Still Foolin' 'Em by Billy Crystal Page A

feeling of contentment filled me up. I was now a daddy with two beautiful daughters and a career that was picking up steam. After one last look at my sleeping angels, I joined Janice at our dining room table, across from the portly, red-cheeked man who had come to our home with the sole purpose of making me contemplate my demise. That was one of the perks of having more money: I could spend it on things like life insurance. As I listened to him drone on, I nodded and attempted to look interested, though in my mind I was stabbing him repeatedly with one of the new steak knives I had just received for my thirtieth birthday. That great feeling of contentment, gone in a flash. Nothing makes you feel older than sitting across from a life insurance salesman who keeps talking about your imminent death, making it seem like you’re going to keel over during the meeting and your kids and wife will have to live in an internment camp in northern California. The insurance man’s message was clear, however: you’re thirty, so now you are slightly “at risk.” Meaning you have the same chance of dying that the president of Iran has of showing up at a Seder.
    This was also the time that the “estate planners” entered our lives. “Who would get the kids if you both were, say, MURDERED BY A MADMAN?” Awful things are possible, and we realized that, but just discussing who we’d want to raise the girls in the case of catastrophe caused a lot of anxiety. After running through all the familial options, we either got annoyed with each other or started to cry. So we thought of friends. “What about my fraternity brother Dan?”
    “WHAT? Jenny asked him for a piece of gum once and he said, Sorry, it’s my last one. He’s selfish.”
    Janice’s turn: “I could see the girls with Gwen.”
    “GWEN?” I snorted. “I can’t see anybody living with Gwen … except for her twenty cats.” Finally I made a peace offering: “Let’s go neutral. What about Regis Philbin? Always up, great sense of humor. Might be fun for the girls…”
    After seriously considering an orphanage in Russia, we ended up making plans we felt good about, but the process had forced us to realize that time was moving on and, worse, would eventually end.
    Soap was a big hit, but problems were starting to emerge. With so many characters, each story arc came around so slowly that it was hard for me to get a lot of screen time. I’d come home from a frustrating day at the studio feeling edgy and walk right into “Daddy!” The girls were tons of fun, but a five-year-old and a one-year-old are a lot of work, which feels like even more when you’re not happy. I was making the big mistake of bringing my work home with me. Meanwhile, Buddy kept nudging me to perform. “It’s been over a year,” he said. “It’ll get your mind going.”
    Finally, one night I went over to the Improv on Melrose, a terrific comedy room whose owner, Budd Friedman, was a great friend to comics. Budd had created the original Improv in New York City, which was the mecca of all comedy clubs. That night, I went with the intention of just watching, but I couldn’t help myself. When Budd introduced me, the audience gave me a huge ovation. Walking onstage as a television star sure was easier than as a nobody, but then you better be really funny. I wasn’t at first, but I kept talking about the show and playing Jodie and the odd things people would say to me—“Oh my God, it’s you, the fagelah”—and it got funny. I left a “tip” and was hooked all over again.
    After putting the kids down for the night, I’d perform at the Improv as often as I could. I started writing new pieces, and after an uneventful day at Soap, going to the clubs was like getting in a great workout at a gym. When Muhammad Ali retired, I was invited to perform at a televised All-Star party for him at the Fabulous Forum, in Los Angeles. We’d done a few other television shows together in recent years as his