Confessions of a Raving, Unconfined Nut

by Paul Krassner

  One afternoon in the CCNY auditorium, there was a show put on by an entertainment troupe, the City College Service Organization. They had a professional guest comic, Morty Gunty, who did a routine about a guy who keeps repeating “trust me” to a girl as he proceeds to take liberties with her body. The audience was laughing, but I felt only annoyance. This humor was based on the approval of deceit, while I considered seduction to be the lowest form of rape. I realized then that I wanted to do stand-up comedy but still be true to my values, and I signed up for an audition.

  Now all I needed was an act.

  I had seen Victor Borge do comedy with the aid of a piano, while Jack Benny and Henny Youngman used their violins as props. I hadn’t touched my violin for several years, but now I took it out of the closet. I did well in the audition, and began performing at hospitals and army camps.

  My earliest routine took the form of a musical quiz. I would ask the audience, “In the Garden of Eden, what did Eve sing to Adam?” And then I’d play the opening bars of “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree with Anyone Else But Me.” My first political joke went like this: “Back in junior high school in a civics class, I learned that only Congress can declare war. But the reason Congress doesn’t have to declare war on Korea is because it’s only a police action.”

  I attached a red SOLD tag to the neck of my violin, and scotch-taped a large color photo of Marilyn Monroe onto the back. It was a rear view, but she was smiling at you over her shoulder. With one hand I would do pizzicato on the strings of my violin, and with the other I would make it appear as though I were plucking music from the strap of Marilyn’s evening gown. Sometimes, I would play a few bars of music between jokes, accompanied by the sound of Mischa Goodman doing triple somersaults in his grave and yelling at me: “Violin up! Violin up!”

  CHAPTER 2

  THE FIRE HYDRANT OF THE UNDERDOG

  Almost the only thing I can remember from my entire formal education is a definition of philosophy as “the rationalization of life.” For my term paper, I decided to write a dialogue between Plato and an atheist. On a whim, I looked up atheism in the phone book, and there it was: “Atheism American Association for the Advancement of.”

  I went to their office for background material and met Woolsey Teller, editor of The Truthseeker, the oldest freethought journal in the world. (After his death, it would turn into an anti-Semitic and racist hate sheet.) The AAAA sponsored the Ism Forum, where anybody could speak about any “ism” of their choice.

  I invited a few acquaintances from summer camp to go with me. The forum was held on a Friday in a dingy hotel ballroom. There was a small platform with a podium at one end of the room and heavy wooden folding chairs lined around the walls. My favorite speaker propounded the Eleventh Commandment: “Thou shalt not take thyself too goddamned seriously.”

  Making that maxim my unspoken theme, I got up and parodied the previous speakers. The folks there were mostly middle-aged and elderly, while I was a college senior, and they seemed to relish the notion of fresh young blood in their movement.

  My companions weren’t interested in staying, though. Had I left with them that evening in 1953, the rest of my life could have taken a totally different path. Instead, I went along with the group to a nearby cafeteria, where I learned about the New York Rationalist Society. A whole new world of disbelief was opening up to me. On Saturday evening I went to their meeting. The emcee was an ex-circus performer who entertained his fellow rationalists by putting four golf balls into his mouth. He also recommended an anti-censorship tabloid called Exposé.

  The next week I went to their office to subscribe and get back issues. I ended up with a part-time job, stuffing envelopes for a dollar an hour. My apprenticeship had begun. Lyle Stuart, the editor of Exposé, was the most dynamic individual I’d ever met. His integrity was such that if he possessed information he had a vested interest in keeping quiet—such as corruption involving a corporation in which he owned stock—this would automatically become top priority for publication in Exposé. He started a program to get jobs for the members of a tough street gang in his neighborhood, hiring three of them himself.

  Lyle became my media mentor and my unrelenting guru. He and his wife, Mary Louise, were my flesh-and-blood role models. I had never seen such a loving couple, so filled with affection and respect and humor. I had never had any intimate friends before.

  Lyle was working on a book, The Secret Life of Walter Winchell, and had published an article about the gossip columnist in Exposé. In order to ingratiate themselves with Winchell, thugs ambushed Lyle and beat him up; an ambitious attorney poured mimeograph ink over copies of Exposé; and Confidential magazine ran an article smearing Lyle. He decided to sue for libel. My assignment was to serve a subpoena on the publisher. I succeeded on my first try, and just stood there in his office.

  “Okay, “ he said, “it’s served. What the hell are you waiting for, a tip?”

  Exposé was dedicated to classical social and political muckracking, with articles on “Cancer Research” and “The Telephone Monopoly.” But the name Exposé got confused with the slick scandal magazines that were flourishing—Confidential and its imitators, Exposed, Whisper, Secret—and so Exposé became The Independent.

  One of my early responsibilities was to write ads for the books we offered, including The American Sexual Tragedy by Dr. Albert Ellis. Since his approach—rational hedonism—was so against the grain of mainstream culture, I asked to see any articles he had written that remained unpublished because they violated current taboos. He sent half a dozen pieces, which we published as a series in The Independent, and Ellis became a regular contributor. A few years later, Lyle Stuart would publish the Ellis columns in an anthology, Sex Without Guilt. He had become a book publisher on the basis of the money he’d won in the Confidential lawsuit.

  I began writing a column, “Tomorrow’s Leaders,” for The Independent. I was getting college credit for working there, but in my final semester I failed a course, leaving me three credits short of a degree. I started to take it again in the summer, but had no motivation. One day I just decided to walk out of the class, and I never came back. I didn’t care about graduating. Even if I had a diploma, I wouldn’t have put it on my wall. And I didn’t want a job where having a college degree was a prerequisite. I felt happier and more liberated than I’d ever been, but I had a difficult time explaining this to my parents. In fact, for a long time, I tried to make them believe that I had actually graduated.

  Attorney Rowland Watts concluded a study of the injustices of the Military Personnel Security Program, whereby every draftee was required to sign a statement swearing that he didn’t belong to any of the six hundred so-called subversive organizations that were listed. I wrote a feature story about it which Lyle ran on the front page of The Independent. Soon after, I received my draft notice, but that was probably just a coincidence, since my college deferment was over. I decided to challenge the constitutionality of the army Loyalty Program, because it was such a violation of freedom of assembly.

  Originally I had planned to be a conscientious objector, challenging the constitutionality of the law that required CO’s to believe in God, but someone else was already doing that. Ironically, I now expected to be waging a legal fight to get into the army. I went to the American Civil Liberties Union for help. I had never joined any group, so the ACLU attorney—who turned out to be Rowland Watts—was pleased. Since I wasn’t trying to hide any subversive memberships, I would be an ideal test case. However, in preparing my statement, Watts suggested that I state that I was not a Communist. I refused.

  “I’ll tell you I’m not a Communist,” I said, “but if I tell them that, then I might as well tell them that I don’t belong to the Nature Friends of America—which is also on their list, as you know. I have to draw the line at the beginning or not at all.”

  He agreed, and we proceeded to prepare this statement:I am willing to certify that I have not engaged in any acts of sabotage, espio
nage, treason, or sedition, and I affirm my loyalty to the United States, and am willing to take the Serviceman’s Oath. However, I refuse to further answer the questions on this “loyalty” certificate because I sincerely believe that such inquiry into my activities and associations is a serious invasion of privacy and violates the First Amendment.

  Then came the waiting to be inducted. And the anxiety. I dreaded the possibility of involving anyone else, and I was afraid that my family would be traumatized by the investigation that would become an automatic procedure once I defied the system. Because of this anxiety, I developed a skin condition and picked at it with great diligence. As my apprehension grew, my face became highlighted by open sores.

  At the army physical, I traveled along their conveyor belt of naked draftees, being inspected by one doctor after another, a specialist for every orifice. The rectum inspector had his own mantra: “Bend over and spread your cheeks.” I asked, “What do you dream about at night?” He just sneered at me.

  Now I was waiting on the final line. When I reached the desk I would have to announce that I refused to sign their loyalty pledge. My heart was throbbing. I kept reassuring myself that I was doing the right thing. Finally I was first in line, perspiring with panic. The sergeant sitting there looked at my sheaf of papers with all the medical and psychological data. Then he told me I was classified 4-F. They had rejected me because of my severe skin condition. I was free to go home. They were supposed to give me a subway token, but I didn’t have the nerve to ask for it.

  William M. Gaines was the head of Entertaining Comics, which published a line of crime and horror comics—plus Mad. Here was a comic book that poked creative fun at society in general and comic books in particular. What a kick to see Clark Kent going to a phone booth to change into his Superman outfit, only to find that Captain Marvel was already there. Mad’s mascot was Alfred E. Neuman, a gap-toothed, floppy-eared, dim-witted youngster whose total philosophy consisted of “What—me worry?”

  His likeness was reproduced in college magazines and prison newspapers. On TV, Fred Astaire wore a rubber Alfred E. Neuman mask while dancing with Juliet Prowse to the tune of “Sophisticated Lady.” In Florida, a practical joker matched his name up with a local girl, and the story landed on the society page.

  Before he became Alfred E. Neuman, the kid had been kicking around for a long time in different forms. During the Depression, he was the most popular of the Gloom Chaser motto card series. Previously, on highway billboards advertising a patent medicine called Papaya, his face had appeared with the caption, “Have the Appetite of a Country Boy.” He was also used in ads for Thom McAn safety shoes. His picture appeared in psychology textbooks as an idiot, and in biology textbooks as one who lacked enough iodine in his diet.

  When Lyle Stuart subscribed to Mad with a fan letter, Bill Gaines wrote back, revealing that he had been a charter subscriber to The Independent. Gaines signed his letter, “In awe.” This led to their friendship, which led to a business relationship. Lyle accepted a position as general manager, and the office of The Independent moved downtown to what was unofficially known as the Mad building at 225 Lafayette Street.

  We were on the seventh floor, right next door to the Mad office. The first time I met Bill Gaines, he was chasing his secretary around the room, trying to stamp fragile on her forehead. Apparently this was a courtship rite, because they eventually got married. Since I was working for Lyle, I would also be doing things for Mad.

  My first errand was to deliver a package to Bob and Ray while they were doing their morning radio show at WINS. They were just sitting there, relaxed and reading newspapers while a commercial was on. They had been preceded that night by the debut of Alan Freed—who invented the term rock and roll, acting it out as he banged the table and shouted along with the records he played. Bob and Ray were speculating about Freed’s secret musical taste: “I’ll bet he goes home and listens to André Kostelanetz.”

  I had also started to perform stand-up comedy in little out-of-the-way nightclubs under my new stage name—Paul Maul—wearing a bebop cap and using my violin in the act. I provided my own musical accompaniment for “This is Your Reincarnation,” in which I honored the presence of an invisible worm that had been Sigmund Freud in a previous lifetime. In another bit, “Music to Masturbate By,” I played a medley of songs such as Irving Berlin’s “All Alone.”

  One club owner objected: “You gotta understand, people are having their dinner here, they don’t wanna hear jokes about jerkin’ off!”

  I also got in trouble for satirizing Senator Joe McCarthy’s anti-Communist crusade while people were eating. And, at the Five Spot, a jazz club on the Lower East Side, I was wondering aloud how the Virgin Mary felt when her period was late, and a somewhat tipsy man came out of the audience toward the stage.

  “Hey, listen,” he said, “I happen to be Catholic, and I don’t appreciate your talking that way about the Holy Mother.”

  He looked like he wanted to punch me. I stood holding the microphone stand between us, ready to protect myself with it. “I’m sorry if I offended you,” I said, “but don’t you think you should consult your priest before you slug me?” The audience laughed, the guy realized where he was and went back to his seat. So this was comedy.

  When Bill Gaines invited me to perform at the Mad Christmas party, it became the highlight of my career, to entertain this whole gang of artists and writers who were slicing through American piety with such vengeance and imagination. But then, on New Year’s Eve, I was scheduled to perform for a big party at a nightclub in the Bronx. Everybody was boisterously drunk by the time the band stopped playing and I got introduced. I was just beginning to talk when somebody called out, “Get’im off! We wanna dance!” Someone else yelled, “Yeah, we wanna dance!”

  I could see myself from their point of view, and agreed completely. “You’re right,” I said. “Have fun! Happy New Year!” And I walked off the stage. I left the club without getting paid, welcoming the New Year in at midnight while sitting on a subway train with a bunch of inebriated strangers. My father thought I should’ve gone on with my performance, no matter what, and he called me a quitter. I figured maybe it was time for Paul Maul to get out of show business.

  It was bad enough when the Boy Scouts officially sponsored a project to confiscate comic-book collections because they were reputed to breed polio bacteria. But then a psychiatrist, Frederic Wertham, wrote a book, Seduction of the Innocent, blaming the rise of juvenile delinquency on comic books, and hysteria really began to have a field day. There were newsstand boycotts and comic-book burnings. The Senate Judiciary Committee conducted special hearings to investigate the need for legislation to ban certain kinds of comic books.

  The prime example developed out of an argument that artist Johnny Craig had with his wife. He came to the office late one night to let out his aggression in the form of a cover for Crime SuspenStories. It showed a man with an ax in one hand and the severed head of a woman in the other. Blood was dripping from her neck, her eyes were rolled back into her head, and her mouth was drooling saliva. Bill Gaines told Craig to eliminate the bleeding neck because it was just too gory. Later, when Gaines volunteered to testify at the hearings, Senator Estes Kefauver held up that very issue.

  Kefauver: This seems to be a man with a bloody ax holding a woman’s head up which has been severed from her body. Do you think that this is in good taste?

  Gaines: Yes, sir, I do—for the cover of a horror comic. A cover in bad taste, for example, might be defined as holding the head a little higher so that the neck could be seen dripping blood from it, and moving the body over a little further so that the neck of the body could be seen to be bloody.

  Kefauver: You’ve got blood coming out of her mouth.

  Gaines: A little.

  Kefauver: And here’s blood on the ax. I think most adults are shocked by that.

  The senators tasted blood, and so did the press. Ultimately, to avoid government censorship, several publ
ishers formed the Comics Magazine Association of America, which would require a stamp of approval on the cover of every comic book, guaranteeing that the contents were “wholesome, entertaining, and educational.” Rather than risk the loss of distribution, publishers toned down their material to meet those subjective standards.

  Lyle Stuart and Bill Gaines had initiated the association, yet now they wouldn’t be allowed in it, for how could Mad possibly dilute its irreverence? Lyle suggested that they change it from a comic book to a magazine, so that it wouldn’t be subject to the Comics Code. Gaines said that he didn’t know anything about magazines, but Lyle assured him they could both learn together. Meanwhile, Mad’s editor, Harvey Kurtzman, was resigning because he had been promised the last third of every issue of Pageant magazine. Lyle talked Kurtzman out of leaving Mad and talked Gaines into publishing it as a magazine.

  I flew to Florida with Lyle and Mary Louise for a vacation at her folks’ ranch. It was the first time I had ever been on a plane. Now I was on a horse for the first time—clowning around by sitting backward—and didn’t see a tree limb coming. It knocked me off the horse. We could hear Mary Louise calling Lyle, and when he saw that I wasn’t injured, we both ran to the house. There was somebody on the phone for him.

  When he picked it up and said, “Hello,” a voice said, “Lyle?” He answered, “Yes.” Then the other voice said, “Fuck you,” and hung up. Lyle recognized the voice, laughed, and announced, “That was Bill.” The phone rang again. This time Gaines said, “I’m in trouble.” He told Lyle that Harvey Kurtzman was demanding 51 percent of Mad ’s stock or he would quit. Kurtzman was waiting outside Gaines’s office that very minute for a decision.