Groucho rang the stewardess.
“Can I help you, Mr. Marx?”
“Yes. Is there a minister on board?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Some of the men are getting horny.”
The great poet T. S. Eliot was putatively anti-Semitic. Groucho had a framed picture of Eliot on one of the walls of his home.
When I asked him about it, he said, “Eliot wrote to me, asking for an autographed picture. I sent a photograph to him and he sent it back to me. He wanted one with my cigar in it.”
Eliot respected Groucho so much that, in his will, he had written a request that Groucho preside over his memorial, which Groucho did.
Shecky Greene was another one of the comedians we’d see at Groucho’s famous dinner parties. I once asked Shecky the difference between a comic and a comedian.
He said, “A comic opens funny doors. A comedian opens doors funny.”
Shecky was one of the top nightclub acts around the country. What was interesting about him was that he had no act. No two shows of his were ever the same. He would walk out onto the stage and ad-lib for a hysterical forty-five minutes.
One night, when we were at one of Shecky’s shows at the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas, Shecky told the audience, “Frank Sinatra saved my life. When I walked out the stage door onto the parking lot, three hoodlums started beating me up. After a while, Frank said, ‘Okay. That’s enough.’”
After the show, we went backstage to Shecky’s dressing room.
I was puzzled. “What was all that about Sinatra?”
“Well, I go on before Frank. A few nights ago, I made some jokes about Frank’s family. After the show, Frank said, ‘Don’t do that again, Shecky.’ Well, you know me. I don’t like anyone telling me what to do. So the next show, I told some more jokes about Frank’s family. When I finished the show, I went out to the parking lot and these three hoodlums started to work me over.
“Finally, Frank said, ‘That’s enough.’ And they disappeared.”
I first met Frank in 1953, when he was down and out, before he made his comeback. His studio contract had run out, his record deal was canceled, and no one wanted to book him for personal appearances. But with his talent, he quickly got his career back.
Frank Sinatra lived by his own rules. Actually, there were several Frank Sinatras and you never knew which one you were going to get. He could be a warm and generous friend, and he could be a bad enemy.
Sinatra was engaged to Juliet Prowse, a talented dancer and actress, and when she mentioned the engagement to a reporter, Sinatra called it off.
When lyricist Sammy Cahn flew to Los Angeles and checked into the Beverly Hills Hotel, Sinatra had Sammy’s luggage moved to the Sinatra home. During an interview, Sammy Cahn mentioned Sinatra and soon after found that his luggage had been moved back to the Beverly Hills Hotel.
Frank had never met George C. Scott, but he admired his work, and when Scott had a heart attack, Frank arranged for medical care and took care of all the bills. Frank was also generous in contributing to charity.
Sinatra had married and divorced Ava Gardner, but he never completely got over her.
Carl Cohn, the manager of the Sands Hotel, and I were in Frank’s apartment, getting ready to go out to dinner to celebrate Frank’s birthday. Ava was in Africa, shooting Mogambo.
Frank made no move to leave.
Finally, I said, “Frank, it’s ten o’clock. Carl and I are starving. What are we waiting for?”
“I was just hoping that Ava would call and wish me a happy birthday.”
Every Thursday night for years, a group of us who called ourselves “The Eagles” would gather at our home for dinner and a few hours of interesting conversation. Each week it was the same group, along with their wives. Sid Caesar, Steve Allen, Shecky Greene, Carl Reiner, and Milton Berle. Through the years, we had the pleasure of watching all their careers skyrocket. These were the giants of comedy, and as decades passed, I realized they were all getting less young. Soon their voices would be lost, as though they had never existed. But I had an idea.