Here's The Deal_ Don't Touch Me Part 4

Gene Simmons from the rock band Kiss had also seen the show. His girlfriend at the time was Diana Ross. He liked me so much, he apparently suggested Diana book me as her opening act at Caesars Palace in Las Vegas. When my agent gave me the news, I couldn't believe my luck.

Now, at that point I didn't really have much of an act. I did some characters, had a few funny voices, and used the rubber glove as a closing. I certainly didn't have a polished half hour worthy of Las Vegas. I was this kid from Toronto who had never seen Vegas.

As soon as I arrived at Caesars Palace, I found my way backstage. I felt as if I had been dropped into a palatial Roman scene from Ben-Hur. Ben-Hur. I had performed at Yuk Yuk's and the Comedy Store. Now I was going to be with Diana Ross at Circus Maximus. This was a whole new world. I had performed at Yuk Yuk's and the Comedy Store. Now I was going to be with Diana Ross at Circus Maximus. This was a whole new world.

The guard asked who I was, and I told him I was Diana Ross's opening act. I could hardly believe I said that. He told me that he had a dressing room ready for me. I had never had a dressing room. I had been locked in a dressing room at Maple Leaf Gardens, but that is totally different. As we approached the door, I could see a gold placard with my name: Howie Mandell. I told the guard, "Mandel is not spelled with two l l's." When he asked me how many it was supposed to be, I told him six. He looked at me confused and turned away. I could feel my humor was really clicking here.

I walked in, and he closed the door behind me. It was a very fancy room with a baby grand piano, a full bar, and a table of snacks. It looked like a place the Rat Pack would hang out in before a show. I thought I must be in the wrong room. Maybe there was a Howie Mandell with two l l's who deserved this. I didn't know what to do. I ate a celery stick.

I had gotten dressed in my hotel room in what I thought a Vegas showman would wear. I had flamboyantly horrible, bright red pants, a very sparkly tie, and a beige sports jacket from my engagement party. On the lapel of the jacket, I had clipped a giant rubber alligator I had bought at a novelty store to depict the Lacoste style.

There was a knock at the door, and when I answered it, it was the same guy. "You know what you have to do tonight?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm opening for Diana Ross," I replied.

"You have to do thirty minutes, okay?" he said forcefully.

"Okay," I a.s.sured him.

"So you understand what I'm telling you," he continued.

Why was he repeating himself?

"I'm telling you, thirty minutes," he persisted. "Not twenty-nine. Not thirty-one. Thirty minutes."

"I don't wear a watch, so can you signal me at twenty-nine minutes by just banging your foot on the floor behind me?" I figured that putting the glove over my head, blowing it up, and popping it off would take about a minute. He agreed, and I gave him a few bucks for his trouble.

I should explain that the reason I had to do thirty minutes and not twenty-nine is that the show was perfectly timed. Casinos make money by having people on the gambling floor. If a show started at nine p.m., they wanted the audience out by ten-thirty sharp. Every minute the customers spent watching a show, they were not dropping money in the casino. Diana Ross also had everything perfectly timed. She needed to walk out of her dressing room and onto the stage precisely at nine-thirty Because she had an elaborate stage setup with a full orchestra and backup singers, I worked in front of the curtain on a three-foot lip of stage. They had a stand-up microphone, which I couldn't move. It literally felt as if I were standing on the edge of a cliff.

I was really nervous the first night. I felt so far out of my league. I kept thinking that I didn't deserve to be there, and I probably didn't. Whose idea was this, anyway? Right, the fire-breathing lead singer of Kiss.

The lights went down. The audience roared in antic.i.p.ation. And then an ominous, baritone voice came over the PA system: "Ladies and gentlemen, Caesars Palace is proud to present an evening with Diana Ross!" The crowd exploded. If you listened really closely-and there's no reason why anyone but me would-you could also hear, "... andspecial-guesthowiemandel."

The crowd was under the impression that they were going to be presented with Diana Ross, but instead this little Jew wandered out from stage left. I stood there frozen in place. People were looking at me like, "Who the h.e.l.l are you? What are you doing here?" It was as if I came out of the restroom and took a wrong turn. This wasn't a welcoming crowd.

I bade everyone good evening, and then I went into my act. I told the first joke, which I had done on Merv Griffin ... Merv Griffin ... silence. I tried a few more ... silence. I remember one particular bit when I said, "Now I will do my impression of groceries." I took out a shopping bag and proceeded to stand in it ... silence for an inordinate amount of time. Get it? Neither did they. silence. I tried a few more ... silence. I remember one particular bit when I said, "Now I will do my impression of groceries." I took out a shopping bag and proceeded to stand in it ... silence for an inordinate amount of time. Get it? Neither did they.

This brings back a particular childhood memory. Every Sunday throughout my childhood, I went to visit my grandparents on my mother's side for dinner. They were my zaidi and my bubbie. Zaidi was a dry cleaner and tailor and a perfectionist. I can't tell you how many times I showed up wearing a pair of pants he felt needed an upgrade. He'd scream at me to take them off. "They must be fixed now!" I would have to stand there in front of everyone at the dinner table and remove my pants. There I sat, eating my chicken in silence, wearing my tighty-whities while he repaired the flaw. It was always a painfully awkward and uncomfortable silence-not unlike the silence from the Caesars audience.

Their silence began to turn to anger. The feeling was "Enough of this. We paid to see Diana Ross. Why the h.e.l.l is this guy wasting our time?"

The audience was right there at my feet. In fact, one lady in the first row took her fist, banged on my toe, and said, "Get the f.u.c.k off the stage."

I didn't answer her. This obviously wasn't my audience. I just ignored it and let my toes go numb. I started to feel at home. When I say "at home," I mean at my performance opening up for Earth, Wind & Fire, or at least as if I was eating chicken in my underpants.

I continued going through whatever I had planned-all of which was met by silence. No matter what I said, there was no response. I began to sweat through my sports coat. Finally, after what seemed like an hour and a half, came the best sound I have ever heard in my life-a stomp, stomp stomp, stomp from behind the curtain. I thought, This is my savior. I took out the glove, put it on my head, and inflated it. There was not a sound from the audience. As much as it felt bad to say something and not get a response, the commitment of taking out a latex glove, pulling it over your head, and inflating it to silence was torture. from behind the curtain. I thought, This is my savior. I took out the glove, put it on my head, and inflated it. There was not a sound from the audience. As much as it felt bad to say something and not get a response, the commitment of taking out a latex glove, pulling it over your head, and inflating it to silence was torture.

Inside the glove, I was trying to be the consummate optimist. I thought, This is probably double-thick latex, and maybe they're roaring. For the dramatic closing, I let the glove pop off my head. My hands were outstretched. The glove fluttered and landed at my feet ... silence.

Then I said: "And now, ladies and gentlemen, please enjoy Miss Diana Ross!" The crowd went nuts. I turned around and looked for the opening in the curtain, but I couldn't find it. I began feeling desperately along the curtain to find the crack so I could make my escape. But somebody on the other side was holding it closed.

The crowd was still going nuts antic.i.p.ating Diana Ross, but the room grew quieter and quieter as I was pleading with someone to let me through the curtain. From the other side, I heard a man's voice saying, "No, no." I'm thinking, What do you mean, no? I'm literally three feet from the audience. The lady who was. .h.i.tting my foot could hear him.

"What are you doing?" I said.

"You have nine more minutes," he said.

I have nine more minutes! "What are you talking about?"

"You have nine more minutes," he repeated.

I turned around and faced the audience. The room was dead silent. I didn't have nine more minutes. I didn't have the first twenty-one minutes. My ending, the rubber glove, which was usually a big hit, had bombed. I stood up there and treaded for my life for the next nine minutes. I could hear myself swallow. I could hear myself breathe. I could hear my heart banging against my chest. I think I actually heard myself sweating. But there were no other sounds. And then finally I said, "Good night." I swear I heard the audience in unison say, "It's about f.u.c.king time." The curtain parted, and I escaped.

What I ended up finding out later was that the band was setting up and I had heard somebody walking by. I'd thought it was the signal. That's how quiet the audience was: I could hear regular footsteps behind me.

A week of hatred pa.s.sed. I did two shows a night for seven nights. In my book, that's hatred times fourteen. My wife made friends with all the people in the band. She would go on day trips with them to Hoover Dam and Lake Mead. I felt so humiliated, I didn't want to show my face in public. I stayed in my room. I was crazily depressed. The only comfort I could find was in was.h.i.+ng my hands and taking countless hot showers.

One particular night, I was told they were renting out the theater to Sony j.a.pan. The entire room was full of j.a.panese people. They knew Diana Ross and the Supremes. But before they could hear her, I had to go out and do my act in front of j.a.panese people who didn't speak English. I'll tell you something, it wasn't any worse.

Midway through the first week, I received a note from Diana Ross that read, "I wish I could come out and see you." I was thinking, I wish she wouldn't. At the end of the week, her people sent word that she wanted to see me in her dressing room before the show. Ah, I've seen this trick before. They aren't going to be there, and they are just going to lock me in. Or if she is there, I'm fired. Thank G.o.d it's over.

I walked to her dressing room and knocked on the door. I heard her voice say, "Come on in." She was sitting on the couch in her pre-show outfit. She truly looked like, and was, a superstar. This was my first personal encounter with an entertainment icon. Considering the week I had endured, all I really wanted her to say was "Stop, in the name of love!"

But these were not her words. To this day, I have no idea where she was or what she saw during my shows. But she told me that I was doing very well, she really liked my work, and she had decided to hold me over for another two weeks. Twenty-eight more shows. Twenty-eight more public humiliations. Twenty-eight more half hours of silence.

By the time it was over, I had done a total of three weeks in Las Vegas. The response never got better. It was horrible. Occasionally, I would hear laughter coming from the horn section of the band behind the curtain, but that was it. The audience projected pure hatred. When it was over, I wanted to burn my red pants and sparkly tie.

I had never experienced anything like this before. From the first moment I walked onstage at Yuk Yuk's, I had been accepted by the audience and by Mark Breslin. I had been accepted by the Comedy Store and by George Foster, who booked me on Make Me Laugh. Make Me Laugh. Even the Earth, Wind & Fire audience enjoyed what they were able to hear. My every appearance, including Even the Earth, Wind & Fire audience enjoyed what they were able to hear. My every appearance, including Merv Griffin Merv Griffin, was met with laughter and positive acceptance. Now it felt as if each and every night I was publicly kicked in the nuts and discarded as a useless waste of time.

This was my professional low point. This experience was so painful that I could not see how it would lead to anything positive. I felt so disappointed and depressed that I was sure I wanted to quit. I wanted to go home. I wanted to sell lights with my father. Terry, on the other hand, thought that would be an incredible waste. She believed comedy was my destiny. She encouraged me to go on, though I had no idea what "on" meant.

Obviously, the red pants and sparkly tie weren't working for me. I decided I needed a new uniform. I went out and bought white scrubs-a foreshadowing of things to come. Onstage, the combination of this uniform and my maniacal, kinetic energy gave the audience the impression they were watching a mental patient. Little did they know, they were.

After one Thursday night spot, I was approached by Brenda Carlin, wife of the legendary comic George Carlin. Brenda was a casting director for HBO's Young Comedians. Young Comedians. I had no idea what HBO was, but I was thrilled to accept the job. The show was taped at the famed Roxy Theatre on the Sunset Strip, hosted by the legendary Smothers Brothers. The special was to present four young, up-and-coming comics. On the bill with me were Richard Lewis, Harry Anderson, and Jerry Seinfeld. You can still see that performance today on YouTube, white scrubs and all. And no, I'm not on cocaine. I had no idea what HBO was, but I was thrilled to accept the job. The show was taped at the famed Roxy Theatre on the Sunset Strip, hosted by the legendary Smothers Brothers. The special was to present four young, up-and-coming comics. On the bill with me were Richard Lewis, Harry Anderson, and Jerry Seinfeld. You can still see that performance today on YouTube, white scrubs and all. And no, I'm not on cocaine.

This appearance seemed to go fabulously well. It erased the mental stench left by Vegas. I called my agent to ask him what was next. He explained the natural progression for comics at this time was a sitcom. Billy Crystal was on Soap. Soap. Robin Williams starred in Robin Williams starred in Mork & Mindy. Mork & Mindy. Freddie Prinze had Freddie Prinze had Chico and the Man. Chico and the Man. Jimmie Walker was on Jimmie Walker was on Good Times Good Times, and Gabe Kaplan was Kotter. So why not Howie Mandel?

A meeting was set up for me at MTM, which stands for Mary Tyler Moore. After starring in one of the most successful sitcoms ever, Moore and her husband, the highly regarded television programmer Grant Tinker, had formed a company to produce shows. MTM had immediate success with several sitcoms, notably The Bob Newhart Show, Rhoda The Bob Newhart Show, Rhoda, and WKRP in Cincinnati. WKRP in Cincinnati. They also were responsible for the drama They also were responsible for the drama Hill Street Blues. Hill Street Blues.

I met with Molly Lopata, who did casting for MTM. She asked me if I could act. I told her I thought I could. She asked me to read some pages. I was to read the part of Fiscus. Most of it was highly technical medical terminology and wasn't making a lot of sense to me. Here's an example of what it might have looked like: NURSEWhat do we need, Fiscus?FISCUSD-5 Lactated Ringer's, O-negative blood, an intubation tray with two number 16 central intravenous catheters, an open thoracotomy tray, and a MAST suit stat.

Before I could finish, Molly told me I was very good and then brought me into the offices of Bruce Paltrow-who is now best known as Gwyneth's dad but at that time was the headliner in the family. Mark Tinker, who worked with Bruce at MTM, was also there, as were John Falsey and Joshua Brand, whom I learned created the show I was reading for.

I read for them. Halfway through this medical jargon, Bruce stopped me and told me I was very good. He thanked me for coming. There was an awkward silence. I stood up and left.

I went home and told Terry it didn't go very well, but in my own defense, the material didn't seem that funny. Before I could finish that sentence, I got a call from my agent, who told me to go to NBC in Burbank, where they wanted me to read the exact same pages for Brandon Tartikoff, the president of NBC, who was generally regarded as the emperor of television.

I drove to his office, where Bruce and all the producers were now gathered. After I read, Brandon asked me to wait outside. Minutes later, they all walked out of the office. Thomas Carter, the director, told me he would see me on Monday.

I went home thinking I would have to read this nonsensical medical terminology one more time on Monday. When I arrived home, I was greeted with a congratulatory phone call from my agent, who told me I got the job. I asked, "What is the job?"

He told me it was St. Elsewhere. St. Elsewhere. It turns out that It turns out that St. Elsewhere St. Elsewhere wasn't a sitcom. The show was a one-hour ensemble medical drama, which ended up airing for six years on NBC to great critical acclaim. I worked alongside the likes of William Daniels, who had played Dustin Hoffman's father in wasn't a sitcom. The show was a one-hour ensemble medical drama, which ended up airing for six years on NBC to great critical acclaim. I worked alongside the likes of William Daniels, who had played Dustin Hoffman's father in The Graduate The Graduate, Norman Lloyd, who was the star of Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k's Spellbound Spellbound, and a young actor named Denzel Was.h.i.+ngton. Our guest stars included Helen Hunt, Tim Rob-bins, and Kathy Bates.

Again, my life took a turn I had not expected. Four years earlier, I would have never guessed I would be doing stand-up comedy. Four days earlier, I would have never guessed I would be cast as a serious actor on a medical drama. Though my parents never said it, I was always concerned that they thought I was something of a loser. Now I could tell them that their son was becoming a doctor.

Speaking of medical dramas, I have to stop and tell you about the real-life medical drama that I am dealing with right now, which is making it very hard for me to concentrate on this book.

I don't know if this is an actual chapter or if it will survive the scissors of my editor, Philip Rappaport. And if it does, it's not for you, the reader. This chapter is for me. As cathartic as writing this book is, I'm right now in the midst of suffering a personal trauma. I have missed therapy for a while, so I would like to consider you, the reader, as my group. Let me just take you back a few months to give you some context. don't know if this is an actual chapter or if it will survive the scissors of my editor, Philip Rappaport. And if it does, it's not for you, the reader. This chapter is for me. As cathartic as writing this book is, I'm right now in the midst of suffering a personal trauma. I have missed therapy for a while, so I would like to consider you, the reader, as my group. Let me just take you back a few months to give you some context.

It was January 2009, and I was in Toronto shooting Howie Do It Howie Do It, my hidden camera show that airs on NBC. I had a health scare. You may have read about it somewhere. There was a little thing going on with my heart. Until then, a health scare for me was accidentally touching the handrail on an escalator.

It started one day when I didn't even feel ill. That's unusual for me because I'm a hypochondriac, I'm obsessive compulsive, and I'm always focused on something going wrong.

I was going through my production routine, meeting with the other producers and planning the pranks. Because I am the host of the show, I needed to have a physical for insurance purposes. Typically, this consists of a doctor coming to the office, asking a couple of questions, listening to your heart, and saying goodbye. On this particular day, the doctor showed up, asked me the questions, and, instead of saying goodbye, with the stethoscope still on my chest, said, "Uh-oh."

I'm not a doctor, but as you just read, I played one on TV. So I'm aware that when there is a stethoscope on your chest, "uh-oh" is not good.

"Why did you say 'Uh-oh'?" I asked.

"Are you aware of anything going on with your heart?" he asked.

"I know I'm inhaling and I'm exhaling, so I would imagine there is a lot going on with my heart," I said.

He sat back and folded his arms. "I'm being serious."

"I can't be serious, or I am going to scream and cry like a little girl. What do you hear?"

"I don't like the way your heartbeat sounds," he said. "I am going to recommend that you go to a cardiologist immediately."

Within fifteen minutes, I was in a cardiologist's office. He walked into the room, had me open my s.h.i.+rt, put his stethoscope to my chest, and lo and behold, he said, "Uh-oh." Two uh-oh's in one day was a little too much for me.

Apparently, my heart's rhythm was off. I was told the condition I had was atrial fibrillation, which is incredibly common. As much as he was telling me that to put me at ease, two uh-oh's in one day was mentally paralyzing.

"There are many things that can be done, but let's start with the least invasive," he said.

"I don't like the word invasive invasive, but I'll play. What is the least invasive?"

"I'm going to cardiovert you."

I thought to myself, Fantastic. He's going to cardiovert me rather than doing something invasive. I asked him what this procedure entailed. Number one, he was going to give me drugs and anesthetize me. Why would I need drugs and anesthesia for a noninvasive procedure? They were then going to take a scope and jam it down my throat into my heart to make sure I didn't have existing clots that could cause a stroke during the actual cardioversion. If it's clear, they will make sure I am completely out cold, take a defibrillator-those two electric paddles you see in movies-press them against my chest, scream, "Clear!" and electrocute my heart back into normal rhythm. If this was considered noninvasive, I didn't even want to ask what the invasive procedure was.

The cardiologist explained to me that this was an easy procedure. I explained to him, "No, flossing is an easy procedure, and you don't have to yell, 'Clear!'"

I left the-I don't even know where it was I left, I'm drawing a blank-but I left wherever I was in a haze, numb with fear. I thought that the best thing to do was to call Terry and other family members, not to tell them that I was having this procedure, but to say how much I loved them. They had no idea that I was actually calling to say goodbye. I made small talk to check that n.o.body was angry at anything. I told them all that I would talk to them tomorrow, but I didn't believe I would hear their voices ever again.

The next day was a gloomy and overcast Wednesday in Toronto. I checked myself into the hospital. I lay down on the gurney, and they put an IV drip in my arm.

The next thing I remember was waking up and the doctor saying: "It's done. You're back in rhythm." He told me to come back Monday for a follow-up.

I got up off the gurney to put on my clothes. I discovered that they had shaved random patches of my chest. I also saw what I believed to be burn marks from the defibrillator. They may have been only red marks, but ever since the sand flies were burned out of me, in my mind when I see a red mark, I've been horribly burned.

I thought I was fine, so I got on a plane Thursday and flew to New York. On Friday, I went on Live with Regis and Kelly Live with Regis and Kelly and the and the Today Today show to promote show to promote Howie Do It. Howie Do It. I flew back to Toronto on Sat.u.r.day, and then Monday I returned to the cardiologist for the follow-up. I flew back to Toronto on Sat.u.r.day, and then Monday I returned to the cardiologist for the follow-up.

The cardiologist listened to my chest and guess what he said? "Uh-oh, it's back." Hearing "uh-oh" from the cardiologist the second time was worse than hearing it the first time.

He then informed me that he was going to cardiovert me again at five p.m. the following day. I pointed out that it hadn't worked the first time and asked what else he could do. He said, "I don't want to tell you what the further options are." When somebody says he doesn't want to tell you, I get concerned. There was no reason for me to be concerned, but I was. Then he added, "We're not there yet."

"You have no idea where I am," I said. "I'm making funeral arrangements. I now have to call more people and say goodbye. I'm running up a huge phone bill. I only have so many minutes on my plan."

I knew that I was going to be put under again. Anybody who has had any surgery or procedure knows that you can't eat or drink before you're given anesthesia. I skipped breakfast and went right to work. This was the one place where I could distract myself from my health issues. I didn't eat lunch, either.

We wrapped around four-thirty in the afternoon, and I had a driver take me to the hospital. Everybody else went back to the hotel to have a couple of drinks and eat dinner. They had plans. I was checking into the emergency room.

The procedure was repeated. Back on the gurney, IV drip, and two electronic plates pressed to my chest-and "Clear!"

When I woke up, the doctor told me that he tried twice but could not get my heart back in rhythm. My resting heart rate at that particular time was 160 beats per minute. Even though I was lying there, my heart rate was equivalent to what it would have been had I been running a marathon. So he gave me medication to lower my heart rate.

I was still a little groggy from the anesthesia, but I remember him telling me that I had to come back in a couple of days for another follow-up. I got off the gurney, checked out, and got a ride back to the hotel.

During the ride back, I called my road manager, Rich Thurber, and told him that I needed to eat. I hadn't had any food or liquid since yesterday. I walked into the lobby of this bustling Sheraton Hotel where we were staying. Rich and several of the cast and crew were waiting for me, along with my mother.

I told them I wanted to go up to my room first to put on a sweater. It was January in Toronto, so I was cold. I think I needed an extra layer because they had shaved off my natural layering. I had never realized how warm little swatches of chest hair keep you in the winter.

I walked across the busy lobby to get on the elevator. I never press a public b.u.t.ton with the end of my finger. So as I moved my knuckle to touch the Up b.u.t.ton, it seemed to move away from me. I thought that was a little weird. Then I looked at the wall and it was also moving.

The next thing I remember was waking up on the floor, looking at the Sheraton lobby ceiling, lying in a puddle of my own urine. I don't know how long I was out. There was a huge crowd watching paramedics work on me. The b.u.t.tons on my s.h.i.+rt were undone, and they were tapping on my erratically shaved chest. I was aware that I had p.i.s.sed myself but didn't have the energy to get up and find a puddle or a ditch to fall in.

I was sure that I had just had a ma.s.sive heart attack. I wasn't even sure I was still alive. I thought maybe I was on the other side, which I must say looked very similar to this side. There were a lot of people I knew and paramedics. If you believe in life after death, why can't there be paramedics there?

People were yelling my name very loudly over and over: "Howie! Howie! Howie!" I was saying, "What? What?" But I was thinking, Can't you see I was just unconscious? Give me a moment.

The paramedic kept saying, "If you can hear me, squeeze my hand."

I didn't want to shake hands even in this condition, so I said, "No!"

"Why?" he asked in a concerned voice.

"I don't do that," I muttered as I tried unsuccessfully to lift my hand and give him a fist b.u.mp.

The paramedics loaded me on a gurney and took me to St. Michael's Hospital.

I ended up in the emergency room, which played on so many different fears of mine. I thought I was on my deathbed. As precarious as I believed my physical status was, all my focus was on my mental issues. I was lying on a filthy gurney soaked with my own urine in a small room along with many other sick people. This was my worst nightmare.

After they drew every conceivable fluid from me, taped a mess of wires to my chest, and gave me an echocardiogram, it became clear that I had not had a heart attack. I had pa.s.sed out because I hadn't eaten, I was dehydrated, and I was full of chemicals from my procedure.

I felt weak, so I asked for something to eat. The nurses had ordered pizza and offered me a slice. Not only did it look delicious, it was a great distraction from my demons. The smell of melted cheese wafted into my nose as I picked up a slice. I was about to bring it to my mouth.