fun, he ridicules. But if his ridicules are based on sound ideas and thinking, then he can proceed to the second panel, which is the thinker—he called it the philosopher. The jester becomes the philosopher, and if he does these things with dazzling language that we marvel at, then he becomes a poet, too.
But it would be some time before Carlin allowed himself to think in terms of wisdom and poetry. For the time being, he was committed to writing unapologetically silly material with no pretenses and potentially broad appeal. Much of it was variations on the characters he’d devised years before on the radio—the absurdist newscaster and his goofy sidekicks in the sports and weather departments. Closer to home, he had created a glib, speed-talking Top 40 disc jockey named Willie West, spinning records for a fictitious station, “Wonderful WINO,” with Carlin adding his own a cappella jingles and mock pop tunes.
On the night before New Year’s Eve, Carlin taped an appearance on another talent show, On Broadway Tonight , hosted by the veteran crooner Rudy Vallee. The program aired on the first of January 1964, a harbinger of good things to come in the new year. Coincidentally, it was a summer replacement for The Danny Kaye Show , hosted by Carlin’s boyhood hero.
As a student Carlin had been enamored of the comic actor Kaye, who became famous for his dazzling propensity for flawlessly delivered, tongue-twisting song lyrics. When Carlin was ten years old, his hero starred in The Secret Life of Walter Mitty , an early Technicolor release based on a short story by James Thurber. Mitty is a harried, absent-minded book editor who escapes the stresses of his job and home life through a hyperactive imagination, daydreaming himself into increasingly fantastic scenarios. Kaye, who developed his talent for communicating by contorting his face and singing in gibberish during an extended vaudeville tour of Japan and China in the mid- 1930s, was known for such nonsense songs as “Bloop Bleep,” “The Frim Fram Sauce,” and his rendition of Ira Gershwin and Kurt Weill’s breakneck “patter song,” “Tchaikovsky and Other Russians.” One of his most familiar hits, in 1950, was “I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Cocoanuts,” and he made Cab Calloway’s scatting “Minnie the Moocher” another signature song, often leading audiences in exuberant call-and-response sing-alongs.
Carlin delighted in Kaye’s rubbery faces and vocal gymnastics, knowing that he had a similar knack for both. “Anything that was challenging verbally I liked,” he said. And Kaye “was incredibly adept verbally. He did funny accents, funny faces. All those things appealed to me.” From a young age he looked at Kaye’s career—the Catskills, radio, stage, films, and, eventually, television—as the model for his own ascent in show business. The way he figured it, if he succeeded as a comedian, Hollywood would have no choice but to make him a comic actor.
But Carlin’s boyhood enthusiasm for his favorite performer cooled considerably after a personal episode. Knowing that Kaye was scheduled to make an appearance at Radio City Music Hall, the young fan waited in a doorway on a cold, misty day to ask for an autograph. When a cab pulled up and Kaye hopped out, he strode briskly past the kid holding the pen. “Not even an ‘I don’t sign autographs,’” Carlin recalled. “That was a crushing moment.” Years later, when Carlin was established as a comic celebrity and had an opportunity to meet his onetime hero, he didn’t have the heart to tell him about the snub. “That was my gift to him,” he said.
In 1965 Carlin was still dedicated to the goal of breaking into Hollywood. His “responsible agent” at GAC—the one who coordinated the client’s career and saw to it that the agency’s various departments (television, film, nightclubs) kept his best interests in mind—was a veteran in the nightclub department named Peter Paul, who did
But it would be some time before Carlin allowed himself to think in terms of wisdom and poetry. For the time being, he was committed to writing unapologetically silly material with no pretenses and potentially broad appeal. Much of it was variations on the characters he’d devised years before on the radio—the absurdist newscaster and his goofy sidekicks in the sports and weather departments. Closer to home, he had created a glib, speed-talking Top 40 disc jockey named Willie West, spinning records for a fictitious station, “Wonderful WINO,” with Carlin adding his own a cappella jingles and mock pop tunes.
On the night before New Year’s Eve, Carlin taped an appearance on another talent show, On Broadway Tonight , hosted by the veteran crooner Rudy Vallee. The program aired on the first of January 1964, a harbinger of good things to come in the new year. Coincidentally, it was a summer replacement for The Danny Kaye Show , hosted by Carlin’s boyhood hero.
As a student Carlin had been enamored of the comic actor Kaye, who became famous for his dazzling propensity for flawlessly delivered, tongue-twisting song lyrics. When Carlin was ten years old, his hero starred in The Secret Life of Walter Mitty , an early Technicolor release based on a short story by James Thurber. Mitty is a harried, absent-minded book editor who escapes the stresses of his job and home life through a hyperactive imagination, daydreaming himself into increasingly fantastic scenarios. Kaye, who developed his talent for communicating by contorting his face and singing in gibberish during an extended vaudeville tour of Japan and China in the mid- 1930s, was known for such nonsense songs as “Bloop Bleep,” “The Frim Fram Sauce,” and his rendition of Ira Gershwin and Kurt Weill’s breakneck “patter song,” “Tchaikovsky and Other Russians.” One of his most familiar hits, in 1950, was “I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Cocoanuts,” and he made Cab Calloway’s scatting “Minnie the Moocher” another signature song, often leading audiences in exuberant call-and-response sing-alongs.
Carlin delighted in Kaye’s rubbery faces and vocal gymnastics, knowing that he had a similar knack for both. “Anything that was challenging verbally I liked,” he said. And Kaye “was incredibly adept verbally. He did funny accents, funny faces. All those things appealed to me.” From a young age he looked at Kaye’s career—the Catskills, radio, stage, films, and, eventually, television—as the model for his own ascent in show business. The way he figured it, if he succeeded as a comedian, Hollywood would have no choice but to make him a comic actor.
But Carlin’s boyhood enthusiasm for his favorite performer cooled considerably after a personal episode. Knowing that Kaye was scheduled to make an appearance at Radio City Music Hall, the young fan waited in a doorway on a cold, misty day to ask for an autograph. When a cab pulled up and Kaye hopped out, he strode briskly past the kid holding the pen. “Not even an ‘I don’t sign autographs,’” Carlin recalled. “That was a crushing moment.” Years later, when Carlin was established as a comic celebrity and had an opportunity to meet his onetime hero, he didn’t have the heart to tell him about the snub. “That was my gift to him,” he said.
In 1965 Carlin was still dedicated to the goal of breaking into Hollywood. His “responsible agent” at GAC—the one who coordinated the client’s career and saw to it that the agency’s various departments (television, film, nightclubs) kept his best interests in mind—was a veteran in the nightclub department named Peter Paul, who did
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