We'll Be Here For the Rest of Our Lives (29 page)

The waves were big, the sky was blue, and after ten minutes I got bored.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” I told Cathy.

“You don’t appreciate nature,” she said.

“How can you say that? I’m looking at nature. I’m loving nature.”

“You’re not thinking about nature. You’re thinking about the Diana Ross session you’re missing,” Cathy said.

“Nature is overrated,” I said. “With all due respect to Springsteen, Miss Ross is the boss.”

“Let’s just go back to the hotel.” Like I said, it was a tough vacation.

On the way back to Honolulu, Cathy was driving when, on the left, she noticed the Dole Pineapple Plantation, an enormous expanse of manicured farmland.

“They give tours,” said Cathy. “Let’s take a tour.”

Before I could argue, she took a sudden left turn to enter the plantation. A blind spot prevented her from seeing a car coming at us—speeding far above the legal limit—in the oncoming lane. The car struck the passenger side—my side—full on. Next thing I remember is waking up in an ambulance, the siren screaming, Cathy in there crying hysterically.

Cathy was virtually uninjured—minor hip pain—while my injuries were extensive: nine broken ribs, collapsed lung, fractured clavicle, cracked scapula.

I was in and out of consciousness, then I was out completely.

I woke up in an oxygen tent at St. Francis Medical Center in Honolulu with a priest in my face. “Son,” he said, “we know that you are of the Jewish faith. Would you like us to call a rabbi? We can have a rabbi here within an hour.”

Still out of it, I said, “Is it Yom Kippur?”

Misunderstanding, the priest said, “I don’t know if that’s your medical condition or not. I’m not a doctor.”

“Yom Kippur is the Jewish Day of Atonement,” I explained. “So you do need a rabbi,” said the priest.

“Is this a joke about a rabbi and a priest who go looking for pineapples?” I asked, still in a fog.

“I don’t understand,” said the priest. “I don’t either,” I concurred.

Meanwhile, Cathy, the most organized of women, got an apartment in Honolulu so she could watch over me. After
twelve days, though, I was released—or, to be blunt, kicked out. “You don’t need the hospital anymore,” they said. “You’re cured.” On my last day at St. Francis, I watched Prince Charles marry Lady Di on TV and thought to myself,
well, at least that’s one marriage that will last
.

Next day Cathy wheeled me out of the hospital. I could barely walk.

“Where now?” she asked.

“I love you,” I said, “but I need a break from New York. I’m going to L.A. I talked to Harry Shearer. He’s back there now and wants to write some songs. I’ll recuperate in L.A. Hollywood will heal me.”

I had the blues. The serious blues.

As you’ve seen, I’m not an unhappy man. I had loving parents who took me to see Sarah Vaughan in Vegas. In Jewish homes all over Canada, they’re still talking about my version of “Exodus.” Canada was good to me. I saw Jerry Lewis on cable and Ronnie Hawkins in Toronto. I wound up on American television playing piano and acting in comedy sketches. I performed on Broadway. I did record dates. I fell for a lovely gal named Cathy, and Cathy fell for me. So far, so good.

Then this accident nearly broke me in half. In truth, I hadn’t realized the full extent of my injuries.

I checked into a hotel in Hollywood where I turned on the television and slept for three days. I was still too weak to walk. I had lost lots of blood. I had broken bones. My iron was down. My heart was heavy. What to do? Answer the ringing phone.

“You can’t stay at that hotel.” It was my friend Eugene Levy.

“Where should I go?”

“To my house. I’m coming by to get you. I’m bringing you home with me.”

Eugene and his lovely wife Deb put me in their guest room and nursed me with loving care. There was some improvement, but I was still very sunk. There’s a point where physical debilitation mixes in with some of those wicked B.B. King blues. I was at that point.

Then Harry Shearer showed up.

He came into my room. “Are you ready for Hesh?” he asked. “You haven’t been out of the house for a week, Paul. It’s time for a cultural excursion. If this doesn’t help relieve your pain, nothing will. In all of Los Angeles—with its world-class art galleries, concert halls, universities, and museums—this is the one experience designed to lift the human heart. Get dressed, Paul. We’ve got a date with destiny.”

It took me a long time to work around my injuries and get into my clothes. Harry helped me into the car. He drove me downtown. We parked and walked—I hobbled—to the corner of Fifth and Flower, site of the Arco Plaza, an area surrounded by skyscrapers and encircled by restaurants and stores.

“Here’s why I brought you here,” said Harry, pointing to a broadcast studio. The front of the studio was a large plate-glass window that allowed you to look in. The man sitting behind the microphone was dressed in a tailored three-piece suit of royal blue accented with chalk-white pinstripes. He wore a red silk tie, a pale blue shirt, and gold cuff links, each accented with a small diamond. His hair was perfect.

“Could it be?” I asked Harry.

“Yes, it is,” Harry confirmed.

It was Mr. Blackwell, live and in person. A smile crossed my lips. Pain left my body. Along with a few other curious people, I
stood before the window and, through the speakers placed outside, heard the man broadcast Harry’s favorite radio show.

Harry was—and is—the world’s premier Blackwell maven. He does a frighteningly accurate imitation of this most mannered of men. Harry had not only done Blackwell on
SNL
, but had performed his Blackwell act on countless occasions in front of his friends. When he spoke so lovingly of Blackwell’s radio show, available only on the West Coast, I was always envious of those living in California.

Mr. Blackwell was most famous for his yearly worst-dressed women list. He liked to say that he never wanted to be known for a negative, yet he was. (On Streisand: “A masculine bride of Frankenstein.” On Lindsay Lohan: “From adorable to deplorable.”) With not quite bated breath, the world awaited his verdicts on which overfamous female stars had hideous taste. He loved nothing more than to run them down, and we loved nothing more than to relish his nasty pronouncements. His voice, like everything else about him, was a self-invented semicultivated patois that poorly covered up his native New Yorkese. He often spoke of his boyfriend, Spencer, and their sun-and-fun weekends in Palm Springs. He was, in fact, a fashionista’s fashionista.

“What I’m about to tell you is shocking,” he told his radio audience. “Bijan has closed his doors to the public. From now on, you can shop at his wondrous retail establishment by appointment only. But how will this history-altering move affect the Street?” he mused.

The Street, of course: Rodeo Drive.

For the rest of the broadcast, Blackwell asked other rhetorical questions: What will the woman be wearing this fall? Will her look be unstructured or have a tailored, tailored elegance?

Will restraint and subtlety finally be reintroduced to fashion or will we continue to slide down the slippery slope of crass commercialism from which there is no turning back?

Blackwell was quick to ask us not to confuse him with another gentleman named Blackwell who also moved in high circles. That Blackwell was famous for his celebrity registers. No, this Mr. Blackwell in the Arco Plaza,
our
Mr. Blackwell, was given his name by Howard Hughes, a fact that our Mr. Blackwell never tired of mentioning. His real name we dared not ask.

In short, those twenty minutes spent in front of the studio helped me in every way. The encounter added immeasurably to my understanding of Blackwell. Eventually I would do something of a Blackwell imitation myself, even if, as a brutally frank friend pointed out, I was imitating Harry Shearer imitating Blackwell. No matter, Harry proved to be a friend indeed on that summer afternoon in Los Angeles. He gave me the gift of Blackwellian rehab.

Unfortunately, the relief was short-lived. My pain returned with a vengeance. I did what most mature men would do in such a circumstance. I went home to Mother. I went home to Mother Shaffer and Mother Canada. I went home to Father. I returned to Thunder Bay, seeking the comfort of those who had loved me longest and loved me best. My childhood home. My childhood bed. There I would retreat for a month. I would be cared for by my parents’ doctors. I would be served all my meals. I would consider my options in life. I would never touch a ukulele again.

Pretty goddamn blue.

Canada helped. Mom and Dad were great. But my body was still aching aplenty when I returned to New York at the end of summer. Cathy was there. Cathy was the best. Cathy wanted to get married, but I wasn’t ready for anything close to that kind of commitment. I clung to the notion that a man shouldn’t marry till he’s forty. I clung to my perch at the gone-to-seed Gramercy Park Hotel.

I had no interest in going back to
SNL
. Lorne Michaels was gone and all the original cast members had quit. Jean Doumanian, Lorne’s replacement, offered me the job of musical director, but with all my friends gone, it just didn’t feel right. The thrill was gone.

I became a studio cat. Producers who knew me from
SNL
started calling. I was glad. Being a studio cat had great allure. As a kid, I’d read about the Muscle Shoals rhythm section who’d recorded with Aretha and thought,
Wow, that’s cool. Maybe one day I’ll get to do that
. Studio work was challenging because that
meant sight-reading, and sight-reading music is not my strong suit. I persevered. I did an album with Desmond Child and Rouge. I was in a band with Patty Smyth called Scandal and played a Del Shannon—style synth solo on their hit, “Goodbye to You.” I did a hundred jingles, everything from mouthwash to mayonnaise. Actually those sessions were pretty swinging because of my fellow musicians. You’d be playing with everyone from masters like pianist Richard Tee to bassist Marcus Miller to vocalist Patti Austin.

But even if the jingles raised my spirits, the pain in my body persisted. I did regular physical therapy and, on my doctor’s orders, swam an hour a day at a health club pool. The healing, though, was slow in coming.

Back at the Gramercy, I was comforted by the Jerry Lewis Labor Day telethon. I had arranged my return to New York in time to see Tony Orlando host the local portion of the show. The split screen of Jerry in Vegas and Tony in Manhattan seemed to assuage my pain. When Tony looked into the camera, saying, “Now here’s the song that made us friends,” and then sang “Tie a Yellow Ribbon,” hope returned to my heart.

Hope led me to remember happier days. I’d think back on those wonderful Celebrity Seders attended by the
SNL
cast members, Jew and gentile alike. Because I’m a seder pro, I often led the Passover ceremony. Lorne Michaels was so impressed with my expertise that he customized matchbooks with “Paul Shaffer’s Celebrity Seder” written on the cover. Our first seder was held in a room at 30 Rock. We moved to other prime locations, including Wolf’s Deli on Seventh Avenue and Sammy’s Romanian Restaurant on the Lower East Side.

Naturally I’d do shtick. I’d open with “We welcome everyone here, our Christian friends as well as our Jewish brethren.
At Passover, we treat everyone as one. There is no delineation. So, before we get started, let’s get the Jews on one side of the table and the gentiles on the other.”

At the end of the seder, I’d give new meaning to the ritual of finding the hidden matzoh, the
afikomen
. I’d say, “Our esteemed producer Lorne Michaels has guaranteed the winner, whether Jewish or not, a special spot on ‘Weekend Update.’ Some of you may remember Stevie Wonder at last year’s seder. When I gave him a piece of matzoh, he said ‘Who wrote this crap?’”

Finally, I’d conclude, “Traditionally we say ‘Next year in Jerusalem.’ In other words, next year may we be celebrating our seder in the land of Israel. To that I would like to add, ‘Next year real silverware for the seder instead of this plastic shit.’ And I’d like to add my own personal benediction, ‘Next year at Hef’s mansion.’ Good night, everybody. You’ve been beautiful.”

The highlight was the Celebrity Seder attended by Paul Simon, his then girlfriend Carrie Fisher, and Carrie’s dad, Eddie Fisher.

During the service, I said, “It’s time for the salt-water-and-the-parsley blessing. We’ll do it both in English and Hebrew. You know, I’ve always wanted to work with Paul Simon. Paul, if you would do me the honor of taking the English, I’ll handle the Hebrew.”

At the end, I invited Eddie Fisher to stand before the assembled multitude while, on yet another out-of-tune upright piano, I accompanied him as he sang his immortal “O, My Papa.”

Alas, those days were gone. The fun and games were over. The best I could do was hope the phone would ring, with a booking on a jingle for women’s sanitary napkins or men’s underarm deodorant.

Then came the call.

The story goes that when the great composer Billy Strayhorn was summoned uptown by Duke Ellington, Strayhorn heard that the A train was the quickest way to Harlem. He took that subway line and, on the way up to Duke’s place, wrote a song about the trip that will live forever.

I have no comparable tale to tell about being summoned to a midtown office by Dave Letterman. I didn’t write a great tune on the way over. I barely had a couple of bars of something in mind that might be a cool theme for Dave. I’d recently survived that near-fatal car accident. On that particular day my aches and pains were screaming from the top of my head to the bottom of my toes. I knew, though, that Letterman was a talented guy. I loved his morning show on NBC. It hadn’t been big in the ratings, but it won two Emmys and critical raves. I saw Dave as the most brilliant comedy conceptualist around, and I knew that NBC was now giving him a show after Carson.
After
Carson! Naturally my lifelong tenet came to mind:
the later, the hipper
. Late-night TV was my milieu. My years on
SNL
had reconfirmed that what I do best is play for a sort of edgy comedy.