It's Not Easy Bein' Me

by Rodney Dangerfield

  It’s Not Easy Bein’ Me

  A Lifetime of No Respect but Plenty of Sex and Drugs

  Rodney Dangerfield

  Courtesy of the collection of Rodney Dangerfield.

  I dedicate this book to my wife, Joan,

  and to all the girls who let me sleep over

  Courtesy of the collection of Rodney Dangerfield.

  Contents

  Foreword by Jim Carrey

  Introduction

  Chapter 1 I Was a Male Hooker

  Chapter 2 How Can I Get a Job Like That?

  Chapter 3 Plans for Conquering the World

  Chapter 4 Very Naked from the Waist Up

  Chapter 5 I Needed $3,000 to Get Out of Jail

  Chapter 6 Why Didn’t You Tell Me You Were Funny?

  Chapter 7 Some Show Business on the Side

  Chapter 8 I Am Not High!

  Chapter 9 Can I Have Your Autograph and More Butter?

  Chapter 10 Let the Good Times Roll

  Chapter 11 A Night with Lenny Bruce

  Chapter 12 Stuck in a Bag of Mixed Nuts

  Chapter 13 I’m Not Going!

  Chapter 14 Three Lucky Breaks

  Chapter 15 Turkeys in Wheelchairs

  Chapter 16 My Heart Started Doing Somersaults

  Chapter 17 End of the Line

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Foreword

  by Jim Carrey

  The book you are holding in your hands—or clenched in your teeth, maybe?—is the amazing life story of one of my all-time heroes, Rodney Dangerfield.

  I’ve read it twice—the first time, quickly, to see what he said about me, the second time to learn about his amazing life.

  Rodney is, without a doubt, as funny as a carbon-based life-form can be. Watching his act is like watching a boxing match on fast-forward. His biggest problem is that he fires off his brilliant one-liners so fast that by the time you’ve recovered from one joke, you’ve already missed the next three. Rodney is a walking encyclopedia of stand-up comedy, spanning the generations, from nightclubs to websites, from Ed Sullivan to Conan O’Brien. And through it all, for more than fifty years, he has remained high, I mean really hip.

  In addition to performing his own comedy, he has given a big boost to hundreds of comics. As the owner of Dangerfield’s, his nightclub in New York, and through his HBO specials, he has always been a young comedian’s best friend. His eye for talent is unmatched, and he never took the safe way out. He fostered plenty of mainstream comedians, but his heart really went out to the edgy performers, those men (Sam Kinison) and women (Roseanne) who had a hard time getting booked when they were starting out because they weren’t “user-friendly.” He even helped discover a young impressionist from Canada who dreamed, at one time, of being the next Rich Little. (For those of you who are moving your lips as you read this, that young impressionist was me.) More than twenty years ago, I was performing in a small club in Toronto when I got my first gig opening for Rodney at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. That was a very big deal for me, a huge break, and someday, I’m going to thank Rodney for giving me that break. Someday.

  After that run in Vegas, Rodney took me on tour with him for a couple of years, and we had a lot of laughs, and a lot of bad airplane meals. One day, though, I decided to change my act—I wanted to stop doing my impressions and start being myself onstage. Well, things got pretty weird for a while after that. And by “weird” I mean that I was bombing night after night. But I stuck with it, mainly because I could always hear Rodney laughing in the wings. After a show, he’d say to me, “Man, those people were lookin’ at you like you were from another planet!” But I was making him laugh, so I knew I was onto something. A lot of comedians, even a star as big as Rodney Dangerfield, would have dumped an opening act that wasn’t making his audience laugh, but Rodney stood by me, told me to keep on doing what I was doing.

  He, of course, knew something about sticking with it. He struggled for decades before he reached the top of his profession. I don’t know if anybody remembers the era of the comedy club—they were quite popular places at one time, but you can only see them now in the Smithsonian, I think—but I did stand-up in clubs for fifteen years and sometimes the only thing that kept me going was the thought that Rodney had dropped out of the business when he was thirty but had come back and made it when he was in his forties. Made it big. In a business that almost always values youth over talent, he was—and still is—absolute proof that it’s never too late to make your mark. You may have to quit for a while and sell some aluminum siding, but you don’t have to give up your dreams.

  Most people don’t know this about Rodney, but he is also a very sweet and generous man. We’re talking about a guy who has dozens of people walk up to him every day of his life and say, “Hey, Rodney, I’ll give you some respect,” as if he’s never heard it before, and not once has he cold-cocked anyone. That alone is an incredible achievement. I know because, apparently, I’m smokin’!

  Rodney has written thousands of great jokes, but for me, his funniest line is his classic setup, “I don’t get no respect.” That’s almost an inside joke because from me, and from all the hundreds of comedians he has helped and inspired, and from anybody who digs great comedy, he gets nothing but love and respect.

  Introduction

  Here I am, eighty-two years old, writing a book. According to statistics about men in their eighties, only one out of a hundred makes it to ninety. With odds like that, I’m writing very fast. I want to get it all done. I mean, I’m not a kid anymore, I’m getting old. The other night, I was driving, I had an accident. I was arrested for hit-and-walk.

  I know I’m getting old, are you kiddin’? I got no sex life. This morning, when I woke up, vultures were circling my crotch.

  Hey, you know when you’re really old? When your testicles tell you it’s time to mow the lawn.

  It’s hard for me to accept the fact that soon my life will be over. No more Super Bowls. No more Chinese food. No more sex. And the big one, no more smoking pot.

  Many years ago, my wife and I were living with a friend of mine in Englewood, New Jersey. He had a big house, and we all shared it for a while.

  One night I came home late and I was hungry. I saw on the kitchen table a big, beautiful German chocolate cake. Right away, the plan hit me. I smoked a joint and then I started drinking skim milk and eating chocolate cake.

  Before I knew it, I had eaten half the cake.

  I lit a cigarette, sat back, and relaxed.

  I looked over at the remaining cake. I noticed the chocolate was moving. I didn’t believe it. I looked closer. I saw there were thousands of red ants stacked at the bottom of the cake, crawling all over. But there were no ants on the side of the plate where I had eaten the cake. I knew the ants hadn’t stopped at that imaginary line.

  I realized I had eaten an army of red ants.

  I called the hospital. They told me not to worry, it would all come out as waste. Funny. That’s what a lot of people told my mother when she was pregnant with me.

  Jump forward ten years. I’m forty, broke. My mother is dying of cancer. I owe $20,000 to an aluminum-siding company. My wife is sick. I’ve got two kids. I need money now. What am I gonna do?

  Hey, wait a minute.

  To tell this story right, I gotta go way back.

  Chapter One

  I Was a Male Hooker…

  Most kids never live up to their baby pictures.

  Roy and Arthur was a vaudeville comedy team. Roy was my father; Arthur was my uncle Bunk. On November 22, 1921, after their last show that night in Philadelphia, Phil Roy got a call backstage, where he was told, “It’s a boy!”
<
br />   My father drove that night from Philadelphia to Babylon, Long Island, to greet his new son, Jacob Cohen. Me. (My father’s real name was Phillip Cohen; his stage name was Phil Roy.)

  I was born in an eighteen-room house owned by my mother’s sister Rose and her husband. After a couple of weeks, my mother took me back to her place in Jamaica, Queens, where we lived with my four-year-old sister, Marion, my mother’s mother, my mother’s other three sisters—Esther, Peggy, and Pearlie—her brother Joe, and a Swedish carpenter named Mack, who Esther later married. The whole family had come to America from Hungary when my mother was four.

  My mother’s father—my grandfather—was almost never referred to in that house. Rumor has it he’s still in Hungary—and still drinking. My dad wasn’t around much, either. I found out much later that he was a ladies’ man. Dad had no time for his kids—he was always out trying to make new kids. I was born on my father’s birthday. It didn’t mean a fucking thing. His first wife was a southern girl. It was literally a shotgun wedding—and the marriage lasted until my father went back on the road with his vaudeville act.

  * * *

  I was an ugly kid. When I was born, after the doctor cut the cord, he hung himself.

  * * *

  My mother was my dad’s second wife. She was pregnant with my older sister, Marion, so Dad did the honorable thing.

  I feel awkward referring to my father as “Dad.” When you hear that word, you picture a man who looks forward to spending time with his family, a man who takes his son camping or to a ball game every once in a while. My father and I did none of those things. He didn’t live with us. Show business kept him on the road practically all the time—or was it my mother?

  My mother and father in one of the rare moments I saw them together.

  Courtesy of the collection of Rodney Dangerfield.

  As you can see I was a serious kid. I had only one thing on my mind—to play Las Vegas.

  Courtesy of the collection of Rodney Dangerfield.

  When my father wasn’t on the road, he’d stay in New York City. About every six months, I’d take the train from Kew Gardens into New York to see him. We’d walk around for an hour and talk—not that we ever had much to say to each other—then he’d walk me back to the subway and give me some change. I’d say, “Thank you,” and then take the subway back home.

  I figured out that during my entire childhood, my father saw me for two hours a year.

  * * *

  In my life I’ve been through plenty. When I was three years old, my parents got a dog. I was jealous of the dog, so they got rid of me.

  * * *

  Although I didn’t realize it at the time, my childhood was rather odd. I was raised by my mother, who ran a very cold household. I never got a kiss, a hug, or a compliment. My mother wouldn’t even tuck me in, and forget about kissing me good night. On my birthdays, I never got a present, a card, nothing.

  I guess that’s why I went into show business—to get some love. I wanted people to tell me I was good, tell me I’m okay. Let me hear the laughs, the applause. I’ll take love any way I can get it.

  When I was three years old, I witnessed my first act of violence. I walked into the living room and saw my mother lying on the couch, being beaten by her four sisters. My mother was kicking and screaming.

  “Get Joe!” She yelled, “Get Joe!”

  I did what my mother told me. I ran up two flights of stairs and started pulling on her brother Joe to wake him up. I kept repeating, “Uncle Joe, downstairs! Downstairs!” He came down and broke it up.

  * * *

  What a childhood I had. Once on my birthday my ol’ man gave me a bat. The first day I played with it, it flew away.

  * * *

  From the time I was four years old, I had to make my own entertainment. There was a parking lot next to our three-story building that was always vacant after dark. Every night I would hear voices below my window, and I knew what that meant—there was going to be a fight. This is where the local tough guys would come to settle their beefs.

  From my windowsill, I had the best seat in the house. Many nights, about twenty guys would be down there, rooting for whichever fella they wanted to win. The fight itself was usually over in a few minutes—the winner would walk away happy with his pals, while the loser was left on the ground, usually bleeding, usually with a couple of his consoling buddies.

  Even as a little kid I always identified with the loser. Most kids fall asleep listening to a fairy tale. I fell asleep listening to a guy yelling, “Enough! I’ve had enough!”

  * * *

  I told my doctor I broke my arm in two places. He told me to keep out of those places.

  * * *

  My mother was coldhearted and selfish, and her sisters weren’t much better. I remember being lied to by my aunt Pearlie when I was four. She was taking my sister to the movies and I wanted to go, too, but she wouldn’t take me, so I pleaded and pleaded until she finally said, “Okay. Go wash your face and hands real good, and I’ll take you with us.”

  I was so happy that I ran into the house and up two flights of stairs to the bathroom to wash my face and hands. But when I came back out, Pearlie and Marion were gone. I could see them down the block, running away from me. I stood there crying and yelling, “Pearlie, I washed my hands and face real good…”

  * * *

  When I was a kid, I never went to Disneyland. My ol’ man told me Mickey Mouse died in a cancer experiment.

  * * *

  I was four years old when I got my first laugh. One night when I finished my dinner I said, “I’m still hungry.”

  My mother said, “You’ve had sufficient.”

  I told her, “I didn’t even have any fish.”

  Most of the time, my grandmother kept an eye on me, if you’d call it that. She would be in the kitchen doing her chores while I’d be in the backyard banging nails into pieces of wood all day. Once in a while she’d glance out the window to see if I was still banging.

  One day I got curious about what was on the other side of our fence, so I put my hammer down and walked out of the backyard. I walked a half block to Jamaica Avenue, the main drag in the area, and suddenly I found myself in the midst of a hustling, bustling neighborhood. I thought, Boy, this is fun. To hell with hammering nails.

  After that, I used to walk there every day. My grandmother never noticed that I was gone.

  On one of my walks—I was five by this time—a man asked me to come up to his office. After I’d climbed a couple flights of stairs, he offered me a nickel if I’d sit on his lap.

  Wow, I thought, a nickel!

  So I sat on this man’s lap. He held me and then kissed me on the lips for about five minutes. Then he said, “You can go now, but don’t tell anybody about this. Come by again tomorrow, and I’ll give you another nickel.”

  I never told anyone, and I kept going back to that man every day, and I got a nickel each time. How long did this go on? I don’t remember. It could have been a few days, a few weeks. Or maybe it was just a summer thing. Let’s face it—at five years old, I was a male hooker.

  Thanks for lookin’ after me, Ma.

  * * *

  When I was a kid I got no respect. When my parents got divorced there was a custody fight over me…and no one showed up.

  * * *

  I was ten when the Great Depression hit. Money was very tight then, so my father arranged for us to live with his mother in the East Bronx, in a really poor and rough neighborhood. She had a small one-bedroom apartment on the top floor of a six-story walk-up. My mother and sister slept in the living room, and I slept on a cot in the foyer. My father stayed at his place in New York.

  School was tough.

  All the kids wanted to fight and the teachers hit you, too.

  My teacher, Mr. O’Connor, was a strange man. He had a beautiful voice—an Irish tenor—and when he sang “The Rose of Tralee,” you loved him. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who’d tell
students “you’re getting one” or “you’re getting two.”

  If you misbehaved he would call you to the front of the class. “Put your hand out,” he would say, “palm up.” Then he’d tell you how many times he was going to smack you with his thick ruler, depending upon what you had done and his mood.

  I made sure I was a good boy that year, but I slipped just before Christmas. The whole class built a beautiful cardboard display about the yuletide season—one day, I gently touched the display, but I guess I wasn’t gentle enough because my finger went through the cardboard and poked a hole in those snow-covered “mountains.”

  As I pulled my finger back, I could see Mr. O’Connor looking at me.

  Then I heard those famous words: “All right, front of the class. Put your hand out, palm up.”

  I was hoping I’d just get one.

  Then he said, “You’re getting two.”

  He gave me the first one, and it hurt like hell. Then before I could recover, he hit me again.

  As I was standing there in pain, my hand burning, I said to him, “How about a song?”

  Then I got two more.