How I Got This Way Page 11
All through Notre Dame I followed Dean: The Colgate Comedy Hour, his terrific Capitol Records albums, all those movies with Jerry. And in 1956 they came back to the Copa for what turned out to be their last live appearance together. It was truly sad—maybe the greatest comedy team ever was breaking up. I knew Dean was a fabulous talent, but I wondered how he would do without Jerry. Well, you all know what happened. Each of them became separate sensations, but Dean soared in new and special ways: first, as Sinatra’s right-hand man—the second in command of the legendary Rat Pack (which, of course, included Sammy Davis, Jr., Peter Lawford, and a guy named Joey Bishop); and then, especially when his NBC variety show took off in the mid-sixties, as a stand-alone performer, without having to divide the spotlight between himself and a partner or any of his Rat Pack pals, he was still simply amazing. Naturally, he also excelled with every kind of guest who appeared on his program. He could dance beautifully with the Step Brothers, sing unforgettable duets with the likes of Bing or Frank or anybody, and somehow always manage to be funnier than all the top-line comedians who joined him onstage. I loved that show, as did so many millions of viewers, making his program unofficially the NBC network’s very first Thursday-night “Must-See-TV” series. In fact, I was fortunate enough to attend a few tapings of the show back then and was always mesmerized by his easy, debonair presence. He had a magic all his own—the looks, the voice, the timing, and he was also a bit mysterious.
You never did see much of Dean around Hollywood. If he wasn’t working, he was always on a golf course—or else at home with his large family or appearing in Las Vegas. One night, he made a brief surprise visit to The Joey Bishop Show, while on a break from shooting the blockbuster movie Airport; he was still in costume—wearing his full pilot’s uniform. He walked out, got big laughs from the audience, and was gone again before you knew it. Then, about a decade later, when I was the entertainment news editor for the local ABC station in Los Angeles, I went to do a piece from the set of The Cannonball Run picture, starring Burt Reynolds, in which Dean and Sammy Davis, Jr., had cameo roles. I saw my friend and Dean’s longtime agent, Mort Viner, standing outside of his star’s trailer. He said, “Why don’t you go inside and talk with Dean? He’s all alone in there.” Before that moment, I’d never had the chance to talk with him, just one-on-one. So I climbed the steps, opened the door, and there he was sitting in a booth. He gave me a nice hello and I sat down opposite him. We got along fine; he could put you at ease just like that. So at ease, in fact, that I found myself telling him about my prom night at the Copa and how I’d followed his career from the very beginning. And then, to demonstrate what a longtime fan I was, I launched into a story about one of his earliest records, made for the Apollo label with the Sammy Watkins Band. The song was called “One Foot in Heaven,” and I told him how it saved my life during a summer break from college. At the time, I was working the midnight shift at a Long Island plastics factory making venetian blinds. I hated the job, hated the midnight shift, hated going to that factory. But every night, to get myself revved up before heading out to the job, I would play “One Foot in Heaven” over and over again on my old turntable. You see, he had that ability to spark my mood even then!
But as I heard myself talking, I began to wonder why in the world I was telling him that story. I was probably boring him to death. There was so much more to talk about. So many things I wanted to ask him. Then I thought, My God, it’s now 1980! That record came out nearly thirty-five years ago, and it was never a hit anyway. Why was I bothering him with this trivia? But I was already deep into the story and now desperately looking for a way out of it. And suddenly Dean said, “Regis, why don’t you sing it for me.” Now there was no escape. So I sat there opposite Dean Martin, the two of us all alone in his trailer, and sang “One Foot in Heaven” to him: “One foot in heaven when you hold me sweet, / One foot in heaven right on Angel Street. . . .” He listened carefully, and when it was over, he said quietly, “You know, that’s a nice song, Regis, but I never did it.” Then a production assistant rapped on the door, and Dean had to return to the movie set. I left the trailer feeling absolutely ridiculous. Here was one of the great heroes of my life—the guy every other guy wanted to be like, and I was no exception—and yet I’d just wasted so much time going on and on about a minor song he didn’t even remember singing! I felt like such a jerk.
So the years went by, and slowly, over time, you heard less and less of Dean. He’d already been retreating from public view before his handsome son, the actor-turned-pilot Dean Paul Martin, died in that freakish Air National Guard jet crash in early 1987. After that, Dean all but disappeared. Frank and Sammy tried to lure him out of his shell a year later by plotting a Rat Pack reunion tour. It didn’t work; Dean left the tour after only a few performances. Stories of his ill health circulated, but he’d just decided to live a very quiet life, always sticking to his unassuming ways. And yet he still made it a point to get out for dinner every night. His chauffeured Rolls-Royce delivered him always to the same restaurant, La Famiglia, on Canon Drive in Beverly Hills, at the stroke of six thirty. He sat alone most of the time. He wanted it like that. But at least he was out among other people, and was kind and gracious to anyone who came over to say hello. That was one very good sign that he hadn’t given up.
Sometime during that period, my good friend Bill Zehme, the well-known writer from Chicago, revealed to me that we shared the same feelings about Dean. We both wanted to see him for ourselves, one more time. Zehme said he’d even gone to La Famiglia on a few occasions and Dean was in fact always there, like clockwork. He’d always dine alone, Zehme confirmed, but never seemed lonely. Soon enough we made a plan to meet in Los Angeles and then go see him together. I had come to town to play myself (of course) on an episode of Garry Shandling’s HBO talk-show send-up The Larry Sanders Show, and Zehme arranged a trip out there during my stay. We set up a date to have our eagerly awaited dinner at La Famiglia—which turned out to fall on one of the strangest evenings I’d ever experienced in Los Angeles.
For one thing, the city seemed to be totally deserted. On our way over to the restaurant from my hotel, we barely spotted another car on the street. I had never seen it so quiet. And the reason was this: Everybody was at home glued to their TV sets, watching O. J. Simpson attempting to escape arrest in that famous white Bronco driven by his friend Al Cowlings—with at least twelve police cars chasing them down the freeway. As helicopter cameras followed the action from above, it was a television news spectacular, pure drama every second. Immediately, Zehme and I were worried that, of all the nights we could’ve picked to go see Dean, O.J. now had all of Los Angeles sitting on the edge of their couches staring at this chase . . . and maybe Dean was one of them. I couldn’t believe our rotten luck.
Nevertheless, we parked and walked across the street to the restaurant, hoping against hope that Dean hadn’t broken his nightly ritual. “Well, if he’s there,” Zehme said, “he’ll be sitting in his booth just to the left of the front door as we go in.” I stole a quick glance to the left as we entered and saw someone sitting there, alone, across from the bar, where the TV was of course tuned to O.J. on the loose. We couldn’t stop to stare, but it had to be him; it was his booth, after all! Surprisingly, the place was far from empty—and the music that was playing softly in the background? Naturally, it was all Dean’s. We chose a table across the room, but in direct view of—yes, it was him—Our Man. Well into his seventies, he still had that great thick shock of hair, which was only specked with gray. He wore a big pair of black eyeglasses that slid down his nose a little. But what a presence he continued to have, the kind you can feel when you’re near it. Completely content and relaxed, he sat there watching the Simpson story unfold on the TV, a cigarette in one hand, a tumbler of whiskey in the other, and a dish of pasta in front of him.
During a commercial cutaway, I finally screwed up enough courage to go over to him. I reminded him of who I was and he was very re
ceptive. “Regis!” he said softly. I mentioned my work with Joey Bishop in the late sixties, and he said, “Yes, I remember—you and Joey.” He also said that he’d seen Kathie Lee and me every now and then on our morning show. I told him I still loved him, always thought he was the best—“Dean, you know, you’re still the greatest”—and shook his hand. He had that timeless, proud look about him. He knew exactly who he was and what he’d done in this business. He gave me a nod, a smile, and said good-bye. It was quick. That was how he wanted it. A few minutes later, I looked back at his booth and he was gone.
But that short exchange meant everything to me. I was happy to have at least gone up to tell him one more time how much his work and his life had touched mine. Because, unfortunately, we do miss those chances all too often with the people we’ve so appreciated before they’re suddenly taken from us. Dean died Christmas morning of 1995, about a year and a half after we saw him at La Famiglia. Fate being what it is, he died the same day, and at the same time, that his mother had twenty-nine years before.
In the years that followed his death, Dean’s popularity seemed to skyrocket even more—his music sold millions of units with all kinds of repackaged CDs hitting the market. His voice was all over movie soundtracks and television commercials, helping to sell products from cars to coffee to overnight delivery services. But one day, almost nine years after Dean left us, I got a call from Greg Garrison, the legendary producer of all of Dean’s terrific NBC shows, who knew well of my admiration for his guy. He asked, “How would you like to host an infomercial for a collection of DVDs featuring the best moments from all of Dean’s old NBC variety shows over the years?” Previously, Greg had done well with a similar set of DVDs of The Dean Martin Celebrity Roast series (which had become so popular in the early seventies). But this was a whole package of all those unforgettable musical numbers and all the amazing guest stars, doing what we would never see them do again in our lifetime. Up till then, I had turned down all infomercial offers that came my way, but this was special. This was Dean.
I jumped at the chance and I loved every minute of doing it—all on a Los Angeles soundstage that had been dressed to resemble the original set of Dean’s show, with actual pieces that Greg had kept in storage for so many decades. Throughout the taping I couldn’t get enough of Garrison’s stories about this man, whom he also cherished, and about how he’d guided Dean through every movement of every show, especially because Dean was never one to rehearse anything he did on camera. In the end, that infomercial we made was, in my opinion, one of the best ever produced anywhere—never mind that I’d had the privilege of hosting it. Garrison had chosen and edited the most thrilling and hilarious moments from those classic shows; it was an assemblage so entertaining that the thirty-minute pitch became like a show unto itself. Everyone said that if you accidentally tuned in, you couldn’t tune out—and they were right. Suddenly, it was just so refreshing to see that kind of television again, the greatest variety show ever—and one that only Dean Martin could have presided over.
But Garrison had one more surprise for me, something I didn’t ask for or would have ever imagined possible. He had an idea for a big finale to the infomercial that he would create through the magic of modern television technology. He wanted to simulate Dean and me together, dressed in our tuxedoes, running down those original winding steps that looked like piano keys—something Dean had done so many times at the start of his show—singing a duet of the great old number “Baby Face.” I remember being knocked out when I arrived at the studio early that morning and saw the famous lighted staircase glowing on the dark set. He led me through the moves, and what you ended up seeing was Dean and me, side by side, laughing and singing and finally landing on an original pair of the high-backed stools where Dean always finished the song that he’d started up at the top of those stairs. This is a funny business I work in, where anything and everything can happen. But I never would have dreamt of performing a bouncy duet with Dean Martin. And even though he wasn’t really there—not that I didn’t feel his presence, because I swear that I actually did—it was one of the biggest thrills of my television career. Plus, what a beautiful bookend to that prom night at the Copa so many years ago when I saw him for the very first time!
But I should also mention that, about a month after we shot the infomercial, a huge box arrived in my New York office. It came from Greg Garrison, and when I opened it, lo and behold, there was one of those same high-backed stools that Dean had sat on to start his show each week. The same one I’d perched myself on during our magical duet. And whenever I need to feel a special jolt of Dean’s easygoing aura, I climb up onto that stool, and after a moment or two, I always feel better, all over again.
WHAT I TOOK AWAY FROM IT ALL
No matter what your musical tastes, I swear that listening to Dean Martin sing will calm you and boost your energy at once—without fail.
If you are grateful to someone who’s brought your life even a little joyfulness, and if you have the chance to tell them so—do it! It just takes a second, and you’ll never regret it.
Chapter Twelve
DON RICKLES
The name Don Rickles began catching my attention back in the late fifties. At the time, believe it or not, he aspired to become a serious actor, and had just made his movie debut with a small dramatic role in the Clark Gable–Burt Lancaster submarine picture Run Silent Run Deep. But by then, showbiz insiders knew there was nothing serious or silent about this one-of-a-kind guy. Already his reputation had caught fire as a young, brash comic who’d been tearing it up across the major nightclub circuits, sending shock waves and also drawing raves, whether in Miami, New York, Los Angeles, or eventually, of course, Las Vegas. There, at the Sahara Hotel, his after-hours lounge performances truly put him on the map, especially when Frank Sinatra and his gang of pals made a habit of dropping by to catch Don in action. I remember later on reading that mid-sixties classic Esquire magazine story “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold,” so beautifully written by Gay Talese, who’d followed Frank and company into one of Don’s shows and described Rickles as “probably more caustic than any comic in the country. His humor is so rude, in such bad taste, that it offends no one—it is too offensive to be offensive.”
Sinatra fell in love with him years earlier when entering a Miami club where Don greeted him from the stage: “Make yourself at home, Frank. Hit somebody!” They would become great friends for life, and to this day, one of the most famous stories to ever come out of Vegas happened during the sixties when Rickles walked up to Sinatra at a restaurant and asked for a favor. Rickles had been sitting at a table across the room with a young lady he was trying to impress. So he told Frank it would mean the world if he could wait a few minutes and then come over to their table and say hello. The girl, he said, would be knocked out. Sinatra agreed to play along, and after a while he strolled over—with every eye in the place on him—and gave Rickles a warm and cheerful “Hi, Don, so good to see you!” And Rickles turned from the girl and said, “Not now, Frank. Can’t you see I’m busy?” That story gets laughs even after being retold a thousand times, and I still love it.
Anyway, as I said, I’d been hearing early buzz about this fierce and funny Rickles character back when I was just a young TV reporter in San Diego, still a couple years away from starting my local Saturday-night talk show. But I was always on the lookout for an entertaining story to use on the newscasts. And one day I heard that Rickles was coming to town—not to perform but to meet, for some reason, with the Advertising Council of San Diego. It was a lunch gathering set at the upscale US Grant Hotel, and since the town was a much less thriving place in those days, the council had no more than about fifteen members. I got myself invited and took a seat at the far end of the long table where I could keep a close eye on Rickles, who sat at the head. As the council went over its business, I could see that Rickles was clearly wondering how in the world he’d gotten involved with whatever these dull, serious
older businessmen wanted from him. Here was the hot rising star of the club scene stuck with this rather humorless bunch who, I’d guessed, probably hadn’t even heard of him yet. I waited anxiously for Rickles to go to work on them. I could tell he couldn’t wait to bite into those advertising guys and then get out of there. Finally he was introduced. He stood at the table and, one by one, demolished them. I had never seen anything like it. He just ate them alive. He didn’t know them, of course, but how they were dressed, who their clients were, their whole life existence—everything about them—was now being examined by Rickles in the most hilarious way. To the letter, he was everything I’d read about—and I loved him immediately. After the massacre, I timidly approached him and asked for an interview. He was not thrilled about it, but we went outside in the sunshine where my camera crew was set up and we began. He started with my name. Regis. He had never heard it before. It was fresh meat for him. He beat me up pretty good on the sidewalk that day and I still loved it. I marveled at his attack, his perception, his style of humor. He had a way of sizing you up and then letting you have it like you never had it before. He was sensational.