by Howie Mandel
In hindsight, I believe this was God’s way of giving me a taste of my own medicine. I can’t remember any other time in my life when someone wanted to be separated from me because I was the dirty one.
Within a few weeks, I got a call from NBC. They said Dick Shawn had seen me on Make Me Laugh and wanted to use me for his pilot. I told them I knew nothing about planes and was embarrassed to find out “pilot” was the term for a test episode of a new TV series. I happened to be a big fan. He was great in the movie The Producers as Hitler in the play within the movie. His stand-up was also legendary.
Without hesitation, I told my dad I would have to take more time off and fly back to L.A. Again, I assure you I just considered this a happening. I will admit I found it really cool to be able to tell everyone, “I have to fly to L.A.” I had never met someone who had to be in L.A. for anything.
Not long after that, I got a call from The Mike Douglas Show. The booker there had also seen Make Me Laugh and wanted me to appear on his show. This call was even more thrilling because I had watched Mike Douglas’s talk show every day of my life. He was one of the early pioneers of daytime talk shows. One week, John Lennon and Yoko Ono had co-hosted with Mike. It seemed surreal. I again told my father, “I have to fly to L.A.” The guests on that episode were Bobby Vinton, Adolfo “Shabba-Doo” Quinones, who would go on to star in a movie called Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo, a singing bird, and a twenty-three-year-old engaged lighting salesman living with his parents in Toronto, Canada, by the name of Howie Mandel.
My stage act was expanding. One night, because I had nothing else to do—yet another blank moment of terror onstage—I pulled out a rubber glove I carried for germ protection and thought, I’ll pull it over my head.
At first, I did a rooster impression. The audience laughed. I then pulled the glove even farther down below my eyebrows and over my nose. As I was breathing through my nose, the fingers were going up and down. More laughter. Next, I decided to exhale through my nose and inflate the glove until it popped. The audience roared. I thought, Oh, my gosh, I have a new closing.
For years after that, I was known as “the guy who put the rubber glove on his head.” There was no talent involved, but people would still request it. They’d yell, “Do the glove!” It became my signature piece.
What I have come to realize is that you can’t decide something will be your signature piece. You just do something, and it becomes your signature. The things that you become known for and the things that bring the biggest response can’t be planned.
Not too long after that appearance, Alan Thicke called and asked me to come and tape many segments on his new nighttime variety show in Vancouver. Alan’s show segued into Thicke of the Night for American consumption, and eventually he starred in Growing Pains, which you all remember I was never a part of. I returned to my father’s office and told him once again, “I have to fly to L.A.” I just thought that sounded better than Vancouver.
For all these appearances, I was being paid what is known in the business as “scale.” Scale in show business is considered minimum wage, but I can assure you that scale is nowhere near real minimum wage. For an appearance on a show like Mike Douglas, acting silly for a couple of minutes and answering two or three questions, I was paid something like $300. At Yuk Yuk’s, I had to do eighteen shows to earn that kind of money.
So here’s how my mind worked. If I am constantly being called and asked to spend a few minutes with people for $300, can you imagine how much I would make if I decided to do this full-time? I’m young. I have my whole life ahead of me. I can always rejoin my father’s business. I’ve got nothing to lose.
I remember heading into my father’s office, saying, “Dad—”
“Don’t tell me,” he interrupted me. “You have to fly to L.A.”
“Yes, but this time it’s different,” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I’m not coming back.”
I don’t think he said anything, but then again what could he say? He would never tell me not to go. He would never say that it was a crazy idea. Like my mother, he would only support me and love me unconditionally. That had always been my parents’ way.
Now, I don’t know if you remember this, but I happened to be engaged, and there was a wedding being planned for March 16, 1980, by the bride’s family. I’ve never been one for etiquette, but I think it’s customary for the groom to inform the future in-laws that he will be quitting his job and moving their daughter to California.
Terry’s parents were horrified. I thought their fears were ridiculous. Now that I’m a parent of two daughters, I understand. But at that time, most people growing up in suburban Toronto never moved out of town even for college, much less to Los Angeles without a job. My basic pitch to them was: “Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to take your daughter two thousand miles away to another culture and try to care for her by putting a rubber glove on my head. Don’t worry.” This sounded great to me, and this also ensured that our wedding would have out-of-town guests: us.
December 15, 1979, was the date that Terry and I moved permanently to Los Angeles. I quickly learned that jobs weren’t as easy to come by as those random phone calls I was receiving in Toronto. I would do odd sets here and there for $50 or $75. We virtually lived off of our savings.
As for accommodations, we made a deal with the manager of the Holiday Inn at the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland. The roof of the hotel had a revolving restaurant with a view of the entire city. Traditionally, revolving restaurants are propelled by a huge, noisy motor. I know this because for a very good price we were given the room with the motor. Needless to say, that didn’t last very long. After a few pit stops, we ended up with a quaint apartment in Studio City. We bought a hibachi and fed ourselves cheaply most nights. If we wanted to splurge once a week, we could afford to go to Art’s Deli and split a double-decker sandwich.
There are no words to describe how exciting that time was for both of us. We were living in California. For the first time, we had our own place. And we were hanging out at the Comedy Store every night.
Before we knew it, March 16 had arrived. We flew to Toronto on an overdrawn credit card to attend our wedding. Luckily, our parents had asked most of the guests to give us cash in lieu of gifts, so we were able to repay our credit card and retain some savings.
I had a lot of fun at my own wedding. I wore a top hat and tails and carried a white cane. I remember coming down the aisle tapping that cane as if I were blind, mumbling to guests in the sanctuary, “Can anybody see her? Is she pretty?”
During the ceremony, the rabbi asked me to repeat after him: “I take Terry …” I repeated, “You take Terry …” He said, “No, you take Terry.” I said, “Forget it, you take her.” The rabbi did not find me funny.
The evening turned out to be one of the highlights and best decisions I made in my life. The honeymoon, not so much. I just outlined my financial circumstances, so you will be able to understand. Before we flew in, I had negotiated a deal with Mark Breslin in order to make this wedding trip a twofer. I would fly in for the wedding, therefore he would not have to pay for my travel, as he did for other out-of-town acts, and I would be a featured headliner at Yuk Yuk’s for three nights.
From a business standpoint, this was a very good deal. Personally, not so much. The night following my wedding, I was performing on the stage at Yuk Yuk’s—with my bride on a stool next to me. I informed the audience that I had gotten married the previous night and they were all taking part in our honeymoon. In subsequent years, we have traveled and seen the world but have never actually gone on a designated honeymoon. I’ll let you in on a little secret: I have decided to bring Terry on the book tour to promote this book as a second honeymoon.
So here’s how the story goes up until now. Boy meets girl. Boy finds comedy. Boy brings girl to comedy club. Boy marries girl. Boy brings girl back to comedy club for honeymoon. Boy and girl move on to new chapt
er.
Up until this point, I had been a guy who did comedy—but now I was a comedian. An unemployed comedian. An unemployed comedian with a wife, who was also unemployed. An unemployed comedian with an unemployed wife living off of our wedding cash. To those people who didn’t receive thank-you notes, I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your contribution.
Our whole life became centered around the Comedy Store. This was the mecca. Anybody who was anyone in show business was either in the audience or performing. This was the place to be and be seen. The caliber of comedy was top-notch. On any given night, the lineup could’ve included Steve Martin, Billy Crystal, Robin Williams, or Rodney Danger-field working out his Tonight Show routine. The MC might’ve been an up-and-coming comedian by the name of David Letterman. There was always a huge crowd lined up along the Sunset Strip waiting to get in. Being part of this was not only exciting, it changed how I approached comedy.
Richard Pryor had also been showing up nightly to hone his act before filming his concert movie Live on the Sunset Strip. It was amazing to watch him create something from nothing. On one particular night, I believe I witnessed the epitome of brilliance. I can’t remember the exact wording of the routine, and I’m not going to do it justice, but it had a profound impact on me.
Pryor is onstage portraying himself as the Lord. The audience is responding with convulsive, euphoric laughter. He then tells the audience that he has to leave and get back to doing the Lord’s work. He’s down here only to pick up his son. The laughter continues, and so does Richard.
“Where is my son?” he asks, looking out into the audience. “Have you seen him? He’s a young Jewish-looking boy with long hair and a beard. Has anybody seen Jesus?” He pauses and waits for an answer from the audience.
The laughter begins to die down. Everyone is waiting to see where this is going. Then he listens, as though someone is answering him silently. A look of horror appears on his face. A long, uncomfortable pause as realization sets in.
“What the fuck did you do with my son?” He pauses. “You did what?” His eyes start to fill with tears, and he starts to scream in pain, “How the fuck could you do that? That’s my son, that’s my baby. That’s my boy. What the fuck is wrong with you people?”
He then gathers himself and says, “All right, I need to talk to Saint Peter. Bring him here now. Where is he?” The laughter is now completely gone. His eyes widen. As if in total disbelief, he says, “Him too?” Pause. Then with painful resolve, he says, “Okay, then I need to talk to Martin Luther King.” Pause. “Where’s Dr. King? What? … When? … Are you fucking kidding me?”
Tears are now running down his cheeks. As he seems to be physically writhing in agony, he turns his back to the audience. The tension in the room builds. He slowly turns back to face us as he implores us to bring him John F. Kennedy. Pause. He looks at us and screams, “How could you? No! No!” Then silence. Then tears.
His eyes look like daggers piercing each and every audience member. He sweeps his arms, pointing at everybody in the audience as if he were accusing each and every one of us. Through his tears, he says, “You’re on your own.” And he walks off the stage, down the center aisle, and out of that room in silence.
Everyone sat there emotionally paralyzed. They had just been confronted with the reality that humanity has been destroying itself. Within the span of five minutes, we had gone from the heights of convulsive laughter to the depths of dark despair—and he had controlled that. It was the most brilliant moment I had ever seen in performance.
That night changed my approach to performing. Aside from being emotionally moving, what Pryor had done was incredibly brave. It was unheard of in the world of comedy to try to elicit anything but laughter. Even if it was thought-provoking, it was usually laughter just the same. To go up onstage and share an incredibly dark truth and elicit tears goes far beyond the realm of comedy. That bravery inspires me to this day to push my own comedic envelope. That being said, I don’t believe I have the capacity ever to create anything even close to the brilliance of Richard Pryor.
I was now hanging in this world among the great and soon-to-be-great comedians. As fun as this place was to be, it wasn’t very warm. Each comedian was vying for his own moment in the sun. The only person who ever talked to me was Jay Leno, whom I’d met at Yuk Yuk’s. He would provide me with transportation. Can you believe it, Jay Leno actually had a car. He would pick me up and take me to other clubs, where we would do our acts. He’s always been a good, down-to-earth guy and remains that same person today.
Each week was devoted to landing spots at the club. You would call the Comedy Store on Monday with your availabilities. Getting a spot was intensely competitive. You would then call back on Tuesday morning to find out the days and times of your spots. Landing each spot was like winning the lottery.
I would usually end up with about five spots for the week. I always hoped one would be on a Thursday night, when producers and casting directors from the various networks and shows would be in the audience to handpick talent. Just about every job I got at that time, such as Norm Crosby’s Comedy Shop, Showtime’s Laugh-a-thon, and The Merv Griffin Show, was from being seen on Thursday.
I operated like an entrepreneur. I realized more than anything this was a business. If I was booked on a show, I would send out flyers to the casting people to make sure they tuned in. The call from Merv Griffin came in at two in the afternoon for a four o’clock taping that same day. I (almost) didn’t want to do it, because I wouldn’t have time to publicize my appearance before the show aired the following day. There was no time to take out a small ad in Variety, and I was upset that my name wouldn’t be in TV Guide. This was way before TiVo, so I was afraid nobody in the business would see me. It was still very exciting for me to be appearing on Merv Griffin and working with the lead guest, Desi Arnaz, who’d played Ricky on I Love Lucy.
Terry and I called Toronto and told our parents to watch. As soon as the show aired, my parents called and told me how proud they were. Terry’s parents didn’t call. They didn’t call the following day, either. Finally she called them, but they didn’t mention the show.
At last Terry asked, “Did you see Howie on Merv Griffin?”
“Yes,” her mother replied. “So what happened?”
“What do you mean?” Terry said.
“Well, we turned it on the next day, and he was gone … he got fired, didn’t he?” she said.
It took them a while to grasp this whole show business deal.
Gene Simmons from the rock band Kiss had also seen the show. His girlfriend at the time was Diana Ross. He liked me so much, he apparently suggested Diana book me as her opening act at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. When my agent gave me the news, I couldn’t believe my luck.
Now, at that point I didn’t really have much of an act. I did some characters, had a few funny voices, and used the rubber glove as a closing. I certainly didn’t have a polished half hour worthy of Las Vegas. I was this kid from Toronto who had never seen Vegas.
As soon as I arrived at Caesars Palace, I found my way backstage. I felt as if I had been dropped into a palatial Roman scene from Ben-Hur. I had performed at Yuk Yuk’s and the Comedy Store. Now I was going to be with Diana Ross at Circus Maximus. This was a whole new world.
The guard asked who I was, and I told him I was Diana Ross’s opening act. I could hardly believe I said that. He told me that he had a dressing room ready for me. I had never had a dressing room. I had been locked in a dressing room at Maple Leaf Gardens, but that is totally different. As we approached the door, I could see a gold placard with my name: Howie Mandell. I told the guard, “Mandel is not spelled with two l’s.” When he asked me how many it was supposed to be, I told him six. He looked at me confused and turned away. I could feel my humor was really clicking here.
I walked in, and he closed the door behind me. It was a very fancy room with a baby grand piano, a full bar, and a table of snacks. It looked like a place the Rat Pac
k would hang out in before a show. I thought I must be in the wrong room. Maybe there was a Howie Mandell with two l’s who deserved this. I didn’t know what to do. I ate a celery stick.
I had gotten dressed in my hotel room in what I thought a Vegas showman would wear. I had flamboyantly horrible, bright red pants, a very sparkly tie, and a beige sports jacket from my engagement party. On the lapel of the jacket, I had clipped a giant rubber alligator I had bought at a novelty store to depict the Lacoste style.
There was a knock at the door, and when I answered it, it was the same guy. “You know what you have to do tonight?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m opening for Diana Ross,” I replied.
“You have to do thirty minutes, okay?” he said forcefully.
“Okay,” I assured him.
“So you understand what I’m telling you,” he continued.
Why was he repeating himself?
“I’m telling you, thirty minutes,” he persisted. “Not twenty-nine. Not thirty-one. Thirty minutes.”
“I don’t wear a watch, so can you signal me at twenty-nine minutes by just banging your foot on the floor behind me?” I figured that putting the glove over my head, blowing it up, and popping it off would take about a minute. He agreed, and I gave him a few bucks for his trouble.
I should explain that the reason I had to do thirty minutes and not twenty-nine is that the show was perfectly timed. Casinos make money by having people on the gambling floor. If a show started at nine p.m., they wanted the audience out by ten-thirty sharp. Every minute the customers spent watching a show, they were not dropping money in the casino. Diana Ross also had everything perfectly timed. She needed to walk out of her dressing room and onto the stage precisely at nine-thirty
