For Laughing Out Loud Read online

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  FOR LAUGHING OUT LOUD

  ED MCMAHON

  with David Fisher

  FOR LAUGHING OUT LOUD

  My Life and Good Times

  with an introduction

  by Johnny Carson

  WARNER BOOKS

  A Time Warner Company

  Copyright © 1998 by Ed McMahon with David Fisher

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc., Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  A Time Warner Company

  First eBook Edition: October 1998

  The “Warner Books” name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-2073-8

  To Pam, For all you've done for me I love you

  Acknowledgments

  Well, let's start at the beginning with thanks to Mom and Dad. Eleanor taught me courtesy and kindness to others and Edward Sr. showed me the way—the value of hard work and how to strive to succeed.

  Then there's the progeny that stayed the course with me. "The kids." Claudia, my late son Michael, Linda, Jeffrey, Lex and Katherine Mary, Peter—Linda's husband, Martha—Jeff 's wife, and of course the grandkids, Alex, Sarah, Matt, and the newest, Maggie McMahon. And to those that are on their way . . . welcome aboard!

  And the friends—Charlie Cullen, my best friend of all, who through the highs and lows was always there. The Skipjacks, the only club I ever really wanted to belong to. And my cousin Arthur Brennen, who supplied some valuable pictures that I had lost in a fire.

  And in random order: Gary Mann, Bill Rosenthal, Bob Newhart, Jeff Sotzing, Susan DuBow, Barbara Berkowitz, Neil Papiano, Peter Xiques, Kenny Stein, Shelly Schultz, Jack Whittaker, Bob and Marti Gillin, Jack Drury, Bob Muir, Bob Reilly, Caroline and Tom Galloway, Jayne Meadows and Steve Allen, Bob Allen, Al Masini, Norm Crosby, Ken Browning, Bee Barksdale, Phyllis Diller, Rudy Duenzel, Arnie Greenberg, Leo Keimenson, Robert Calandria, John Lahey, Don Davidson, Denise Kovac, Bob Lachky, Jay Leno, Doc Severinsen, Tommy Newsom, Shelly Cohen, Margaret Norton, Roseanne Kahn, Terry Laughlin, Irving Harris, Bob Duffner, Mark Begley, Josie and Ken Castleberry, George Engel, Fred Hayman, Bob Lutz, Dennis Washington, Terry Giroux, Arnie Morgen, Patrick Terrail, Bob Ross, Michael Roarty, Roger Bulkley, Red Buttons, Jimmy Orthwein, Dick Whitehead, Jerry Clinton, Fred Shotwell, Art Williams, Gussie Busch, Milton Berle, Father Herbert Ward, Charlie Barrett, Michael McCreary, Harry Gold, T. J. Escott, Harry Blake, Jon Jon Parks, Carroll and Manny Draluck, Toots Shore, Deborah Hurn, Dr. Soram Khalsa, Dr. Phil Levine, and Dr. Larry Heifetz, who handled our son Michael so beautifully, Dick Howard, Chris Boyhan, Desirée Bermani, Susan Caughman, Rob McMahon, Chris Barba, Frank Weimann, Jimmy Franco, Dick Martin, John Facienda, Harry K. Smith, Phil Sheriden, Gil Weiss, Pastor and Betty Price, Jay David, Father Gilbert T. Hartke, Jimmy Breslin, Allan Browne, Alan Levy, and Rick Wolff, of Warner Books, who agreed at our very first meeting to do this book and who was a very valuable editor.

  And most especially—Fred de Cordova, Perry Leff, Paul Tobin, Mort Rosen, Don Rickles, Bob Delaney (from the old Michael's Pub days), and some wonderful assistants: Suzette McKiernan, Pinky Coleman, Corrine Madden, and Madeline Kelly. A lady who was invaluable in the making of this book, Toni (Cefalone) Holliday, who started as a nanny with Katherine Mary and became one of the greatest executive assistants any guy would be lucky to have, and Joan Curtis, who put the words to paper. The man who made "You are correct, sir" famous—Phil Hartman, and his wife, Brynn. Lester Blank, Tony Amendola, Lillian and Harry Crane, and of course, Dick Clark—and Johnny! I tell an old joke when I'm emceeing about always liking to be close to success, like selling Alpo and Budweiser and having them become the largest sellers in the world. And then taking that skinny kid from Nebraska . . . the laughter starts when I say "skinny kid." The folks always get the joke! But what really happened is that he took "Big Ed" with him to the top, enough to warrant writing this book. Thank you, J. C.!

  And thirty years working on my favorite charity, the Muscular Dystrophy Association, with the one and only Jerry Lewis. And Sammy Davis Jr., who taught me that the audience comes first, always!

  And then there is David Fisher. The man who wrote the line in his proposal that convinced me that he should be the one to write this book with me. The line "I went off to the Korean War and left thirteen television shows that I was doing in Philadelphia and people were shooting at me and they never saw any of my shows." (That was a clincher.)

  And Dan Kelly, along with the master, Frank Sinatra, who taught me generosity and class!

  And to anyone else I've failed to mention, my apologies. If you're not in the book, you're in my heart!

  ED MCMAHON

  June 1998

  Introduction

  I like Ed McMahon—a lot. It would be impossible for me to work so closely with someone for over thirty years and not like him. During our time on The Tonight Show we developed, I believe, a unique relationship—similar to that which married couples often experience—an unspoken method of communication. If we engaged in a mock argument about the relative merits of the swit (an exceptional bird) and the shark, we had no ordained blueprint, but we both sensed the possibilities in the subject that could be mined for laughs—so by a look, a pause, body language, or tone of voice we could tell each other the direction to go. When it was really working well, it was euphoria. When it wasn't, there was always the next night.

  Ed is a remarkable fellow, as you'll discover from reading this book. He would have been successful in whatever he had chosen to do. I'm glad he chose to spend part of his career with me.

  JOHNNY CARSON

  P.S. Ed—I still believe the swit has tougher survival instincts than the shark. Then again, I could be wrong.

  1

  I will never forget the very first time I met a young man named Johnny Carson. The producer of my good friend Dick Clark's famed American Bandstand had heard Johnny was looking for an announcer for his new afternoon quiz show, Who Do You Trust?, and had recommended me. Johnny's office was in the Little Theatre, on West Forty-fourth Street, directly across from the Shubert Theatre. As I entered his office, Johnny was standing at a large window, watching as four huge cranes raised the Shubert's new marquee. I watched this from the other window as he interviewed me. "It's nice to meet you, Ed," he said.

  I laughed.

  "Thanks for coming up from Philadelphia," he said.

  I laughed just a little louder.

  "Tell me a little about what you're doing down there," he said, with that little boy twinkle in his blue eyes.

  I laughed even louder, and longer.

  "So, Ed," he asked in that friendly voice, "have you spent much time in New York?"

  I laughed so loud and so hard tears formed in my eyes.

  "Okay," he said, nodding, "you got the job."

  Well, maybe that's not exactly the way it happened. But just in case Johnny Carson decides to come out of retirement, I'm not taking any chances.

  • • •

  Recently my beautiful young daughter, Katherine Mary, came to me with her electronic pet, her Tamagotchi. "It's broken, Daddy," she said, handing it to me. "Can you fix it for me, please?"

  I didn't have the slightest idea how to fix it. "I'm sorry, darling," I said. "That's not what I do. I do 'Good evening,
ladies and gentlemen, there they are, weren't they wonderful, let's hear it for them.' I do, 'How's your Aunt Ida, did Uncle Joe get out of jail yet?' I'm the guy who says, 'Heeeeere's Johnny' and 'Hi-yoooo!' and 'You are correct, sir,' and 'How cold was it?' and 'Everything you ever wanted to know about mosquitoes is in that thin little book?' and 'I hold in my hand the final envelope, which has been hermetically sealed . . . ,' and 'Once again let us welcome the seer from the East . . .' I'm the guy who says, 'You may have already won ten million dollars,' and 'Budweiser, the only beer that's beechwood-aged,' and 'You cannot be turned down . . . ,' and 'I've lost twenty-nine pounds by following the Jenny Craig diet . . .' "

  Katherine Mary sighed deeply, then sat down.

  "See, sweetheart, I'm the guy who says, 'Our spokesmodel champion has owned the stage for two weeks, but her challenger intends to . . . ,' and 'Jerry, our new total is forty-one million, seven hundred thousand dollars,' and 'Dick, this next practical joke is based on the fact that celebrities usually get . . . ,' and 'The next giant balloon coming down Broadway on this magnificent Thanksgiving Day is our old friend . . .' "

  Katherine Mary yawned.

  "I'm the former marine combat pilot who served as the grand marshal of the Indianapolis 500 and the king of Bacchus at Mardi Gras, and played the secret Santa Claus at the White House. I'm the former host of Snap Judgment who used the great W. C. Fields line ' 'Twas a woman that drove me to drink, and I never had the decency to write and thank her' in my nightclub act. I'm the guy who used to work in bingo parlors announcing, 'Under the B, it's fifteen,' and the guy who promised on an infomercial, 'With this incredible cooking device you can make french fries, fried shrimp, crispy onion rings without any fat or grease in your oven or microwave.' I'm the guy who works for wonderful charities like St. Jude's Ranch for Children in Boulder City, Nevada, the Muscular Dystrophy Association, and the United Negro College Fund. And I'm the guy who's made movies, recorded albums, and written books. The guy who worked with Johnny Carson for thirty-four years and Jerry Lewis for thirty years and Doc Severinsen and Frank Sinatra and John Wayne and Dick Clark and Don Rickles and Bob Newhart and Sammy Davis and Rosie O'Donnell and Coolio and Sinbad and the magnificent Tom Arnold. I'm the guy who pitched the incredible Morris metric slicer on the boardwalk in Atlantic City by telling people, 'With the blade in the lower position, just look how thin you can slice a tomato. You could read a newspaper through that tomato slice. I know a lady in Bayonne, New Jersey, who had one tomato last her all summer long . . .' "

  Katherine Mary stood up. "Oh, that's okay, Daddy," she said. "I'll ask Mommy."

  My given name is Edward Leo Peter McMahon. And I am one of the very fortunate people who grew up to do exactly what I spent my whole childhood dreaming of doing, even if no one is quite sure exactly what it is that I do. One night, for example, I was having dinner with the brilliant producer of The Tonight Show, Freddy de Cordova, at Chasen's Restaurant. We would do that periodically. We each had one of Pepe's flaming martinis, we discussed the show, what had happened recently, what was going to happen, then we each had a second flaming martini, and finally Freddy looked at me and said warmly, "Ed, I want to tell you something. I've been producing this show for twenty years and I still don't know exactly what it is that you do, but whatever it is, you're the very best at it."

  My lovely daughter Linda often complained that the most difficult question to answer on an application was "Father's Occupation?" I think that what I do might best be described as a host or master of ceremonies, or maybe a second banana or a sidekick or a straight man. Certainly I'm a well-known television personality, an entertainer, a spokesperson, a pitchman, and a salesman. I'm definitely a broadcaster, but I'm also an actor and a comedian. I'm a performer.

  That's what I do. But I'm still trying to figure out what my good friend the great Dick Clark does.

  Many people have told me that the thing I do best is make it look as if I'm not doing anything. My talent is making it seem that I have no talent. That just about anybody could get up there on the stage and do what I do. But believe me, that's not an easy thing to do. It took me years of hard work to be able to convince an audience that I wasn't working. So when it looked as if I wasn't doing anything, I was actually doing it very well.

  Even more difficult than making it look as if I was doing nothing was knowing when to say nothing. The most difficult thing for me to learn when I began working with Johnny Carson, for example, was when to say nothing. There were many nights when I was sitting next to Mr. Carson and I wanted to say a line but didn't. Believe me, at times saying nothing was tough. But I got very good at nothing.

  I take after my father. Edward Leo Peter McMahon. It was never very easy for me to figure out what it was he did either. It's probably simplest, and kindest, to describe him as

  . . . a promoter. He was an entrepreneur, a traveling salesman; he raised funds for charities and hospitals and clubs by selling punchboards and running bingo games; he operated carnival games and owned a boardwalk bingo parlor. For a brief time when he was starting out he even ran away and joined a minstrel show as the interlocutor, the man who stood between the end men—Mr. Tambo, who played the tambourine, and Mr. Bones, who rattled the bones—hosted the show, and told the jokes like, "Did you hear what Mr. Mason said to Mr. Dixon? We've got to draw the line somewhere!" It was a very early version of a talk show.

  Sometimes my father did extremely well, and we were rich. I mean very rich. How rich were we?

  Thank you for asking, but I'll do the straight lines.

  I'll tell you how rich we were. We were so rich that for a brief time we lived in a large suite in the luxurious Top of the Mark Hotel in San Francisco. I would wake up in the morning and call down to room service for breakfast. I thought every kid in America lived that way. Later we briefly lived in London Terrace in New York City, an apartment complex so fashionable that the doormen were formally dressed as London bobbies. We were so rich that once, during the depression, my mother bought me a thirty-two-dollar leather cap—that hat cost more than most people paid monthly for rent. We were so rich that my father drove a Hupmobile, a beautiful sedan with a picnic compartment built into the backseat. And for a time in the 1930s he and a business partner even leased a six-passenger airplane, complete with two pilots and a stewardess. Can you imagine how many punchboards he had to sell to lease an airplane?

  But more often he did not do very well. I vaguely remember there being some problem with oil leases in California, and we lived in a cold-water flat in Bayonne, New Jersey, or a dingy walk-up on East Fifty-fifth Street in New York. But even when we were struggling he always acted as if he were the most successful man in the whole world. As the great radio newsman Gabriel Heatter used to say, "He could look at a brick and see a house."

  My father traveled on business and the advice of counsel. He never cheated people or did anything illegal, but he had a way of making things seem better than they actually were. He was a great salesman. In his carnival booths, for example, he would always put the least expensive prize or the lamp with a scratch on it in the most prominent position on the top shelf. It looked as though it was supposed to be overlooked, which of course immediately made it the most desirable. When a winner asked for it he would try to talk them out of it. When they demanded it he would make a big show of climbing to the top and hauling it down—thus ensuring that the customer would never complain about the scratch on the base or the fact that it was falling apart.

  My father used to tell a story about a friend, a close friend, who would buy a broken-down thoroughbred racehorse for a few bucks and sell fifty-cent chances on him at county fairs. A lot of people would take a chance sight unseen on winning a throughbred racehorse. He could often sell two hundred dollars' worth of tickets on a ten-dollar horse. If the winner was less than satisfied when he finally saw his prize "racehorse," and admittedly that was often the case, this friend would simply give him back his fifty cents.

  The three things I
inherited from my father were his size—he was a big, broad man as I am—his work ethic, and his ability to tell a story. Oh, Eddie McMahon could tell a story. That was the Irish in him. On occasion my father and several friends would go away for a weekend on a fishing trip. This was about as much a fishing trip as the great El Moldo was a psychic. He knew nothing about fishing. I never saw him take a fishing rod or reel with him, or a tackle box. Worms had nothing to fear from my father. The guys never came home with a fish. But inevitably something funny would have happened during the weekend—something that they could talk about—and each of them would start to tell his version of the story. But then they would pause and agree, "Let Eddie tell it." Because Eddie McMahon could tell a grand story. He was a charmer, and he was known for his ability to improve upon the truth.

  It was my father who told me about my great-great-great-grandfather, Patrick Maurice Mac-Mahon, the president of France. General Patrick Mac-Mahon was an Irishman, but according to my father, Napoleon III loved him and was instrumental in his becoming the president of France in 1873. And according to my father, in his honor his favorite sauce was named Macmahonaise, which was eventually shortened to mayonnaise. People have sent me cookbooks that seem to confirm this derivation of mayonnaise. It's possible we really were related to the Irish president of France. But like many of my father's stories, it doesn't matter if every part is true. It's a story that belongs in the most prominent position on the top shelf.

  I always felt this incredible need to prove myself to my father. That's probably what gave me my drive. One night, for example, he was running a Monday night bingo game at a Moose hall. It was a big room; hundreds of people would play for money and prizes. Bingo cards were ten cents each, three for a quarter. I guess I was about twelve years old. I hounded my father to let me put on an apron and sell cards. My mother worked on him too, and finally he agreed. He gave me a stack of cards and two dollars in nickels and dimes so I could make change. I was very excited, but as I turned to start selling, I overheard him tell someone, "There's two dollars we'll never see again." I mean, can you imagine that? Hearing that insult just set me on fire. I had to prove him wrong. So instead of selling three cards for a quarter, I sold each card for a dime. I sold every card that I had. If the cards I had should have been worth ten dollars, I handed the cashier twelve bucks. I remember my father congratulating me, putting his arm around me. That part isn't so clear; the insult, I'll never forget.