twenty-three

The World’s
Coolest Star

In the nearly fifty years that I knew him, never once did I see Johnny play “the star.” Devoid of visible ego, he was flawlessly gracious with everyone. On the air, he was even gracious in deflating the mighty. His wit was paradoxical because it was both gentle and lethal. Barbara Howar, the Washington columnist, once told me that the moment Johnny started making jokes about someone, that someone’s career was over.

For example, when Johnny began calling Secretary of Agriculture Earl Butz “Earl the Pearl,” Butz fell faster than grain in a silo. And when Johnny began doing casual jokes about the folly of the Vietnam War, Lyndon Johnson knew the war was lost. Johnny could always sense the mood of America very quickly.

The great exception, of course, was Ronald Reagan. Johnny had to keep him around so he could say such things as: “There is a power struggle going on between President Reagan’s advisors. Moe and Curly are out. Larry is still in.”

And “President Reagan just signed a new law, but I think he was in Hollywood too long. He signed it, ‘Best wishes, Ronald Reagan.’”

Johnny also loved playing Reagan in sketches.

“Mr. President,” the interviewer would say.

“Yes, that’s what it says on my checks,” Johnny would reply, made up as Ronald Reagan. “My Social Security card also says number one, but I think that’s for when it was issued. Want to trade it for a Shirley Temple? A Shirley Jones? A Tom Jones?”

“Mr. President, you’ve called the Soviet Union the Evil Empire—”

“That used to be MGM, but I think Louis B. Mayer may have died. I may have too. So hard to keep track.”

“Well, let me ask you a different question.”

“Yes, I’ve already forgotten that one.”

“What do you plan to do about Red China?”

“Replace some of it with blue china,” he said, “but only for dinner. Red china is perfectly fine for lunch. Say, how do you like the movies now that they’re talkies?”

“Speaking of talking, Mr. President,” the interviewer would say, “do you ever watch The Tonight Show?”

“Only when the Weather Channel is doing reruns. That guy who says ‘Hi-yooo!’ gets on my nerves. Can’t they find some hogs for him to call?”

“Mr. President, what do you plan to do about the poor?”

“The poor what?”

“The poor material in this sketch.”

“Impeach the writers.”

No matter how poor the material might have been, Johnny was still most alive when that camera light was on. How did he relax and drain his intensity when the camera was off? With leisurely dinners and drinks after the show. In some of our New York spots, like Jilly’s, Michael’s Pub, and Danny’s Hideaway, Johnny often finished the evening by playing the drums to a jazz beat, while I pretended I could sing. When the show moved to Los Angeles, we went to a restaurant on Sunset Boulevard called Sneaky Pete’s, where he also played the drums with the band while I held forth with a singing voice that should have been limited to “Heeeeere’s Johnny!” and “Hi-yooo!”

Johnny as Ronald Reagan, an actor who got the only gig better than The Tonight Show.

PROPERLY RIDICULOUS

For years, Doc Severinsen and I tried to get Johnny to play his drums on the show.

“Ed, I just can’t do it,” he said. “I don’t want to look ridiculous.”

Johnny wanted to look ridiculous only when being ridiculous was part of his comic art: Carnac the Magnificent, El Moldo, Aunt Blabby, Ronald Reagan, Art Fern, the thirsty Count Dracula, the Marlon Brando of the Mighty Carson Art Players, and the dumb rube Floyd R. Turbo, who said, “If God didn’t want man to hunt, he wouldn’t have given him plaid shirts.”

Looking properly ridiculous was not an oxymoron for Johnny.

“An oxymoron, Ed?” I can hear him saying. “What’s that? A moron who studies at Oxford?”

Yes, properly and splendidly ridiculous. For example, men in drag have always been a drag to me, about as funny as The Wit of Kim Il Sung. It’s sophomoric corn, even though some juniors and seniors do it too. The night that Johnny dressed as a floozie in a low-cut white dress and his wig fell off, he showed me the one man who could make drag funny.

Floyd R. Turbo, whose profound wisdom included, “The army prepares you for life. It teaches you how to crawl on your belly, which comes in handy when you’re looking for a job.”

Johnny being funny in drag was like jazz: you couldn’t analyze or explain it. You either got it or you didn’t. When Johnny’s wig fell off, he said, “This is your life, Phyllis Diller!” but he didn’t have to say a thing; his comic moves were like those of a great dancer or tennis player. Instinctively, he was doing it right and it was lovely to see.

One facet of Johnny’s class was his always wanting to make guest comedians look good instead of wanting to compete with them. With never a trace of jealousy, he was happy to play a straight man to all of them. I can still see him breaking up when George Gobel said to him, “Did you ever think that the whole world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes?”

Was that the funniest line ever said on the show that didn’t come from Johnny? Perhaps. There were so many. The one from Johnny that has kept me smiling through the years was this Carnac moment:

“And here is the answer, O Magnificent One,” I said.

“The answer may be to replace this with decent material,” Johnny said, holding the envelope to his forehead. “Sis, boom, bah.”

“Sis, boom, bah,” I said as Johnny shot me a look that said, May a mouse relieve himself in your martini.

And then he opened the envelope to read, “What is the sound of a sheep exploding?”

I also smile when I think of Carnac’s answer “Ben Gay.”

Johnny put the envelope to his head and then read, “Why didn’t Franklin have any children?”

And I will never stop smiling at the memory of Johnny’s exchange one night with Mr. Universe.

“Remember,” Mr. Universe told him, “your body is the only home you will ever have.”

“Yeah,” said Johnny, “my home is pretty messy, but I have a woman come in once a week.”

With his flawless taste, the naughty innocent from Nebraska knew exactly how far he could go.