism and had a habit of attracting men who fanned the flames of domestic violence; basically, my younger brother and I lived in terror.

Dad was in his own world too; a manic depressive, advertising genius, who danced to the beat of his own bongos. He lived in a cocoon with no room for anyone else. Like a hermit, he would stay inside, sleep all day, then, get his creative rush in the middle of the night, scribbling dozens of killer ideas just hours before major presentations. He was the king of procrastination. He suffered from many disorders including, but not limited to: depression, ADD, hoarding and creative lunacy. He would visit us kids once a week, on Sundays, which was typically a fiasco. He often took us to the movies, so that was a big part of my experience. When we lived in New York my father was a creative director at a Madison Avenue advertising agency and when we moved to Florida in the 1970’s he started his own company out of our garage. Sometimes he used me in his commercials and I was always excited to be on the set filming.

At times, my parents were physically, emotionally and verbally abusive and neglectful, yet they were also capable of love and affection. I never knew what to expect. I suffered from anxiety and depression, exacerbated by horrendous bouts of PMS in my teen years. I nearly went over the edge, but no one noticed. My parents were self-absorbed or focused on the crisis of the moment with my younger brother who is bipolar and became a drug addict at the age of twelve. My disorders weren’t even diagnosed until I was in my thirties and sought help on my own.

Maybe it’s true that, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I was branded “The only normal person in the family,” which I vehemently resented. Remember the brain preserved in the specimen jar in the movie “Young Frankenstein?” Igor said it was the brain of “Abby Normal” but it was actually labeled, “ABNORMAL.” I identified with that. If my parents found me crying for no apparent reason, I was accused of “Moping” or “Sulking like a sad sack,” or, “Making a mountain out of a molehill.” At times dad simply stifled me with, “Cut the dramatics.” Once he even blew me off with, “The Academy Award goes to. . .” It often seemed as if no one cared. Feeling desperate and alone, I resorted to writing in my diary—which, was a great outlet and in hindsight, probably saved my life. As it turns out, those diaries have provided lots of material for my upcoming memoir, “Cracking Up! Life With My Fractured Family.” Looking back, I realize that I became a writer at the age of ten!

(More to come…)