by Bob Zmuda
Andy was taken by the unfairness of show business and the small twists of fate that propel one person to great heights and cast another into the depths. In keeping with the Has-Been Corner and its cavalier dismissal of one’s life work, Andy loved the notion that just as one guy’s big chance presents itself, another, bigger fish just swims in and sucks him up without so much as a second thought.
For our little experiment in Columbus, our young comic was replaced by Dr. Zmudee, an expert on an arcane field of psychology called psychogenesis. Psychogenesis is an actual field of study. In laymen’s terms, it is the origin of physical or psychological states, be they normal or abnormal, as seen as a product of the interaction between conscious and unconscious psychological pressures. Did I lose you? Good. That said, we went to Ohio to play out this human drama.
We met with Burt outside the production facility and told him what we planned. He balked at first but Andy reminded him of his promise to let us do what we wanted. Andy also stipulated that Burt was not to tell anyone else of our charade — or that Andy and I knew each other — particularly the host of Bananaz. Then I left for the studio.
Once the taping of Bananaz was under way, the host introduced me to his audience, comprising people ranging in age from about six to ten.
“Kids, today we have a very smart man, Dr. Zmudee, who has written a really interesting book called Psychogenesis. Welcome, Dr. Zmudee,” he said as I entered and sat down. “So, tell us about your book.”
Had the host said I was going to come out and skin a live cat the applause might have been warmer, but undaunted I proceeded to launch into a turgid description of the theory of psychogenesis and my attendant book. The real study of psychogenesis is so complex it would have taxed a room full of physicists, but to a pack of children my words instantly threw them into exquisite boredom. Meanwhile, the host, though completely lost in my gobbledygook, was trying his best to feign interest as I earnestly tried to convey the extreme importance of my life’s study.
Magically, out of the wings, like the angel Gabriel sent to save the show, came the rising young television star Andy Kaufman. There was a collective sigh from the children, the host, and the crew, as if they were being delivered from a firing squad. Andy entered waving. No one of his caliber had ever guested the show. In just a few seconds the audience had been spared a death by psychogenesis and had been given the joy of having a real entertainer in their midst. In about ten minutes Andy had the crowd nuts with glee, as Dr. Zmudee sat mute and smoldering, his big chance at explaining psychogenesis trammeled by this upstart. Andy finally left to screams and cheers, and Dr. Zmudee began where he’d left off. A pall again visited the set and settled in as the good doctor rambled on about his abstruse field of interest.
Suddenly Andy appeared again, this time armed with his congas. The house went wild and he began an animated set of drumming and singing as the now quite irritated Dr. Zmudee sat uncomfortably nearby and watched as his opportunity passed. After a few minutes, Dr. Zmudee could stand it no more. He jumped to his feet and demanded of the host that the enormously rude Kaufman be made to leave so that he could finish his interview.
“Hey kids,” said Andy brightly, “who do you want to see? Him … or me?”
The kids clamored in unison, “YOU!!!” The vote thus tallied, the steaming Dr. Zmudee had lost by a landslide.
“You’re just a bunch of uneducated little brats,” spat Dr. Zmudee. “You wouldn’t know something of substance if it bit you on the ass!”
The gauntlet now hurled, the kids responded with angry hisses and boos as the host paled, having lost any control. Andy tapped his conga as he beat out an attack on Dr. Zmudee. “Hey, Doc, why don’t you take your book and go home. Better yet, why don’t you write the follow-up, How to Put an Audience to Sleep in Two Minutes.”
As the kids laughed him to scorn, Dr. Zmudee snapped. He leaped across the stage at the conga-playing smart-ass who had ruined his big interview. (Allow me to note that this production was going out live to greater Columbus.) Dr. Zmudee shoved Andy to the floor, but the plucky comedian responded by rebounding and applying a classic wrestling hold. The battle escalated to the cheers of the little Romans. A shocked Hurt Dubrow made a quick decision from the control booth. Reaching over the console, he flipped a switch cutting the signal to thousands of sets across the city.
Suddenly the station’s switchboard lit up like Times Square. Hundreds of incensed and distraught parents were furious over the spectacle of two men fighting on their children’s show, but were probably even more pissed that the station went to black before they could ascertain a winner. Burt was summoned to his boss’s office and given the ultimatum that his job was at stake if Andy and Dr. Zmudee didn’t go on the five o’clock news to explain and apologize.
When the time came we faced the camera, side by side, ready to be interviewed by the two anchors. We stared blankly into the lens like a pair of zombies, seeming merely to mouth the words we’d been given. We later called this the “Viet Cong Confession.”
“So Andy,” said one of the chipper anchors, “you two actually know each other?”
“Yes,” droned Andy, doing his best automaton, “that is true.”
“Yes, right,” I concurred robotically, “we know one another.”
The anchors didn’t know what to make of our odd behavior and continued. “And Dr. Zmudee? You’re not really a doctor, is that right?”
“No,” I said.
There was a second of confusion as the other anchor picked up the cue. “Is that no, you’re not a doctor, or no, that’s not right and in fact you are?”
“Correct,” I said.
Before they could ask any more dumb questions Andy and I suddenly turned on each other and started the fight all over. They quickly cut to a commercial as we caromed off the desk and nearly destroyed their weather map. Security was called to escort us out of the facility. Separate cabs were hailed and we were sent to the airport, where we reunited in a lounge and laughed our asses off.
Burt kept his job, mostly because the station’s ratings quadrupled during that five o’clock newscast. Perhaps Burt discovered something that day, for he would, years later, become a wildly rich man as co-creator and executive producer of that other unbridled slugfest, Ferry Springer. Years later, Andy and I would reissue this bit, including the Viet Cong Confession, on the ABC show Fridays to a great deal of clamor in the press and from the public. The influences of Kaufmanism would be felt near and far for years to come.
5
Stuck in a Taxi
It was as if all the other comedians were speaking English and he was speaking Chinese.
JAY LENO
From Columbus we flew to Philadelphia for Andy to do an appearance on The Mike Douglas Show. The interview went fine, but it was what Mike told Andy off-camera that blew his mind. Jerry Weintraub, who had been a business partner with the late Elvis Presley, was an acquaintance of Mike’s and once told him that of all the Elvis impressionists, the King thought Andy was by far the best. When Mike passed that on, Andy was shocked and touched. That he had come full circle from that encounter just outside the cupboard in the Las Vegas Hilton gave him a lot to ponder.
One reason Elvis had so appreciated Andy’s impression of him was that Andy did a very early version of Elvis — the period of which Elvis was most fond. Unlike most imitators, Andy didn’t do the standard Vegas Elvis, but rather did the younger “Rockabilly Cat” that Elvis had evolved away from but always yearned to return to. When Andy did The Tonight Show, SNL, or any network show, he always chose some obscure Elvis song with which to lead in.
Andy’s management, myself included, always argued he should go with the more mainstream, better-known Elvis numbers, but Andy was adamant about leading with a little known ditty — little known, that is, to everyone but extreme hardcore fans… and the King himself. The fact that Andy was actually a pretty respectable rockabilly singer has been pointed out to me a number of times over the year
s by some very well known musicians.
Many people have asked me about Andy’s reaction to Elvis’s death, and I told them all the same one word answer: none, at least publicly. Andy Kaufman had been an Elvis fan almost from day one. All the uproar put him off, as if a bunch of distant acquaintances had arrived at the funeral, and Andy, as a close family member, had had to retreat into his own private grief. Andy’s relationship with Elvis was very personal to him and therefore did not require the validation of public garment-rending.
Several years later, Andy and I found ourselves in Memphis before one of Andy’s infamous wrestling matches with Jerry Lawler. We decided we had to make our pilgrimage to Grace-land. Inside the gates of the Temple of Elvis, some of the employees recognized Andy and whisked us out of the main tour group and into the area normally off-limits to the public. The woman showing us around took us into a room containing Elvis’s collection of videotapes.
“Elvis, he was a big fan of yours,” said the custodian. She pointed at a section of the tapes. “Those have you on ‘em.”
Andy slid a tape out and, sure enough, it was marked “Andy Kaufman.” Andy’s eyes teared at the notion he’d had an influence on the King. Mike Douglas telling him thirdhand was one thing, but this was putting his hands in the wounds. Andy looked at me and for the first time I’d observed, his eyes expressed both the surprise and sadness that Elvis was gone. It was almost as if Andy were mourning the loss of his chance to say, Hey, Elvis, remember me? That crazy kid in the cupboard in Vegas?
“I guess it’s true,” he said simply. “It’s true what Mike Douglas said.”
“Yeah,” I said, “it sure is.”
We were then shown upstairs to the King’s bedroom. We both eyed the door to the very bathroom where The Man exited this mortal coil. I engaged our guide in some bullshit conversation while Andy made a beeline for the can before she could object. A few minutes later he reappeared, accompanied by the whooshing sound of the just-flushed commode. As we walked downstairs to see the grounds, Andy whispered to me, “I used Elvis’s throne … I mean really used it! It was amazing, absolutely amazing.” Andy was discovering that celebrity had its rewards.
After our Graceland tour we drove down to Tupelo, Mississippi, to pay homage to Elvis’s birthplace. As we pulled up, Andy and I stopped and looked at the humble boyhood home of Andy’s hero. I decided to Kaufmanize my friend. “Hey,” I urged, “you oughtta put on your Elvis outfit, the full show. Go in like that.”
Andy looked at me, eyes narrowed. “Really? You think I should?”
“Oh yeah, absolutely. Elvis would have wanted that.”
Andy surveyed the small home with a few people milling around. “Think it’s too much?”
“Jesus, Kaufman, has that ever stopped you?”
He pondered for a moment, as if weighing the fine line between blasphemy and a heartfelt tribute. “Okay.”
He got out of the car, removed the outfit from the trunk, and put it on, right there in front of the house. “How do I look?” he asked, now fully Elvisized.
“Like Elvis,” I said.
“Okay, let’s go,” he said, like a man going into combat.
We entered the humble little home to some pretty serious stares, some not so friendly. The caretaker looked slightly irritated. As we entered Elvis’s bedroom I motioned to the bed. For a moment we were alone. “Get on, I’ll take a picture.”
Andy looked around. “You think I should?”
“Of course, it’s a natural.”
Andy gingerly lay on the bed, as if the ghost of Elvis would suddenly rise from the mattress and clutch him as payback for this transgression as well as for using his crapper. I snapped a few shots. In the car as we drove away I looked over shaking my head. “I can’t fucking believe you did that.”
He looked at me, puzzled. “Whaddya mean? Did what?”
“Got on Elvis’s bed … dressed as Elvis!”
“Well, shit, Zmuda, you told me to!”
I started laughing. “I know, I know, but I didn’t think you would!”
Andy began laughing with me. “Those people must have thought I was crazy.”
“Oh yeah, they did.”
Our laughter went to the next level. As tears streamed down our faces, and I fought to control the car, Andy sputtered, “I’ll get you for this, Zmuda!”
Andy had loved the experience, and that situation sort of summarized our relationship: two friends pushing each other to do things we never would have done on our own. And if they were stupid or silly things, so much the better.
One reason Andy went to Hollywood to pursue his career was that Lorne Michaels wouldn’t put him on full-time at SNL. Lorne’s excuse to Andy was that his appearing more than once every few weeks was too much given Andy’s bizarre brand of humor. Lorne tried to persuade Andy to remain in New York as the darling of the chic entertainment/art set. When Andy went west, Lorne was disappointed, feeling he’d lost one of his favorite resources. Before Andy left New York Lorne cautioned that sitcoms were the lowest form of entertainment. That was before Taxi was even a notion in the heads of the producers. Lorne’s words stayed with Andy, and despite Shapiro and West’s efforts to find him a sitcom, he told me he was hesitant to take the opportunity if it arose.
Taxi was still on the drawing boards when Jim Brooks and the show’s other writers and producers sat down at the Comedy Store one night in the spring of 1978 to check out Andy. Tony Clifton appeared, did an obnoxious set, and then introduced Andy, who did his usual oddball but terrific set. The producers were enamored of Foreign Man but were stunned and wholly impressed when they learned that Clifton was really Andy. Strong word of mouth coupled with that eye-opening firsthand experience was enough to persuade the producers to make an offer. Andy accepted on one condition: they had to create two contracts, one for Andy, another for Tony. It was agreed that Tony Clifton would appear in one or two episodes during the first season. Tony was also to be assigned his own parking place. Andy took the deal and signed on to star in Taxi.
In reality, the makers of Taxi were essentially buying Foreign Man. They loved the character and had in mind a variation on that theme for the show. Though it was a huge break for his career, Andy was still uneasy. Lorne’s words rang in his head and he feared the co-option of weekly television and how it might affect him as an artist. At this point Andy had enough money to meet his needs and making that much more didn’t really matter to him. He’d long since given up the beer-tap dreams of his youth and lived a modest existence. Though Andy lived to perform his own material, George and Howard and I convinced him that Taxi was part of paying his dues. Though he’d be tied to a schedule, we emphasized that the money was outrageous and the exposure, if the show stayed on more than a year, would give him solid national recognition.
Taxi was scheduled to begin production on July 5, 1978. Andy saw that date as equivalent to the date the draft board had given Elvis twenty-some years prior. Andy’s recent proximity to the Elvis iconography had him fishing for parallels, and this was one that seemed to scream in similarity. He sensed the impending dissolution of his purity as an artist and decided something must be done in advance of the systemic poison called television sitcoms. Andy decided he would figuratively and literally rise above the coming onslaught. One day he made an announcement to me.
“You’re what?” I said, assuming it was a typical Kaufman put-on.
“You heard me. I’m going to levitate,” he said in all seriousness.
“As in ‘fly’?”
“No. Levitate. It’s different,” he assured me. “Here, look.”
He thrust a Time magazine article at me that reported on the recent phenomenon wherein devout practitioners of transcendental meditation were flocking to a retreat in Switzerland to become adept at the “ancient” art of levitation. The article featured a photo of several TM devotees pretzeled into lotus positions and floating two feet off their carpets.
“That’s total bullshit,” I said. “
No way anyone can float. C’mon, Andy, there’s just no way anyone can do this. These photos are doctored.”
“No, they’re not,” he said defensively, flipping the magazine shut. “It’s true.” He spoke with the same defiant conviction a little kid would use in defending the existence of Santa.
“You’re gonna learn to fly?”
“No, Zmuda, levitate. I will,” he insisted. “I’ve talked to other TMers who’ve been to Switzerland. They’ve taken the course, it’s eight weeks, and they can do it — they can levitate.”
My eyes betrayed my complete skepticism.
“Listen,” he continued, “that these photos were leaked to Time really upset everyone in the movement because now it’s only a matter of time before the CIA gets hold of that ability and misuses it.”
I heard an echo of Mr. X. “CIA?” I asked.
“Yeah. Of course. Don’t you see? They’ll close us down soon and steal the process, so I have to go before Taxi starts. I’ll be back in two months.”
“Andy?” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “This I gotta see.”
He truly believed that he would be able to levitate when he returned from Switzerland. They say that con men themselves are the biggest saps for a con, and that was a quality that really endeared Andy to me: wickedly smart yet wildly gullible. Later I took another look at the Time article and had to ask myself, Could this be true? After all, I really did hear those voices in San Diego. The story out of Switzerland soon became the talk of the fad-embracing entertainment industry, and as time went by my mind expanded to the possibilities. As I drove Andy to the airport, I casually noted, “You know, you could have saved yourself some money on that plane ticket.”
Andy looked over naively. “Yeah? How’s that?”
“Well,” I continued, trying to keep a straight face, “you really only needed a one-way ticket. I figured you could levitate home.”
Patiently, as if instructing a child, Andy said, “Look, I know you don’t believe this, but it’s true, I’ll be able to levitate when I get back. You’ll eat your words, Zmuda. I’m serious, I guarantee it.” He continued, “I’m going to ask the Maharishi for permission to use levitation at the Huntington show.”
