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They’re great. They have bowling-ball balls, these guys.
    Joy: I know.
    Marlo: But so do you.
    Joy: I know I do. We’re all fundits. You know, I ran into Joe Biden one time, and he told me that he’s more scared to go on Jon Stewart than on Meet the Press .
    Marlo: Really? Why?
    Joy: Because he knows Stewart’ll get him.
    Marlo: And he doesn’t know how to manipulate that.
    Joy: Right—it’s harder.
    Marlo: And because comedians don’t have to be polite, there are no rules.
    Joy: Yes, and there’s an audience there.
    Marlo: And if there’s an audience there, the comedian will go for the laugh.
    Joy: That’s right, and they’ll get the laugh at their guest’s expense, if you let them.
    Marlo: Right.
    Joy: And remember, fundits are citizens.
    Marlo: Of course.
    Joy: Citizens with a big, big mouth.
    Marlo: That’s great, Joy. That’s just great.
    Joy: You’re a good audience, Marlo.
    Marlo: There’s a good reason.

Chapter 7
Hotels
    M ost people are disoriented when they stay at a hotel. Not me. I lived in hotels a lot when I was a kid, so they feel familiar, a little bit like home—with the added delight of room service.
    On school holidays, my mother, brother, sister and I would travel from sunny L.A. to sunnier Florida or snowy Chicago to be with Dad. The nuns at school appreciated that my mother was trying to keep our family intact, and during the school year they were good about giving us Mondays and Fridays off so we could be together for long weekends.
    Our family always stayed in the extravagant suites that were set aside for the headliner of the club—roomy enough for an entourage and perfect for a family of five. They had big dining tables, several bedrooms, spiral staircases, terraces, and even gardens. I was eighteen before I realized every hotel room didn’t have a piano in it.
    My father was always thrilled when we joined him. He was especially happy to have my mother back with him, and always made a lot of preparations for her arrival: champagne, red roses, a new negligee in a pretty wrapped box. Dad was a true romantic.
    One year, we had barely opened our suitcases in our part of the suite when it became obvious that Tony, who was just four years old, had a very bad cold. Mom was the old-fashioned type who liked to be close by when any of her kids was sick. At home, our bedrooms had twin beds, and when one of us wasn’t well, Mom would stay in the other bed until she was sure we were out of the woods.
    When Dad finished his show that night, he came back to the suite expecting to find his negligee-clad wife as eager to spend the rest of the evening with him as he was with her. But instead, he found Mom in a bulky terry robe, ushering him away and shushing him not to make noise, as she’d just gotten Tony to sleep.
    Mom explained to Dad how sorry she was that she couldn’t be with him, but Tony had a fever, and she’d have to sleep in his room to keep an eye on him. And with that, she sent Dad off to their part of the suite.
    This went on for a couple of nights, and Terre and I could hear our parents’ angry whispers.
    “When will he be better, already?” Dad asked in desperation. “You haven’t slept in our room the entire trip!”
    “Sssshhh! You’ll wake him up!” Mom said.
    On the morning of the third day, we were all having breakfast—there’s nothing better than waffles and hot chocolate from room service. Tony was on the floor of the terrace, playing with a little pail of sand and a shovel. Without warning, he decided to toss the pail, then watched with a smile as it made the twelve-story plunge.
    My father was frightened and furious. He picked Tony up.
    “Bad boy!” he scolded. “Don’t you know you could have hurt someone by throwing that bucket off the terrace? Now go to your room and be quiet until I tell you to come out!”
    Tony started for his room, then turned around and looked at Dad.
    “Just for that,” he said, “tonight she sleeps with me.”
    Dad roared