Memoirs of a Muppets Writer: (You mean somebody actually writes that stuff?) (22 page)

We got one more lesson in comedy from Milton Berle on
The Muppet Show
. On Milton’s television show, Texaco Star Theater, they had a running gag. Whenever Milton said, “make up”, as in, “Why don’t you two kids kiss and make up?”, a weird character would run out of the wings, shout, “Make-up!” and hit Milton Berle with a giant powder puff. Sometimes it happened once a show, sometimes two or three.

We decided to resuscitate it for
The Muppet Show,
but with our own Muppet twist. When Berle said, “make up”, a full sized Muppet monster would run out and hit him with a gigantic powder puff. Dave Goelz got appointed to play the monster.

We went into rehearsal. Milton Berle is standing at the center of the stage. Dave is standing next to him in a full sized rubber monster suit without the head. His tail is about four feet long and he can hardly move.

The cue is given. Berle says, “make up.” Dave yells. “Make-up!” in his monster voice, waddles toward Berle and swipes at him with the gigantic powder puff. Dave hits Milton in the shoulder.

“Wait a minute!”, says Berle, pointing to his shoulder. “You’re gonna hit me here? Here isn’t funny.” He points to his chin, nose and cheek. “Here is funny. Here is funny. Here is funny.” He points to his chest. “There is not funny. You got that kid? Let’s try it again.”

The cue is given again. Poor Dave stumbles toward Berle in the monster suit, and swats him on the chest with the gigantic power puff.

“Listen to me kid. I’ve been in show business for 60 years. (Pointing) Here is funny. Here is funny! Here is not funny! Let’s try it again!”

This went on again and again until finally Dave managed to hit the sweet spot with the powder puff.

As I said, working with Milton Berle was a great lesson in the very serious business of comedy.

Chapter 39

The Sunglass Lady

E
veryone seems to have a story about how civil the English are. And it’s true. Instead of just giving directions, Londoners have been known to walk out-of-towners all the way to their destinations. They queue up automatically at bus stops and cash registers - “queue” being English for “line.” Even their traffic signs are polite. The English version of, “Do Not Enter”, is “No Entry, Please.” So, here’s my English civility story.

For some reason, shortly after I arrived in London, I developed a stye on my left eye lid. Never had one before and never have had one since. Maybe it was caused by a change of food or water. Maybe it was something I picked up on the trip over.

There’s a plethora of folklore information on what causes styes. And now that I was in England, I had two folklores from which to choose. Whatever the reason, it wouldn’t go away. It was irritating and ugly and I was getting tired of dealing with it. And, I hated the way it looked. Although most people probably didn’t notice it, I felt like a leper.

Finally, I decide to get a pair of sunglasses to hide it. As you might imagine, sunglasses weren’t anywhere near the top of my packing list as I was preparing to leave for London. And now that I was in London, I hadn’t the foggiest idea of where to shop for sunglasses.

There was, however, what I referred to as an “all nite deli”, close to my flat. It wasn’t really a deli and it wasn’t really open all nite. But, it was the closest thing in London to that hallowed New York institution. One of only two grocery stores that were open that late in the entire city of London, it did a brisk business all evening with new parents in need of milk for their babies. The taxis were parked two deep outside.

Since the “all nite deli” was also one of the few stores in London, open after 6:00 p.m., I decided to give them a shot for sunglasses. “Maybe”, I told myself, “When London jet setters impulsively decide to fly to the Riviera, this is where they go for a quick pair of sunglasses.” I spent a good 20 minutes wandering around its aisles, but there were no sunglasses to be found. I also didn’t see any suntan lotion and made a mental note to pass the good news along to Don Hinkley.

I finally gave up and decided to ask at the cash register, knowing how foolish I was going to look, asking for sunglasses with an American accent in the middle of London. It was, as usual, pouring rain outside.

When it was my turn at the cash register, I screwed up my courage and asked for sunglasses. As expected, I got the incredulous look from the girl behind the register. Then I heard a woman’s voice from behind me with a very cultured English accent.

“Excuse me.”, it said. “But would your need for sunglasses have anything to do with that stye on your eye?”

I turned around to see a compact woman of “a certain age.” She was wearing sensible shoes, a classic tweed suit, a no-nonsense bun in her grey hair and carrying the ubiquitous, tightly rolled, black, no-nonsense umbrella. In short, she was a classic British matron right out of Agatha Christie.

I, on the other hand, was dressed in a T-shirt and bellbottom jeans. Since it was the 70s, I was all hair and beard. Looking back now, I was pretty scary looking. I told the woman that my need for sunglasses was indeed connected to my eye problem. But I assured here the need was just cosmetic and not medical.

“Well,” she said, “I have a perfectly serviceable pair of sunglasses. And, I’d be more than happy to loan them to you. I don’t live far from here.”

I thanked her profusely and said it wasn’t necessary. But, she insisted. I’ve always had trouble refusing anything to women old enough to be my mother. In truth, I’ve always had trouble refusing anything to women of any age. So, we left the deli and walked several blocks to a lovely tree-lined street. We stopped in front of a beautiful old Victorian.

“I’d ask you in.”, she said. “But, it just isn’t done, you know.”

I assured her that I knew. And she entered the front door.

For a moment, my New York paranoia kicked in and I half expected to get sapped from behind and mugged. But she came out a few moments later with a perfectly serviceable pair of sunglasses and an envelope with her name and address on it.

“When you’re finished with them, just put them in the envelope and pop them in the mail slot,” she told me. Then she said good night and went into the house.

I used the sunglasses for several days until my eye cleared up. During that time I told everybody in the studio my sunglass lady story. The Americans couldn’t believe it. The Brits couldn’t understand what all the fuss was.

Figuring she must have children or grandchildren, I made sure when I returned the glasses I included every piece of Muppet literature and autographed photos I could get my hands on. And, for many years afterwards, we exchanged Christmas cards. Thank you again, Mrs. Victoria Owens.

Chapter 40

All That Jazz

I
f it weren’t for Jerry Nelson and Richard Hunt I would not have only starved physically in London, I would have starved culturally, too. Between the hours we worked and the distance between Borehamwood and London, proper, I had very little time to explore the city.

Additionally, until you know them, the Brits are a bit reserved. I had heard stories of people moving to a new neighborhood, dropping in at their local pub, and maybe after five years someone might strike up a conversation. I did meet one Brit who had moved but continued to go to his old neighborhood pub for several years afterward to socialize.

Since Jerry and Richard had been in London for the previous season of
The Muppet Show
, they had a handle on London night life. And, fortunately, like me, they were big jazz fans. So, every so often on a Thursday or Friday night, I’d get a call from them and a few minutes later, Richard’s antique Ford Cortina would rumble up to my front door and the three of us would roar off into the London night.

One night we went to Ronnie Scott’s, London’s world famous jazz club. I forget who was performing that night. Suffice to say it was a jazz legend. But, before we got into the main room, we got to talking with a gang of musicians at the bar who knew Jerry and Richard. They got to telling stories about being on the road with “the Count,” “the Duke” and “Diz.” The conversation went on so long we never got into the main room to hear whoever was performing. (
How hip is that!?)

On another night, the guys took me to a pub where there was a jam session between our A.T.V. studio orchestra and the studio orchestra at the BBC. Real musicians’ jam sessions are wonderful experiences - musicians playing purely to entertain themselves and other musicians.

Years before, when I first moved back to New York, I tended bar at a formal, for want of a better word, jam session. It was the New York musician’s holiday party. It was held on New Year’s Day night, since most of them worked every other night during the holidays. Every New York jazz man and every Broadway show musician showed up and played that night. The party went on until about six in the morning. I would have worked for nothing. But not only did we get paid well, we also discovered that musicians are among the world’s most generous tippers.

The session in London was exactly the same as that night in New York. Every musician shows up with his instrument. There’s somebody at the door with a clipboard. The musicians check in with him and he puts them together into groups based on the instruments they play. The groups then form up and perform one after another.

This night, the pub was really rocking, right up to 11:00 p.m., when they rang the bell to announce closing time. In New York jam sessions, most musicians don’t even show up until after eleven. But this was London with its arcane pub hours. But, “Not to worry,” as Richard put it. The session would continue at a house party and we were invited. So, we got back in the old Cortina and roared off… somewhere.

You could hear the party a block away. And when we got inside, it got even better - live music, an elaborate buffet, a house full of artists, performers, dancers, musicians, all talking a mile a minute. The only thing that was missing, this being England, was cold beer. It broke my heart to see a dozen cases of Heineken stacked up against the kitchen wall - warm!

So, I picked up two six packs, elbowed my way through the kitchen, opened the freezer and threw them inside. “Yank.”, I explained to the puzzled crowd by the refrigerator. “I’ll be back in 20 minutes. Twenty minutes later, I returned and retrieved my two six packs of cold beer.

I took them back to the living room and opened one. Shortly after a black guy approached me.

“You the Yank with the cold beer?”

“Yeah. Would you like one?”

I use the less P.C. expression, “black,” because I could tell by his accent that he wasn’t African-American. And, since he was asking for a cold beer, I could tell he wasn’t African-English. I gave him a beer. It turned out he was a drummer. Then I asked, “So, where are you from?”

“Africa.”, he replied.

“Wow! An
African-African!
Really!?”

“Yes. Why?”

“All the black guys I know come from Brooklyn.”, I replied stupidly. (How
un-hip
is that!?)

“There’s a lot of us there, you know.”, he replied with a impish grin, before grabbing another cold beer and disappearing with an African-English chorus girl.

But the zenith of our London music quest had to be the night Jerry and Richard called to say that Stephane Grappelli was appearing at a club called, 100 Oxford Street.

For the uninitiated, Stephane Grappelli was one of the great jazz legends of the 20
^th
Century. A jazz violinist, he first entered the limelight in the 1930s as part of the famous Paris Hot Club Quintet. Another member was the guitarist, Django Reinhardt. Together, they played up-beat, swing versions of the music of Gershwin, Cole Porter and other American composers. After World War II, they came to the States and toured with Duke Ellington.

Django Reinhardt was equally famous. A full-blooded gypsy, he had burned his left hand rescuing his wife from a fire in a caravan wagon. His third and fourth fingers were partially paralyzed. Yet, he re-taught himself the guitar and is still regarded as one of the best jazz guitarists that ever lived.

Reinhardt died prematurely in the 1950s. But Grappelli went on working into the 1990s. There isn’t much more I can say about these two musical greats in print, except to urge you to go on-line and seek out them and their music.

As I said before, my father was a saloonkeeper and so I grew up in many of them. As an adult I went on to frequent more than a few more. But, 100 Oxford Street was the strangest club I’ve ever seen. It was located at 100 Oxford Street, downstairs in the cellar. Since it was a private club, there was a membership charge at the door. I still have my membership card somewhere.

The one main room was completely devoid of decor and furnished with the world’s most uncomfortable metal tables and chairs. It had all the charm of a prison mess hall. Stranger yet, it seemed to be operated by two separate entities. Along one wall was a bar, where drinks could be purchased. Along the other wall was a counter that sold Chinese food.

Since there was no table service, after securing a table, you first went to the bar for drinks, brought them back to the table, and then went to the other side of the room for Chinese food. Everything was paid for in cash on receipt.

Then, the lights dimmed and the man, himself, appeared. Backed up by a band of impeccable young musicians, Grappelli swung his way through classics like,
I Got Rhythm, Night and Day, Honeysuckle Rose, Lady Be Good, Them There Eyes, and St. Louis Blues
. We stayed through two sets. It was a magical evening.

After the last set, I was speechless. Then Richard piped up ebulliently, “Let’s go back stage and see him!”

“We can’t do that.”, I protested.

“Sure we can. We’re the Muppets. We can go anywhere!”

Sure enough, Richard talked our way backstage and into Stephane Grappelli’s dressing room.

Up close, Stephane Grappelli reminded me of my Italian grandfather. He was, in fact, half French and half Italian. He was most gracious. It turned out he was a big fan of the Muppets and told us how much he loved the show and tried to watch it wherever he was.