Shalom, Gang! 

This month has been a schtuck en der tokhes for me. First, I had to move to my new home, which meant packing up a 3300 square foot house, crammed with generations of collected dreck. Then, while hanging a chandelier, I fell off the ladder, and am writing this in a cervical collar, so bear with me, I’m really a mashuggas; but, enough about my tsores. 

This month, I decided to dedicate my column to the passing of, arguably, the greatest personality in the history of television. Milton Berle may have been “Mr. Television”, and Ward Cleaver the father figure by which all dads were judged, but they never attained the level of success enjoyed by the man who redefined the art of the interview and became more than a star, more than a legend, and carved out a niche in the fabric of American folklore. 

I speak of none other than Johnny Carson. 

I’m not going to recount Carson’s life history here, it’s been done to death. Everyone knows about his Nebraska upbringing, and his contribution to medical science, ( Carson invented a condition known in Hollywood as “Negotiator’s Throat”, a malady that renders the patient incapable of speech, whose only cure is for the patient’s boss(es) to acquiesce to his contractual demands,) and his rise from quizmaster to the peak of talk-show celebrity. Countless others came and went, (Merv Griffin, Dick Cavett, Mike Douglas, Dinah Shore,) and never came close to dethroning the ‘King of Late Night”. Carson’s name became synonymous with the genre, so much so that at one time TV Guide actually took it upon themselves to arbitrarily change the listing in their book from “The Tonight Show” to, simply and definitively, “Johnny Carson”.  

Growing up in Hollywood, I was privy to perhaps the greatest testimonial to Carson’s influence on an industry. Most people never heard of “Johnny Carson Parties”. At these gatherings, furniture was arranged to simulate the set of Carson’s show, and straws were drawn. The long straw holder played Carson, who then interviewed the guests. Oddly, the short straw holder played Ed MacMahon, the significance here always lost on me. But we’d sit there and take turns pretending to be guests on the Tonight Show, (things often got pretty racy, since we didn’t have the FCC representatives up in a booth with their finger poised over the seven-second delay button, a censor’s version of the guillotine,) and an invitation to one of these fetes was almost as coveted as the Emmy. 

Carson’s passing was particularly painful for me. Even after his retirement I clung to the dream of someday being interviewed by him. I had come so close. In 1977 I was scheduled to do my comedy act one night, following Carson’s last guest, a writer who was usually as dull as dishwater. I was advised that I might have to do a little more than the allowed four minutes, because Carson usually liked to end his interview with the writer before the audience was asleep. 

This night, however, the author, (whose name I can’t remember,) must have been guzzling coffee in the green room because he never shut up! Carson had to interrupt him to close the show, and I was assured that I would be rescheduled. Ever the considerate host, Carson came up to me after the show and apologized for the situation, shook my hand and wished me the best of luck in my career. Not since Moses schmoozed with a burning bush was anyone ever so overwhelmed by a meeting. Unhappily, I never made the appearance. When the second chance came around, I was again on tour, working a small club in Shreveport that night.  

Someone said to me a few months ago when I told this story, “Well, when you get back into comedy, maybe you’ll have another shot at the “Tonight Show”. Maybe, but somehow it won’t be the same. Jay Leno is okay, but being interviewed by him instead of Carson would be like toasting in the New Year with Club Soda instead of Champagne. Sure, I’d do it, but it just wouldn’t be the same. 

So, the King is dead. There will never be another. Carson left behind, a pair of shoes that no mere mortal could ever fill. He was the King of late night, the king of the ad-lib, the king of ‘do anything for a laugh’. But if I had been in charge of Carson’s funeral, I would have done something that would ever define the man. On his grave marker, I would have put simply, “Heeeeere’s Johnny”. 

That would say it all. 

Until next month.