Saturday Morning, January 7, 2023

A Horse Walks into a Bar...

The classic setup line. You know what's coming. You may even know the punchline. It doesn't matter. A good joke is, well, a good joke. Take my wife...please. Henny Youngman. Jonathan Winters. Robin Williams. Those, and others who walk the highwire, live and breathe this seductive art form. The best bathe au naturale. It isn't easy. Comedians live somewhere between schizophrenia and psychosis, forever teetering on the brink. Imagine getting tangled within your own mind. Few survive. Some succumb. Still, when you are born with this gift...

Born in 1919, Ernie Kovacs would rise to the comedic top enjoying his own television show in the 1950's. His work was spontaneous, enjoyed by millions. Illustrated is a postcard dated February 21, 1939 mailed to a Miss Jane Vosper, an actress he was crazy about. His writing overflows with creativity, jumping from one point to another. Stream-of-consciousness. It was sent from his first New York City apartment located at 146 West 74th Street. Interesting to note, he comments...have grown a moustache. This would become his trademark look.

Comedy takes many forms. The most popular is spontaneous. An atomic weapon. Comeback the ultimate skill, serving a double-edged sword with a thrust. It is the form audiences admire. Unless, of course, the joke is stabbed into you. This week we have the opportunity to look inside one of comedy's greatest minds. Ernie Kovacs. In a series of infatuation letters he wrote to an actress, we follow his stream-of-consciousness thoughts. His mind oozes in comedic creativity. Unbridled. Entertaining. Welcome to 2023.

Souvenir from his relationship with Jane Vosper. Title page Tribute to an Actress...White Orchids to Jane Vosper, Actress, signed by Ernie Kovacs. His time in New York City was spent watching movies, participating in local theater, and finding his calling in comedy. His television career would start in 1950. One gig led to another, his comic genius opening doors and creating opportunities.

Get Serious

Oh, he's funny He's never serious. Ironic though it may seem, the comedic mind is quite serious. The skill requires keen observation and a wide grasp of human behavior, giving them an extra rinse cycle, then leaving one's interpretation on a high dryer setting. The outcome? A unique perspective to the world tumbling around us.

Illustrated is a three-page dinner invitation written/cartooned by Ernie to Jane and a Miss Suzanne Goo Ludy, students at Finch Junior College, NYC, October 17, 1938.

Many years ago this writer met a most unusual man. Frank Hughes. Meeting him wasn't difficult. We shared a mutual respect for the comedic art form. He carried an impressive resume. Following his thought was the challenge. He could take any situation, even the most solemn, and put a fastball spin on it. His mind a flashpoint. Running with him would exhaust most. But his spin was never silly, it was dripping with truth. Here is the true essence of humor. It's the reason we laugh. Honesty. We laugh at each other. We laugh at ourselves. The punchline a release, a satisfaction, and, as Frank would explain, was better than sex...but not by much.

Kovacs' ephemera includes letters from his teens and early twenties.

The Rise and Fall...

Great nations rise. Great nations fall. We study their demise but learn nothing. Just finger pointing. Governmental suppression. Corruption. Debt. Porous borders. The list is as endless as the PhD's on the subject. Gibbon's Gospel. But even in his exhausting multi-volume set on the Roman Empire, Mr. Gibbons misses one major point. Great nations decline because they lose their sense of humor. When laughter dies, so too does truth. Stifled into suffocation. Few tombstones carry this epitaph. No political platforms ever offer this plank. In the past months I have shared the story of a college friend. Here was a person with a wit so sharp, he could slice a loaf of bread with it. Then, one day, he stepped off the merry-go-round, his life now confined to very padded walls. It is a sad tale, but with a lesson to learn.

One Flew Out of the Cuckoo's Nest

When I first visited him, he declared his former self dead. Tis no more. Spoken in Dickensian style (he was an English major). All he had left was the vacancy he saw each morning in the mirror. Hmm. We talked, shuffling a deck of adverbs and adjectives, verbs and nouns, seeking the man I once knew. Right there, in his eyes, so faintly, flashed his trademark wit. But how to extract this part of his soul was the Heruclean task.

Letter from Ernie to Dear Poplitical Popplestone [Jane Vosper]....Pardon, to begin with, caustic Thespianic crack in salutation. You are as fine an actress as they come...and go (You went). Tallyhoo! And on and on he writes, he mind bathing au naturale. Reading his words leaves one gasping for air. It is a pace he would keep until his early death at 43. He lost control of his Corvair and hit a utility pole, ending his life.

I reached in my bag and pulled out the only tool I had. Humor. As I was leaving after my allowed hour, he walked me down the corridor. All around us patients darted by, running up and staring into our faces, then vanishing. One very beautiful young woman floated by us in a Marc Chagall manner. I stopped. Tell me, I asked my friend. Do you remember that watering hole back in college? He stopped and looked at me, his mind searching for recollection. I continued. Do you remember what the patrons looked like at closing time? He began scanning the hallway, absorbing this swirling zoo. Be honest...which patron are you? His rigid stance loosened. His shoulders shook just a bit. A smile. A laugh. Our hand, a full house. Our sentence, completed.

He hugged me tightly then thanked me for visiting. But you drove all the way from Pennsylvania to Boston this morning just to visit me? He asked. No, I responded. I drove this way to stop at Mark Twain's house in Hartford on my way home. And if you keep me any longer I will miss the last tour at 4:30. He walked away. Just before the Corregidor door slammed, he looked back. A smile. A thank you. And he was gone. Within two days, he graduated from this wing, moving out into the world if only halfway.

A second postcard during his Jane Vosper period, January 25, 1939.
With his mind exploding, he blossomed. The mounted newpaper clippings are improved greatly by his comments. Did you read where they're going to throw reich and old shoes when Hitler gets married?
His reference to Ohio is Jane's hometown of Toledo.
The signed name is Foo, his self-inflicted nickname.

Epilogue

Since that day, there have been much greater trials inflicted upon his soul. On the level of Greek tragedy. My last visit included several fraternity brothers, all gathering to support and comfort him. At his residential facility, we all sat outside on a beautiful New England autumn afternoon. From our terrace we gazed upon the distant Plymouth cove. Around us the fading foilage was already bedding down for the approaching winter. A warm breeze brought relief. The conversation shifted back and forth, from memories to current events. Then the story telling started. In the middle of one of this writer's stories, I said...and then I let him talk. Without missing a sonnet stroke, our friend emerged commenting...you let someone else talk? We exploded in laughter. His wit was seamless. His observation flawless. I felt the barb stab me. Never has a wound felt so good.

To laugh is to live. So, a horse walks into a bar and sits down. The bartender glances up as says..so what's with the long face? Laughter. The best healing agent known to the world. Well, one of them. There is another.