Here's The Deal_ Don't Touch Me Part 2

It's also why I don't have a GED. To this day, I'm upset I didn't finish high school or go to college. I constantly acted out impulsively.

In high school at Northview Heights, I did everything from throwing a chocolate bar in the pool to make it look as if someone defecated (and then I dove in and ate it) to hiring contractors to give unauthorized bids on an extension to the library. I disrupted so many other activities and cla.s.ses that school officials called in a psychologist for testing. As an adult, I have been diagnosed with ADHD, which in my case manifests itself in trouble focusing, impulsive behavior, and basically everything that eventually curtailed my academic career. But the psychologist just chalked it up to having a bad att.i.tude-obviously ADHD didn't seem to be recognized in the early 1970s.

As luck would have it, I ended up contracting mononucleosis and missing cla.s.s for three months. I fell so far behind, I had to leave Northview. I enrolled myself in another school that was on the semester system in order to catch up, but within weeks they found out I didn't live in the district and had me removed.

I ended up at Georges P. Vanier Secondary School, where things quickly went downhill. I had a friend who knew someone in a university medical program where they dissected cadavers. The friend of a friend gave me a human foot, which of course I packed in my gym bag, brought to school, and left in someone's shoe in the locker room during PE. The energy it took for me to come up with and execute these extravagant stunts far outweighed the energy and time I was putting into academics, which eventually fell by the wayside.

My educational career was over. Where was I to turn? I was the only one I knew at my age who didn't have a place to get dressed and go each and every morning. Who was the joke on now?

This was a lonely, scary moment in my life. One of the things that got me through it was that my parents continued to love, encourage, and support me in every way. They connected with a friend in the carpet business. I got a job at Carpet Liquidators, apparently my only option for the future. I was selling carpet. I was a bona fide full-time carpet salesman. Let's get this straight: I was a bona fide full-time, color-blind carpet salesman. Wait, there's more: I was a bona fide fulltime, color-blind carpet salesman with an insatiable need to be the center of attention. And here is how it manifested itself.

The customers were called ups. ups. There were three or four salesmen, and we would take turns attending to the customer. Whenever it was my up, I would put on a performance for the other salesmen. First and foremost, I wanted to entertain myself and the people at the office. There were three or four salesmen, and we would take turns attending to the customer. Whenever it was my up, I would put on a performance for the other salesmen. First and foremost, I wanted to entertain myself and the people at the office.

This was not much different from any given night at Howard Johnson's. I would have the other salesmen stand close enough so they could overhear me. I would do everything from talking gibberish to positioning myself awkwardly just to see if I could elicit a reaction. Making the sale was secondary to getting the laugh.

I had business cards made up where my name on the card was "Howard Men." Whenever customers decided to make a purchase, I would ask them to step into my office. I could see the look on their faces as we approached the door that said "Men." I would invite them into my office very professionally, open up a private stall, lower the seat, and ask them to make themselves comfortable while we completed the contract. Most people were so off-kilter that they wouldn't even ask why they were sitting on a toilet filling out an order.

I was constantly consumed with my own pranks. I had no sense of boundaries. There was no teacher to tell me to stop. At the time, I had started dating Terry regularly. She was one of the first people who understood my sense of humor and enjoyed being in on the joke. I like to say we began dating. She describes it as going to a show every night. Eventually, she was forced to set boundaries.

The first boundary came when I was with her at a department store makeup counter. She was chatting with a saleslady. I didn't happen to be the center of attention, so I was getting bored. Like a six-year-old, when I get bored, stuff happens.

I started putting my fingers in the makeup testers. Each finger became caked with a different color. Terry concluded her purchase, then we left the counter and began strolling through the mall. I became very amorous, pinched her face, and started whispering sweet nothings, like "Look at you ... aren't you cute today." Then I touched her nose with another finger and whispered, "Look at that little b.u.t.ton nose, you're such a doll." Each statement and each touch left a different mark.

As we continued through the mall, the mess on her face grew. Within minutes, she looked like a crazy Indian, causing people to stare at her as they whisked by. Terry seemed to notice the stares, but I believe she interpreted them as if the people were mesmerized by a supermodel pa.s.sing in their midst. Her walk developed into a swagger, as if to say, "I look so hot today that people can't keep their eyes off me." It actually reminded me of the att.i.tude I had wearing the paper hat pushing the egg salad cart. At that point, I probably should've told her what I had done. But that's the problem with me: I never quite know when to quit.

I told her that I just remembered I wanted to buy something for my mother and we would need to head back to the makeup counter. I started running back through the mall like an idiot. There was no reason to be running, but because I was running, she chased me, yelling, "Why are you running? Where are you going?"

Now you have to picture this: There is a guy running through the mall like a crazy person, being chased by a young lady wearing messed-up war paint.

We were both out of breath by the time we arrived at the makeup counter. The saleslady asked if she could help us, all the while looking incredulously over my shoulder at the spectacle that was Terry.

"Yes," I said. "I don't know how to say this, but my girlfriend has trouble applying makeup."

The saleslady looked at Terry's multicolored, streaked face and didn't say anything.

Terry spoke up. "No, I don't," she said adamantly-as if she were defending her makeup job. Now Terry looked at me, burning a hole in the back of my head and thinking, What the f are you talking about?

"Well, you do," I said.

"I do not," she shot back. "I know exactly what I'm doing. Why are you saying that?"

Terry was so annoyed with me that she turned to walk away. In that moment, she caught a glimpse of her profile in a mirror and realized what had happened. She swung her purse as hard as she could, slamming me on the shoulder, and then stormed out of the department store.

She was really upset. So was I. I thought I had lost my girlfriend through my antics, giving no consideration to the consequences. Terry made me promise never to play a practical joke on her again. She was to be considered out of bounds, so that meant that I could not do things to her, but I could do things with her.

I remained in the carpet business for a few years and eventually opened up my own company, National Broadloom Sales. National Broadloom Sales consisted of one room and a phone. I would take out ads advertising a shop-at-home service. And as calls came in, I would answer the phone with various voices that made the operation seem much bigger than it actually was.

The receptionist was me in a falsetto voice saying, "National Broadloom." When someone asked to speak to a salesperson, I would accidentally transfer her to the warehouse, which was me in a low voice saying, "Warehouse." But if the customer said she was looking for a salesman, I would reconnect her to my regular voice, answering, "Sales," and make an appointment to go to the house and show her my wares.

Terry was my first truly captive audience. After either school or work, she used to come with me on these sales calls. My goal was to see how outrageous I could be at the same time I made a living. Once in the home, I would have the family or the customer select the color and style of carpet they wanted. Next I would explain that I had to take measurements.

One particular time, I proceeded to take off my shirt. I was standing there bare-chested. You can't imagine the awkwardness the family felt at the sight of a strange, bare-chested man standing in their living room, getting ready to measure for the carpet. The discomfort was palpable. I can't tell you how many times they just looked back and forth at one another in silence. I know they wanted to flee, but this was their house. I took a pen and drew the room on my stomach, noting the measurements. As soon as I finished, I had the family sit on the couch, while I lay at their feet with the floor plan and my nipples facing up at them.

Pointing to the rooms I had drawn on my chest, I said, demonstrating, "See this room that starts at my belly b.u.t.ton? That is the family room. You want earth-tone s.h.a.g to go up here just below my left nipple." But I knew that's not where they wanted the earth-tone s.h.a.g, it was where they wanted the brown Berber, so they stopped me.

"No, sir, that's not right."

"Okay, show me where you want the s.h.a.g."

At first, it was really uncomfortable for this poor lovely family, but eventually it was like "This must be how you buy carpet." The conversation slowly evolved into a sense of normalcy. The husband remarked, "You see where your left nipple is? That's where we want the Berber to start." Then the wife cut in, "Honey, no, I think the earth-tone s.h.a.g should go from his belly b.u.t.ton to his right nipple." All the while, their young daughter would be saying, "Mommy, why does the carpet man not have a ..." At that moment, her mother would shush her, as if she were being rude.

I learned from this that people would rather suffer in awkward h.e.l.l than be embarra.s.sed by standing their ground and saying, "What the f.u.c.k is going on?" It was too dangerous because I was in their home and they couldn't escape, so they just made this world real and comfortable. Thank you, Allen Funt.

Another time, I was called up to measure a ma.s.sive house. I pulled out a six-inch ruler and began measuring. My goal was to see how long they would let me stay. I put the ruler on the floor, held my finger at the end, and then mumbled to myself, "Two," flipped it over, and said, "Three."

The man of the house interrupted and told me he had a tape measure, to which I held up my hand and said, "Please, please. I've lost count. I have to use my own equipment." And I would start again, "One ... two ... three."

The atmosphere was always so uncomfortable. n.o.body would ever confront me during these stunts. They would just sit there and endure it in total discomfort, which is my favorite kind of comedy. I consider those sales to be the first time I was being paid for comedy. These were my shows. n.o.body was booking me in a club, but I was invited to perform at someone's house and I was getting paid for it.

Up to this point, you might think I was putting myself on the path toward becoming a comedian. I promise you there couldn't have been anything further from my mind. All these shenanigans were just impulsive bursts of misbehavior that happened to garner some laughs. As it turns out, they were simply a product of who I was-a twenty-two-year-old ADHD-OCD-laden color-blind carpet salesman desperately in need of attention at any expense.

I was still living with my parents in a two-bedroom apartment in suburban Toronto. Show business was not part of my psyche. I knew absolutely nothing about show business. At the time, my idea of show business would've been selling television sets.

My only previous foray into the arts had been in high school. After failing numerous academic courses, I picked up a cla.s.s in theater arts for what I believed would be an easy pa.s.s. Our teacher, Mr. Brown, would have us dress in black and curl up into a ball as if we were a seed. He would drop the needle on a Simon and Garfunkel record and instruct us to bloom slowly to the music. As Paul and Art's music filled the room, I lifted my head and began to bloom. The girl to my right also began blooming, spreading her petals. This caused my stem to rise. Apparently, my plant was sprouting a new branch. That's about all I remember from theater arts, except for the fact that I got a C in blooming.

Everybody else I knew was charting a path to their future. I wasn't charting, nor did I have a path. But I did have a goal. I wanted to be a millionaire. I wasn't saving money. Anything I made went directly into my pockets. Anything I wanted emptied my pockets.

My impulsiveness didn't serve me well in business. While running National Broadloom Sales, I decided I needed a marketing campaign. I went to the local paper to buy ads. I was told that if I signed a contract to guarantee them fifty-two half-page ads in a year, I would receive a discount. Impulsively, I signed the contract without any thought. That's not true. My one thought was that I was on my way to making a million dollars. Every week for fifty-two weeks, my company would have a huge ad. Every week for fifty-two weeks, as per the contract, I had to pay thousands and thousands of dollars. Every week for fifty-two weeks, I didn't earn thousands and thousands of dollars. Needless to say, I was on my way to losing a million dollars. National Broadloom Sales eventually closed its doors. Make that its door.

My frenzied, scattershot behavior became my modus operandi. Within days, I reopened as North American Carpet Sales-another room, another phone, but now I was going to take the entire continent by storm. Within months, it was a mere cog in the wheel of the conglomerate that became well-known ... to me as HMI, Howard Mandel International. I sold smoke detectors, tied up the rights to a toothbrush you could floss with, and began selling novelty items, such as the Uncle Sherman Flasher Doll. This was a toy I had seen on one of my family trips to Miami. It was a stuffed old man in a trench coat that when opened revealed his package. This was certainly going to make me my million.

I believe this entrepreneurial spirit was inspired by my dad. He was the greatest, most optimistic father anybody could ever have, always br.i.m.m.i.n.g with new ideas and fearless about executing them. This eventually made him the proprietor of a very successful commercial lighting company, which is the business my brother runs to this day.

But throughout his career, there were many fun detours, each of which holds a warm and fuzzy place in my heart. He started as a cabdriver, then sold cars, stocks, and diamonds. I remember the times he would bring home new inventions to market. The two that stand out are the water softeners and Zip Grip. I have no idea what a water softener is. The Zip Grip was a way of hanging your laundry on the line without using clothespins.

At this time, most people relied on a laundry line hanging in the backyard or bas.e.m.e.nt rather than a clothes dryer. Zip Grip was an aluminum pulley system that used two lines and a row of bearings that would twist as you pulled the line. My father decided he could market this to the world. My entire family would sit on the living room floor and pack flyers into envelopes for ma.s.s mailings.

I never saw my father discouraged, regardless of the results. All I remember is the excitement we felt embarking on new adventures. When I was about thirteen or fourteen years old, he bought a hotel in Stratford, Ontario. The entire town is modeled after Great Britain's Stratford-upon-Avon and is home to Canada's foremost Shakespearean festival. The hotel, the Avon, was named after the famous river. I only remember visiting it twice.

This hotel seemed to be a small building with maybe ten rooms. The actual business was the bar downstairs. Both of my visits were to one of the rooms in the hotel. I was never actually in the bar. I can now tell you why.

My father had a great sense of humor, and like Shakespeare, he appreciated theater. Now, remember where we are. At any given time during the festival, you could see Macbeth Macbeth or or Romeo and Juliet. Romeo and Juliet. Not to be outdone, my father would feature an act by the name of Princess Glow. Not to be outdone, my father would feature an act by the name of Princess Glow.

I was never allowed to see the act, but I did see the picture. Princess Glow was a young lady weighing in at approximately 350 pounds. Her performance consisted of getting naked and taking a bubble bath in a giant champagne gla.s.s positioned center stage. For the grand finale, she would climb out of the champagne gla.s.s-which in itself was impressive. Remember, she weighed 350 pounds dry, and now she was soapy, wet, and slippery. She would leave the stage and walk throughout the audience, dropping her huge wet soapy b.r.e.a.s.t.s on the heads of unsuspecting bald men. Et tu, Brute? This was the show my dad produced.

Here's the deal with this. While doing research for this book, I asked my mom if my dad really ran a strip bar. Her reply was "No, he had bands, too." The truth is it really wasn't a strip bar. Forty-six weeks a year, he hired bands and maybe a comic, but for maybe six weeks, he had acts like Princess Glow. In my mind, once you have a naked woman dropping her b.r.e.a.s.t.s on your customers' heads, it's a strip bar.

It's like-and not to be derogatory toward anyone gay-if a man has s.e.x with six other men but also from time to time there are women, then I would say that man has gay tendencies. Just like my mom can't say it wasn't a strip bar because he had strippers for only six weeks. Is that a good a.n.a.logy? Probably not.

Back to the point at hand. I believe my father is the genesis of my entrepreneurial spirit.

I opened up a storefront selling carpet remnants downtown across the street from the YMCA. I can't even imagine who occupied this s.p.a.ce before I moved in. The store was about fifteen feet deep from the sidewalk and three and a half feet wide. Every morning, I opened the front door, threw some remnants on the sidewalk, and stood there waiting for customers. Sometimes after school, Rotenberg would come by and relieve me.

More than the money-and I use that term loosely-the draw to this venture was the vagrants living at the Y. It sounds very charitable, but I was fascinated and could sit for hours with drug addicts, alcoholics, and the mentally deranged. I would have groups of them gather around me and regale me with their adventures. Unlike my friends, I didn't have to get up early in the morning to go to school, so just about every night after dropping Terry off, I would spend time in doughnut shops being mesmerized by the people of the night.

One particular character that comes to mind is a middle-aged man who used to sit beside me each and every night and order a jelly doughnut. He would squeeze it as he was bringing it up to his face. The pressure of the squeeze would force the jelly to protrude from a hole on the side. He would start talking at the jelly as if it were a friend: "Thanks for coming out, I've been meaning to tell you something." As he reached the end of the sentence, he would release the pressure, causing jelly to recoil back into the doughnut. At this point, he would scream at the top of his lungs, "Don't you f.u.c.king walk away from me when I'm talking to you!"

I found these times and moments to be my favorite source of entertainment, mostly because they were real, unscripted slices of life. No movie, television show, or joke could surpa.s.s this natural form of entertainment. It was like living in two different worlds. I would work all day in one world, meet friends, and go to dinner. Once they went home, I would catapult myself into a parallel universe populated by the deranged characters of the night.

And then it was back to Mommy and Daddy's house. Once home, I washed my hands incessantly and took countless scalding showers. The showers were preceded by the gathering of towels. One was laid out on the floor. One was used to wrap my filthy clothes. The third was used to dry myself and shield my hands as I picked up the remaining towels so that I could lift the lid of the laundry hamper to dispose of everything, having touched nothing-not my clothes, not even the hamper or its contents. All this before I would make my way into my bed. Finally, lying there blotched and chafed, fresh from my scalding shower, looking back on my evening, I'd think, Boy, were those those people crazy. people crazy.

On nights when I didn't go out, weird and wonderful thoughts would fill my head. Very late in the evening, I would go into my parents' bedroom and stand at the foot of their bed to share. Sometimes I would stand there for a half hour just doing the Bobby the Baby voice. I would constantly elicit laughter until my father would say, "Howie, please, we need to sleep." I can only imagine what was going through their heads. All their friends' children, along with my friends, either were away at college or had started careers. The point is, at this age they were certainly not living at home. My younger brother was in college studying electronic technology. Here were Albert and Evelyn Mandel trying to sleep as their twenty-two-year-old son told funny little stories-until they sent him to his room.

As I write about my life at this age, I'll be honest in telling you that I feel somewhat embarra.s.sed. If I'd taken out a personal ad at that point, it would have read something like this: "Howard Mandel, 22-year-old entrepreneur (carpet remnant salesman). Lives in beautiful two-bedroom apartment (with parents). Enjoys people (people who talk to jelly). Cleanliness a priority, germ-free a must (repet.i.tive hand washing followed by many scalding showers). Loves to perform (in Mommy and Daddy's room until he's sent to his room)." As accurate as this account is, I don't believe my parents saw me this way because I never received anything but unconditional love and support from them.

It was now 1978. My father had opened the lighting company, and I was working along with him. Terry had finished high school and was working at a textile supply company. Every night after work, we would meet up and hang with some friends who included Terry's sister, Fay, her husband at the time, and their friends. On one particular night after making a spectacle of myself (as usual), Fay's friend Reenie said, "You're really funny, you should go to Yuk Yuk's." That didn't even sound like a sentence to me. What is a Yuk Yuk? Today, Yuk Yuk's, HaHa's, and the Funny Bone all make sense to people as names of comedy clubs, but at that time I didn't know what a comedy club was.

The following night, we made plans and went downtown to this new, hot, bustling club Yuk Yuk's. It was located in something of a strip mall on the corner of Yorkville and Bay streets. When I was a child, my dad would load my family into the car and make an evening of driving up and down Yorkville looking at the hippies. This was essentially our Greenwich Village. By the late 1970s, the hippies had been replaced by upscale restaurants. Yorkville was like a nightlife mecca. And for a kid from the suburbs, it made you feel you had arrived in the big city.

We waited in line, paid the admission, and sat in our seats. The lights went down, a fanfare of music pumped through the room, and Mark Breslin, the owner/master of ceremonies of the proceedings, made his way to the stage. Mark had started the club in the bas.e.m.e.nt of a church in 1975 and then moved it to Bay Street in 1978. He was the the king of comedy in Toronto. Adding to the excitement, this was the first time I was seeing somebody in person whose picture had been in the paper. king of comedy in Toronto. Adding to the excitement, this was the first time I was seeing somebody in person whose picture had been in the paper.

I had never witnessed anything like this in my life. He was funny, irreverent, and edgy. Throughout the night, he brought on a veritable cornucopia of comics, each being as funny and subversive as the last.

At the end of the evening, Mark retook the stage and announced that on the following Wednesday night after the show, there would be a time reserved for amateurs, when anyone could get up and showcase their comedic wares. Everybody at my table turned to me and said, "Howie, you should do it." Without a thought or even a breath, I said, "Let's do it."

My destiny was set.

I had no-absolutely no-concept of what was involved in preparing for this appearance. I had never even prepared for the performances in my parents' room. The fact that somebody had set a date and said show up at this time and be funny caused a terror I had never previously felt. All the pranks and jokes that I had pulled until that point were impulsive. Wednesday night had to be a planned performance.

Adding to my horror, my radar had been enacted. In the days leading up to that Wednesday, I was watching Johnny Carson, Merv Griffin, and Mike Douglas on TV, as I had before. But now I became aware of the stand-ups. I was always aware that they existed, but I had never focused on them. I heard Johnny Carson introduce a comedian who had been plucked from a place called the Comedy Store, which was exactly what Yuk Yuk's was. In our local paper, I noticed an article featuring the faces and talent of the people I had just seen at Yuk Yuk's. This world had always existed, but I had never noticed it. I began to feel the gravity of the situation.

It was April 19, 1978. Yes, the day James Franco was born. I don't even know why I know that, but that was my debut as a comedian. Terry has always kept a sc.r.a.pbook. One of the things she pasted in it was my horoscope for that day, which read: "Tonight your life will change forever."

We arrived at the club early to see the main show. Since I had signed up to perform, I didn't have to pay admission. That alone was a huge event in my life. I had never gotten into any place for free. The terror rose. They must want something in return. I sat with my friends in the audience and watched the comics. I began to wonder how in the world I could come close to eliciting the response received by the acts we were watching. I excused myself. I thought it would be best if I prepared mentally. I don't know what that means, but that's what I was thinking. To this day, I don't know what preparing mentally means. Let me be honest: I don't believe I'm mentally prepared to write this book.

I made my way backstage. The first person I b.u.mped into was Louis Dinopoulos, who had changed his name to Lou Dinos for show business seven days earlier. He explained to me that he had gone on amateur night the week before and had been asked back. Wow, this guy was a pro. I was very impressed. He was a warm, friendly guy who took me backstage and showed me the ropes. There were no actual ropes, but he showed me three critical things. Number one, the room where comics hung out and entered the stage. Number two, the kitchen, where you could get free fountain drinks or anatomically correct gingerbread men. And number three ... I'll be honest with you, this was April 19, 1978, and I don't remember the third thing.

While the show was going on, Lou was introducing me to all the other amateurs who were going to appear. I was fascinated by the fact that there were other people who were willing to put themselves in this position. Before I knew it, my time had come. The professionals had finished, and Mark was introducing the amateurs one by one. We were each given five minutes to shine.

As much as I always wanted to be funny and be accepted, there was never a time or a place for my humor. Whether it was making a spectacle of myself in a cla.s.sroom or being crude in public, the funny came out of the fact that the time or place was inappropriate. Now I was being called upon to create humor in the most appropriate of places at a designated time.

I heard Mark Breslin announce the most terrifying five words: "Ladies and gentlemen, Howie Mandel."

I made my way toward the stage. I pa.s.sed through a dark hallway to a curtain. The audience response to my introduction died down rather quickly, though I could still hear the overenthusiastic table of my friends. Having never been on a stage before, I felt very uncomfortable standing there.

I remember seeing interrogation scenes in movies. The n.a.z.is would tie their victim to a chair in the center of a dark room. There always seemed to be a single light thrust upon the victim, which apparently was the main tool in extracting secrets. I never fully understood that concept until the moment the spotlight at Yuk Yuk's. .h.i.t my face. All I could see were the eyes in the first row, and they seemed to be saying, "You vill now tell us za secret, Jew boy."

I began to laugh nervously. This was somehow contagious, and the audience members began to giggle with me. My fear turned into self-consciousness as I extended my hand toward the audience and asked, "What? What?" I actually meant, "What are you laughing at?" The more I asked, the more they laughed. The actual secret, which was never revealed, was that I didn't have an act.

The Bobby voice suddenly came to mind, and I made that funny little sound I had showcased in cla.s.s and my parents' room. I had the little boy spew foul and filthy dialogue. This seemed to bring even more laughter, to which I responded, "What? What?" Until lo and behold, a light came on signaling my time was up.

I promise you, I had done absolutely nothing. But I received a great response. Laughter was like a warm blanket enveloping me and injecting me with a druglike euphoria. Just like s.e.x, this first time was a once-in-a-lifetime experience that I will never forget. As I said good night and proceeded to leave the stage, Mark Breslin pa.s.sed me, looked me in the eye, and said, "Stick around, we'll talk."

I walked out of the spotlight back into the real world to rejoin Lou Dinos and the rest of the comics. At the end of the show, Mark came back and told me that he thought what I had done was very good-and he would like me to come back next week to do it again. To which I said, "Sure."

I was overwhelmed. I ran to the front of the house, found Terry and my friends, and couldn't wait to share my good fortune. He wanted me to do it again. again. I didn't know what I didn't know what it it was, but he'd invited me to do was, but he'd invited me to do it it again. That night, on that stage, at that moment, I became addicted. again. That night, on that stage, at that moment, I became addicted.

I couldn't wait for the next week. I was totally consumed. I started showing up every single night just to be part of that world. I hung out with Terry, Lou Dinos, and the other comics, watching the shows, sharing funny stories, eating gingerbread, and, like a sponge, soaking up the intricacies of this newfound craft.

This wonderful place was very different from anywhere I had ever been. For the first time it clicked: there were other people like me. Lou Dinos had told me that during the day he was working in a warehouse and was constantly in trouble because his sense of humor was misunderstood. Most of these people spent their time trying to think of funny stories or putting on goofy hats and standing in front of strangers hoping to be accepted and loved. They were outcasts like me.

While most people in the 1970s were going to discos, this was a nightclub for misfits who weren't into dancing. Most of us had day jobs and looked at these nighttime experiences as a fun diversion. This was not considered a career path. It was like playing pickup basketball with your friends. Just because you can't wait for that game each and every Wednesday does not mean you are so delusional as to believe that you will one day play in the NBA.

Mark Breslin's invitation to come back lit a fire in me the likes of which I had never experienced. Years later, I was to meet a phenomenally entertaining artist by the name of Denny Dent, who taught me one of my most significant life lessons: Your happiness lies in finding your pa.s.sion. He conveyed this message in a unique way. In front of an audience of thousands, he would blast a rock song and paint a wall-size intricate portrait of the artist whose music you were hearing. Before your very eyes, as the song crescendoed and came to an end, he would step back and reveal his completed masterpiece. As his career blossomed, he would use his performance to deliver a motivational message.

Through our friendship, I found out that Denny had gone through a very dark period in his life. He never set out to be a two-fisted musical speed painter. It just so happened that at one of the lowest moments in his life, he threw caution to the wind, blasted on a boom box, and began throwing paint. Within minutes, to his own dismay, he had actually created an amazing image. It wasn't anything he had planned or even knew he had in him. This find turned out to be his calling. He ended up making a great living, raising millions for charity, and motivating countless conventionally thinking people.

His ultimate message in life was that we are all artists regardless of what we do. If we could just throw caution to the wind and be more pa.s.sionate without giving any thought to the ramifications of our actions, or where they might lead us, chances are we could create something special. A computer programmer may end up with a program the likes of which has never been seen-Microsoft. Somebody who is innovative and pa.s.sionate about marketing can end up with the next Pet Rock.

This unleashed creative pa.s.sion could result in success, but his point was that pa.s.sion alone is the success. We all need it in our lives. If your job may happen to be cleaning toilets, but if you are pa.s.sionate about your stamp collection and can't wait to get to it, your life is much richer than that of the CEO who drudges through life without a spark of pa.s.sion for anything.

This philosophy was the reason Denny and I clicked from the moment we met. It was almost as if he were preaching my life. Without a thought of where it might lead me or what the outcome might be, I had stepped on the stage at Yuk Yuk's. On April 19, 1978, shortly before midnight, I had found my pa.s.sion.

It was 1979. We were in the middle of a comedy boom. If every major city didn't have a club, I a.s.sure you one was about to open. Comedy clubs were exciting places to be. Live stand-up had become the newest, freshest form of entertainment for the young. It seemed to be replacing the disco.

On any given night at Yuk Yuk's, Mark Breslin would host and introduce the lineup of regular, unpaid comedians, followed by the one paid featured act. This comic was either one of the club regulars or a headliner from out of town such as Gilbert Gottfried or Jay Leno. Comedic celebrities like Robin Williams might drop in and surprise the audience.

Mark continually invited me back, and within weeks he moved me into the regular lineup. I was now part of the club and, unbeknownst to me, riding that wave to who knew where.

I believe that everyone who made their way to the stage was there because someone else told them they were funny. It might be just a friend or a relative at the dinner table. No one ever made that decision alone, including me. Once you were there, it would be horrifying to find out that only your friends and relatives shared your humor. I always felt incredibly lucky to get laughs from all the strangers making up the audience. It made me feel as if they were sharing in my sense of humor. There's nothing that can make you feel more naked and vulnerable than revealing your own sense of humor publicly. The sound of laughter coming from strangers is like a warm, fuzzy "ME TOO."

I loved being there. I was comfortably uncomfortable onstage, and I had found my joy. At the same time, had I done a little self-a.n.a.lysis, I might have asked myself, "Every time I walk onstage, I'm petrified. Why am I doing this?" Yet it was a strange comfort zone. This seemed like an incredible dichotomy. In a quest to be noticed, accepted, and loved by strangers, you set yourself up to be ridiculed or humiliated. Silence alone can be humiliating. But as much as you might think I had chosen comedy, it had chosen me.

At this point, I had been attending this comedy soiree every night for five months. Amazingly, Mark asked me to headline the show. I became the featured act for the week. My name was on the marquee along with the tagline "Borderline Psychotic," a reference to my hyperkinetic nervous energy onstage. But when you come to think about it, that tagline doesn't stray too far from the reality.

Being a featured act was a huge responsibility. I was forced to deliver. I had to do nine shows a week, one each day and two on Friday and Sat.u.r.day nights. I'd like to thank Terry, who seemed to enjoy these times as much as me. I couldn't believe she would put up with going to a comedy club each and every night. (I still can't.) I remember the time Terry had gotten tickets for us to see George Harrison live. A Beatle was coming to our town, and we had tickets. But I had to inform her that I couldn't make it.

This was going to be my first real job in comedy. This was a feature, and Yuk Yuk's was actually paying me for my services. For the nine shows, I would end up with a check for $150. If you do the math, that comes out to approximately $17 per show. Even though I would miss only one performance to see a Beatle, how could I walk away from $17? The truth is that I couldn't walk away from the stage, and Terry understood that.

When I told her that I couldn't go, I was prepared for her to be upset and at least inflict some guilt on me. She had been spending every single night for the past five months in a comedy club. This was to be her special night out. But instead, she encouraged me to fulfill my obligation. To this day, after thirty-one years of touring and being away from home for weeks at a time, along with countless other obligations, she has given me nothing but support and love, not to mention putting up with the borderline psychotic side of me.

It was so hard to concentrate at work during the day. I was consumed with the preparations involved in being the featured act. Unbelievable as this may sound, it wasn't about the material. It was the fact that I was getting $17 a show. Do you know what kind of pressure that puts on one's shoulders? For the last five months, I had been showing up for free and just trying to be funny. Now I was earning a gazillion percent more. Just the fact that somebody was paying me meant it was a job carrying heavy responsibility.

My act was mostly me just being me. Some people might call that "filler." There was a lot of giggling and me asking, "What? What?" But on the road to becoming a featured act, I had expanded my repertoire. I had created this character called Donny. He was half man, half chicken. I stuffed my cheeks and moved around the stage like a spastic fowl, telling the audience: "Daddy was a lonely chicken farmer. Mommy was a chicken." Then I would reminisce about my childhood when I woke up in the morning and heard Mommy in the kitchen making eggs. I'd then make a grunting sound, as if I were a chicken pushing an egg ... out of its a.s.s.