"Deja Jew!"

Comic Relief All over Again

by Turk Pipkin

(This review of Comic Relief was originally published in the Austin Chronicle.)

Two hours into this year’s Comic Relief Concert at the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles, I checked my tote board and discovered that there had already been 38 jokes about John Wayne Bobbit’s wayward penis. "I used to think it was safe to use a condom," co-host Billy Crystal quipped at the top of the show. "Now I'm going to use The Club." And so it would go for the next five hours; one comic after another practicing self-abuse of America’s latest current obsession. Perhaps Paul Rodriguez put it most succinctly. "Latina women," he said, "Will sever your penis!"

Despite the Shrine’s somewhat scary location between downtown and South Central L.A., six thousand people paid from twenty-five to a thousand bucks to attend the sixth annual Comic Relief benefit for America’s homeless. Of course the neighborhood didn’t bother the celebs and high rollers because most of them went straight from limos with smoked glass to a backstage nosh on pizza with smoked duck.

Meanwhile, five minutes before the start of the show, I was talking to a friend near the front of the theater when the warm-up comic dragged me out of the audience and onto the stage to serve as his unwitting volunteer. Playing on the differences between our heights and our skin colors, and discovering that I was from Texas, D.L. Hughley attempted to teach me how to walk and talk "black." I did my best to walk the walk and talk the talk but from the audience’s response it was clear that I looked ridiculous.

The irony of this was that six years ago at HBO’s first Comic Relief broadcast, I was also dragged out of the audience, that time as the stooge in a comedy pick-pocket act with former part-time Austinite Harry Anderson. Not only did Harry pick my pockets, but he also insulted my family photos, stole my shirt (tearing it to shreds in the process), and finally purloined my suspenders. When I told him I didn't wear suspenders, he responded "then whose are these?" and his pants fell down. Check it out on upcoming Arts and Entertainment series, The Best of Comic Relief, and I think you’ll find it every bit as stupid as it sounds, thank you very much.

In the ensuing years I’ve pretty much given up my twenty year quest to make it as a funny guy, only to replace it with a twenty quest to make is as a writer. Still, hearing others speak your lines is not quite the same as hearing a live audience roll in the aisle as you roll your eyes, and being up there again was still a thrill.

Of course this year’s crowd had not come to see me or the warm-up act; they'd come for some big time show bidness and Comic Relief Six did not disappoint. The opening number featured some rockin’ gospel from the hundred member Crenshaw Elite High School Choir, twelve dancers in spiffy homeless garb, a George Duke show band and hosts Robin Williams, Whoopi Goldberg and Billy Crystal who, after years of doing these things, only have to drop into one of a thousand pieces of schtick to knock em dead. "Deja Jew!" said Robin about doing it all one more time, though he could just have well been making yet another Bobbit circumcision joke.

More sobering, but receiving an equally loud response, was Whoopi's opening comment that, "Unlike the Reagans, the homeless have not gone away." After a year of trial by tabloids, Whoopi would later deliver one of the funniest and most pissed off sets of the evening. "If you're squeamish about the language," she started off. "Then get the fuck out!" No one left. And in reference to talk show opportunist Montel Williams' criticism of her Friar's Club/Ted Danson blackface fiasco, Whoopi said, "I'm tired of trying to tippy-toe around everyone's fucking attitude. Kiss my ass!" The crowd roared. "I've got no problem with the word nigger," she concluded, "because I've never been one." The crowd roared again.

Whoopi’s opening also served as fair warning for the viewers at home: if you don’t like double barrel, wide-open comedy with no restrictions on language or content, then turn the fucking channel. As if to drive the point home, Garry Shandling dead-panned that he was offended Whoopi had shown up in blackface. Still on a roll from winning a best comedy series ACE award the night before, Garry seemed to have a little more grasp of the purpose of the evening than at Comic Relief One when he joked at length about the exorbitant price of his new house. "For $300,000, I expect to look out the window and see tits!" he’d told us, this while supposedly trying to motivate viewers to phone in donations to the homeless.

This year the serious pitches for donations were written by veterans Buz Kohan and Bruce Vilanch (who penned Bette Midler’s recent tour extravaganza), and handled by stars without acts: Jason Alexander of Seinfeld; Rosie Perez (who hawked t-shirts and nearly stole the show); and Candice Bergen (who introduced and narrated a film segment about the fastest growing segment of the homeless population - children). In case you missed it, let me point out that forty-three per cent of America’s homeless population are families with children, most of whom are under the age of six. We’re talking about children without sufficient nutrition, healthcare, or hope; children sleeping in fear in the back alleys and back seats of America; children without a future. It’s not just a shame; it’s a goddamn national disgrace.

Dustin Hoffman – who will in some small part always be that optimistic loser Ratso Rizzo – used his time to remind us that homelessness is no longer an oddity in America. And though Comic Relief has already distributed over $20 million dollars towards healthcare services for homeless people, the fact is we are probably farther from solving the problem than ever, not because Comic Relief doesn’t work, but because this country doesn’t have the slightest fucking idea how to end homelessness in America.

It’s so damn depressing, the show couldn’t go on without its philosophy that, "Where there’s laughter, there’s hope." After all, people don’t tune in for the sobering realities; they tune in to see the Comedy All-Star game. And that’s one reason why, for every serious film clip, there were at least three dick jokes, along with repeated references to disobedient children Lyle and Eric Menendez, and to the Nancy Kerrigan/Tanya Harding knee-capping ice follies. The funniest bit of the night went to Brett Butler (star of the often-irritating sit-com "Grace Under Fire"), who - just as a would be assailant ran on-stage to smash her knee with a club - yelled, "Not me, you idiot, Rita Rudner!"

The explosion of comedy in the past ten years has been both good and bad for the form. While there are now more comics in America than ever before (many desperately looking for work as hundreds of comedy clubs succumb to a stand-up glut), the material unfortunately has become terminally topical. Hip to that point, Dennis "Stop me before I sub-reference again" Miller opened with an all in one Menendez/severed penis/ice skating joke - "just to hit all the bases." Dennis is one of the few comics to realize that the search for the broadest common denominator has resulted in a narrowing of the form, a sort of comedy inbreeding. But recognizing that is little help in ever again seeing the heart-breaking brilliance of character-driven comedy from the likes of Groucho, Harpo, or W.C. Fields. Audiences, of course, are as hooked into the new form as the comics.

At least Dennis knows the value of a surprise punch-line: he’d just bought a half price mother's Day card that read, 'I can't believe you fucked Dad!" Hearing the line, a guy drinking a soda just in front of me did a classic spit take (a "Danny Thomas" as its called by comics). But even Dennis shows his comedy family tree when he tells us Michael Jackson and George Hamilton have officially crossed lines on the color pigmentation chart.

As you might guess, a lot of comics had something to say about Michael Jackson, many of them venturing only a little ways out on a very sturdy limb to opine that – whether or not Jackson was guilty – child molestation is still bad. Gee, and I thought the serious side of the evening was about America's homeless population. Actually the Michael Jackson comments came across more like pandering for mindless response rather than serious commentary. Come on gang, if you want to take a stance, do a little homework and tell us something we don't already know.

In desperate need of a cold beer, I headed backstage where I was astounded to find a crowd well in excess of a thousand. It was a classic L.A. scene: agents, managers, comics, friends and family, all making a giant sucking sound as they devoured copious amounts of groovy food and drink donated by L.A. restaurateur Tommy Tang. So you wouldn't have to hurry back to your seat in the auditorium, twenty giant monitors were scattered around the hall.

The gab dropped to a minimum when Robin Williams appeared on the big screens and quickly doubled the previous tally of missing penis jokes (After John Bobbit abused Lorena, her mother advised her to "throw the prick out of the house.") While most comics can write one or two good jokes about any given topic, Robin can always come up with twenty; while most comics work a lifetime to come up with a single one hour set, Robin can do it in days. I've worked a few one week gigs as Robin’s opening act while he develops a new set for his summer arena tour. On Tuesday night he starts with an hilariously manic, two and half hour marathon set. Taking nightly comments – not always helpful ones – from everyone in his employ, by week's end he'll have that material whittled down to a perfect 75 minutes: solid and ready to take on the road. How he remembers the constant changes is as much a mystery as the rest of his particular genius.

For me the best part of Comic Relief Six was running into old friends, most of whom wanted to know where in the hell I'd been hiding. "Ooh!" they replied when I told them, "Texas." It was hard to tell if the "Ooh" meant good or bad. Thirty-six hours later, when the earth of Los Angeles danced beneath our feet, their views of Texas no doubt improved considerably.

Several people told me the same joke about the difference between a blimp and a blow job, and Dennis Miller nearly spit up when I told him an x-rated joke about a midget rodeo clown. Dennis insisted that I repeat it to Carl Reiner who was hanging around after a tribute to "Your Show of Shows." Not displaying the best judgement, I told Reiner the joke and he was not amused. Thanks, Dennis.

Trailed by his own photographer, Comic Relief co-founder and President Bob Zmuda worked the crowd like he was up for re-election, taking pics with everyone who was anyone (which did not include me). While a thousand snaps of Bob does seem a little excessive, in his own way Zmuda was thanking countless supporters who keep Comic Relief alive. HBO alone coughs up 1.5 million in production costs and at least that much in publicity. And nearly every cent of the money raised – $27 million counting this year’s take – is spent directly on healthcare services for homeless people in 23 American cities (including $700,000 spent in San Antonio).

One of the most eagerly awaited acts was the irreverent Bobcat Goldthwait who, as "The Amazing Christo," had the ability to create J.C.'s most original show-stopping miracles. Way back in year one, Bobcat stole the show by wheeling a bathtub complete with shower on stage and doing his act au natural. Nearly going into shock when he turned on the ice cold shower, he could only gasp, "My balls are in my chest." Another year he came out with a blender and made a stomach turning smoothie. "Yuch!" he screamed after he took a big swig. "I knew it would be bad, but this tastes like shit!" The Amazing Christo, unfortunately, never rose to such heights (falling far short of being crucified), and never sunk to his usual depths (barely rising from the dead). You’re a comedy warlord, Bobcat; next time take no prisoners.

Near the end of the show my ears perked up to what seemed the perfect summation of all this nonsense when an audience member screamed out, "We love you, Whoopi!" Stopping in mid-sentence, Whoopi headed to the front of the stage. "Don't you think I know that?" she answered. "I wouldn't come up here if you didn't love me."

As usual, Whoopi knows what it’s all about. There’s an old saying that all clowns are sad, and that of course is pure unadulterated bullshit; they just want to be loved. And it’s at Comic Relief, thank them very much, where they work to earn that love. They're still taking donations at 1-800-(to come). And for $30 bucks you get a t-shirt that looks very good on Rosie Perez.

And now for the punchline. I left the concert feeling pretty good about the evening, only to find several panhandlers hitting up the crowd for some direct assistance. I don’t know if those departing didn’t believe in hand-outs, or if they just felt like they’d done their part at the box-office, but almost no one was forking over any change. A little discouraged, one of the panhandlers came up to me and started into what was becoming a very familiar joke. "What’s the difference," he asked. "Between a blimp and oral sex once a day for 365 days? Give up? One is a Goodyear; the other is a really great year." I gave him a buck. Good Night folks, enjoy the veal!