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saw him come in. You couldn’t miss him. At first, I didn’t believe it, but Etta had really pulled it off. If anyone could get Frank to do anything, it was Dolly.
    When I said, “Make yourself comfortable, Frank, hit somebody,” I saw his entourage wait to see how he’d react.
    He howled.
    So they howled.
    I acted like I had expected it.
    “Frank, believe me, I’m telling you this as a friend: Your voice is gone.”
    No one in the history of Frank Sinatra had ever talked to the man that way. Especially in public. He had never been the butt of anyone’s jokes when he was around to hear them.
    It felt good knowing that the man bought my humor. I saw myself as the guy who makes fun of the boss at the office Christmas party but still has his job on Monday morning.
    As far as Frank went, I knew he got me. That let me go a step further, and it’s how our whole thing got started.
    Everyone is sentimental about his or her mother, but Frank and I take the cake. It became the starting point of our long friendship. Frank and I both shared a deep desire to please our moms. In later years, he always told me, “Don, your mom and Dolly were friends. That meant a lot to me. It really did.”

    “Make yourself comfortable, Frank. Hit somebody.”

Paar for the Course
    W hen Murray Franklin learned that Jack Paar had taken over the Tonight show from Steve Allen and was doing a live broadcast from Miami Beach, he started pitching me.
    “You’ll love this kid,” he told Paar’s producer.
    “Does he have TV experience?” was the question.
    “Sure, he has experience. Steve Allen had him on his show. He was a smash.”
    Murray was exaggerating, but exaggeration is what show biz is all about.
    The truth was that Steve Allen had put me in a skit. In fact, over the years he put me in many skits, but the first one was something of a disaster. It was me and a camel on stage. I forget the joke, but I remember the camel spitting all over me. And, even worse, the camel gave off an aroma that could empty a room. Now back to Paar.
    Without telling Jack, the producer had me come out in the middle of his show. He thought the surprise would result in laughs. I’d dress up as a cabdriver and interrupt the proceedings with ad libs.
    So far, so good.
    I walk on stage with a driver’s cap pulled over my ears and a meter in my hands.
    “Who are you?” Paar asked.
    “Maxie the cabbie.”
    “What are you doing here?”
    “You called for a cab. Well, I’m your cab.”
    Paar knew it was a bit, but he wasn’t buying.
    Jack stammered in Paar fashion. “Wh-wh-wh-
where are you going with this?”
    “Jack,” I said, “I’m a friend. Do yourself a favor and look for other work.”
    Jack turned to his producer and whispered, “Who is this guy? Get him out of here.”
    The bit went south, and nothing could stop it from going into the dumper.
    In the years that followed, Jack and I developed a good relationship, in spite of that warm night in Miami that left us both cold.

Zardi’s Jazzland
    T he winter sun is warm. Palm trees sway in the breeze. Unemployed actors chat it up at Schwab’s on Sunset Boulevard. If you’re lucky, you spot George Burns and Gracie Allen shopping for clothes at Bullock’s over on Wilshire Boulevard. Oranges are budding in the Valley, birds are chirping in Beverly Hills and the blue sky is smog-free. The fifties in L.A. is a beautiful time.
    At the corner of Hollywood and Vine, in the heart of the entertainment district, you can’t help but notice Zardi’s Jazzland. That’s where all the big names play—Ella, Ellington, Basie, and Brubeck.
    Will Osborne’s big band wasn’t exactly the biggest name in jazz, but Will played Zardi’s, too, and Joe Scandore, bless his heart, got me on the bill. That was my ticket to California.
    Hello, La-La Land.
    Hollywood was exciting because you never knew who might show up. Like everyone else, I was looking for stars. Unlike everyone else, I wasn’t looking for their