My Real Memoir

Following my father’s death, I’d decided not to take over his two profitable enterprises. “I’m an artist,” I told Mom, “not a businessman.”

Appearances aside, however, I hadn’t taken a virtuous vow of poverty. So I doubled down on seeking gigs for my little street theatre group The Right Pithee Players, a.k.a. Shakespeare-on-a-Stick. We’d created characters based on our own personalities: Carly, the snarky commentator. Melissa, the sensuous tease. And Mary, the eye-rolling mother figure. I was “Peter Pratfall,” the boisterous spokesperson who perpetually painted himself into verbal corners. Our mix of “mime, music and mirth” centered on dragging the audience into rowdy improvisational games. But our first outings at summer carnivals were dead in the sawdust. Cotton candy-munching families waiting to ride Tilt-a-Whirls completely ignored us.

Our breakthrough came Labor Day weekend when the L.A. Free Shakespeare Festival premiered. Roscoe Lee Brown, Joan Van Ark, and other tv stars of the 70s showed off their classical roots in a terrific production of Shakespeare’s As You Like It. Result? Thousands waited in line for free seats in the historic hillside Pilgrimage Theatre every night. So we did our act for the theatre manager, and she invited us to work the line, then usher the theatregoers in and do our pre-show improv games with them. It got funnier and rowdier every night, as the audience deployed their second and third alcoholic beverages.

Our finale featured me “conducting” my fellow-Pithees and audience volunteers in an “Orchestra of Emotions,” non-verbal sounds representing anger, joy, sorrow, etc. The weirdest moment came when a young woman who’d been assigned to vocalize “lust” dove off the stage. She landed on top of me, bashing my skull into the concrete floor while tickling my tonsils with her tongue, and aggressively exploring the, ahem, contents of my tights.

Next, we auditioned for Disneyland. Entertainment Director Sonny Anderson loved it, but couldn’t use non-Disney characters. However, two days later he called, saying Walt Disney Studios was planning their 50th anniversary celebration. They’d chosen a Renaissance theme, and Sonny thought my Peter Pratfall character would be the perfect host! So I was hired to rewrite the script and emcee Pratfall-style, as well as mingle with the Pithees.

I was in the performers’ tent getting ready, when I ran into…

Mickey Mouse! Who was, in fact, a cigar-chomping four-foot-tall guy with a gravelly Brooklyn accent. It was his first night back on the job after a two-month suspension. It seems he’d been “leading” a marching band and stopping to shake hands. And each time he did, the real drum major would march ahead, forcing him to run to catch-up. Mickey’d had enough. So he raced up to the drum major and—in front of roughly 10,000 fans—kicked him where the sun don’t shine.

During my emceeing, I began to name some of the celebrities present (Julie Andrews, Robert Redford, Carol Burnett, the Mickeys: Rooney and Mouse), and boasted that I could do a spot-on Cary Grant impression.

Later, as I mingled, a little girl sitting on her father’s lap asked me to talk like Cary Grant. So I did. She giggled. And then her father, whom I hadn’t noticed until then, remarked, “Say, you do me pretty well.” We traded Cary Grant impressions until Mr. Grant finally conceded that mine was superior.

And thus, dear children, concluded…

My extra 15 minutes of fame.

My Real Memoir is a series. To read the next one, click here.