touch. Our big plan is to people-watch. As the crowd passes by, we invent stories: There’s Count Borinsky from Russia; there’s Princess Magala from Spain; there’s Prince Eric of Norway with Sylvia Borstein from the Bronx on his arm. They’re having a torrid affair.
All the while, people are feeding the pigeons. In fact, the pigeons are so well fed that when we leave the birds circle us and drop farewell messages on our shoulders, making us look like Italian generals.
The Newharts invite us over every Christmas eve. They have the big tree, the wreaths, the angels and the carols.
Once in a while, Bob has a serious moment and says to me, “Don, you really enjoy Christmas, don’t you?”
“Sure I do. One of our guys started it.”
“Bob, believe me, you’re funny.”
Poached Eggs
I ’ve always respected the comedians who came before me. Milton Berle’s delivery was dynamite. No one was more lovable than George Burns—and no one more popular than Bob Hope.
Hope had me on his shows many times. Unlike me, Bob didn’t like to improvise. As a matter of fact, he relied on a small army of writers. Everything with Hope had to be rehearsed a lot. He worked with big cardboard cue signs.
At the start of one routine we were rehearsing, my line was, “Hi, Bob.”
Bob stopped the rehearsal.
“Is that how you’re going to say the line when we tape?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Try it again.”
“Hi, Bob,” I said.
“We better meet with the writers,” Hope said.
We went into Bob’s office, where three writers sat on a couch.
“Okay,” said Hope, “say it for them, Don.”
“Hi, Bob,” I repeated.
“I don’t like the inflection,” Bob said. “What else can we do with the line?”
The writers proceeded to give me six alternative inflections on “Hi, Bob.” I thought it was all a joke, but no one was laughing.
My biggest Hope moment didn’t come on his show. It happened on Dean Martin’s show when I was standing in front of dozens of stars. The idea was that I’d rib each of them for three minutes. At the end of the routine, Hope, who was famous for entertaining our troops the world over, slipped into a back seat.
“Bob Hope is here,” I said. “I guess the war is over.”
Of that older generation, I adored Jack Benny. To this day, I love imitating him in front of my friends. When it came to timing, Jack was the master. He used silence the way Picasso used paint. His patented gesture—putting his hand under his chin and slowly turning his head—was the most beautiful movement in all comedy.
I was excited when he came to my show for the first time. It happened at the Sahara. By then, he was getting up in years, but he hadn’t lost any of his charm. He’d never come to my shows, because he didn’t think my humor was his cup of tea. But George Burns, Jack’s dearest friend and a supporter of mine, finally persuaded Jack to see me in person.
After the show at the Sahara, Jack came to my dressing room and said, “Don”—I loved that inflection of his when he said “Don”—“I enjoyed your show. You really surprised me.”
“Relax, Jack. I’ll get you a light.”
Looking on are my pals Ed McMahon and Joey Bishop.
“Gee, Jack,” I said, “coming from you, that’s about the nicest compliment of my life. Will you join me and Barbara for dinner?”
“I’d love to.”
We took him to the House of Lords, the hotel’s finest restaurant.
“Jack,” I said, “it’s a real pleasure. Order whatever you like.”
I ordered a vodka martini.
Barbara ordered a vodka martini with a lemon twist.
Jack asked for a glass of water.
“That’s it?” I asked him.
“That’s it.”
For dinner, I ordered the veal Milanese.
Barbara ordered the filet mignon.
With his stop-and-start deadpan delivery, Jack said, “I’ll have…two poached eggs.” Big pause. “And one slice of toast.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it,” Jack answered.
Dessert:
All the while, people are feeding the pigeons. In fact, the pigeons are so well fed that when we leave the birds circle us and drop farewell messages on our shoulders, making us look like Italian generals.
The Newharts invite us over every Christmas eve. They have the big tree, the wreaths, the angels and the carols.
Once in a while, Bob has a serious moment and says to me, “Don, you really enjoy Christmas, don’t you?”
“Sure I do. One of our guys started it.”
“Bob, believe me, you’re funny.”
Poached Eggs
I ’ve always respected the comedians who came before me. Milton Berle’s delivery was dynamite. No one was more lovable than George Burns—and no one more popular than Bob Hope.
Hope had me on his shows many times. Unlike me, Bob didn’t like to improvise. As a matter of fact, he relied on a small army of writers. Everything with Hope had to be rehearsed a lot. He worked with big cardboard cue signs.
At the start of one routine we were rehearsing, my line was, “Hi, Bob.”
Bob stopped the rehearsal.
“Is that how you’re going to say the line when we tape?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Try it again.”
“Hi, Bob,” I said.
“We better meet with the writers,” Hope said.
We went into Bob’s office, where three writers sat on a couch.
“Okay,” said Hope, “say it for them, Don.”
“Hi, Bob,” I repeated.
“I don’t like the inflection,” Bob said. “What else can we do with the line?”
The writers proceeded to give me six alternative inflections on “Hi, Bob.” I thought it was all a joke, but no one was laughing.
My biggest Hope moment didn’t come on his show. It happened on Dean Martin’s show when I was standing in front of dozens of stars. The idea was that I’d rib each of them for three minutes. At the end of the routine, Hope, who was famous for entertaining our troops the world over, slipped into a back seat.
“Bob Hope is here,” I said. “I guess the war is over.”
Of that older generation, I adored Jack Benny. To this day, I love imitating him in front of my friends. When it came to timing, Jack was the master. He used silence the way Picasso used paint. His patented gesture—putting his hand under his chin and slowly turning his head—was the most beautiful movement in all comedy.
I was excited when he came to my show for the first time. It happened at the Sahara. By then, he was getting up in years, but he hadn’t lost any of his charm. He’d never come to my shows, because he didn’t think my humor was his cup of tea. But George Burns, Jack’s dearest friend and a supporter of mine, finally persuaded Jack to see me in person.
After the show at the Sahara, Jack came to my dressing room and said, “Don”—I loved that inflection of his when he said “Don”—“I enjoyed your show. You really surprised me.”
“Relax, Jack. I’ll get you a light.”
Looking on are my pals Ed McMahon and Joey Bishop.
“Gee, Jack,” I said, “coming from you, that’s about the nicest compliment of my life. Will you join me and Barbara for dinner?”
“I’d love to.”
We took him to the House of Lords, the hotel’s finest restaurant.
“Jack,” I said, “it’s a real pleasure. Order whatever you like.”
I ordered a vodka martini.
Barbara ordered a vodka martini with a lemon twist.
Jack asked for a glass of water.
“That’s it?” I asked him.
“That’s it.”
For dinner, I ordered the veal Milanese.
Barbara ordered the filet mignon.
With his stop-and-start deadpan delivery, Jack said, “I’ll have…two poached eggs.” Big pause. “And one slice of toast.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it,” Jack answered.
Dessert:
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