700 Sundays and 1 Great Thursday Night

When I was young, I had a charged and difficult relationship with my father. A mercurial man with a volatile temper, we shared very little during most of my childhood. However there was always one constant... our mutual love of comedy.
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Last Thursday, I took my parents and a close family friend to see Billy Crystal's tour de force one man show "700 Sundays". Without giving away too much, the show is a deeply personal autobiographical account of Crystal's formative years, with special emphasis on his father who passed away when Billy was just a boy. The experience was a magical one for many reasons and I wanted to write a glowing review of this amazing and very funny show. But to be honest, much of what affected me about that evening was an apex of my own personal journey with my father, with whom I sat at the Wilshire Theatre that night.

When I was young, I had a charged and difficult relationship with my father. A mercurial man with a volatile temper, we shared very little during most of my childhood. However there was always one constant... our mutual love of comedy. This passion would eventually shape what would become my professional destiny, but as a kid it was all about escaping into the joy and release of humor. In that way, my Dad was really my first teacher, introducing me to it all. As far back as my memory can reach, some of the happiest moments of my childhood were spent watching everything from The Marx Brothers, Jack Benny, Danny Kaye, Jackie Gleason, and Sid Caesar to Laugh In, M*A*S*H, All in the Family, Johnny Carson and all the comedians on The Tonight Show to the movies of Mel Brooks and Woody Allen... all with my Dad. Although my father was quick to anger, he was also quick to laugh. It was a great booming laugh that shook his whole body. No sports trophies or good grades I ever received ever made me feel as good as being able to make my Dad laugh. A funny man in his own right, I grew up hearing "oh I see where you get it from" over and over in regard to my silly and sometimes outrageous tendencies. I may look more like my mother and share her obsessive work ethic as well as her left leaning politics, but aside from my insomnia, the only thing I'm sure I got from my father is this devotion to all things comedic.

When I got into my twenties, I finally developed a deeper relationship with my Dad. We stopped fighting and started talking. Suddenly we actually became friends. As he was 47 when I was born, I was conscious that if I didn't find some greater level of connection with this man and soon, I would wind up missing out on a lot. Fortunately for both of us, it worked. Not always, but enough. And when it didn't, there was always comedy. As I progressed... got married, bought a home and began building a career in entertainment... he and I got to share a lot of good times. He went with me to comedy clubs, TV tapings and award shows. Some years back I brought him to have lunch at the Friars Club with Milton Berle. Dad thought that was pretty cool, even if Berle did keep referring to him as "Pop". On Father's Day a couple of years ago, I got tickets to see family favorite Bill Cosby. Pulling a few strings, I arranged for Cosby to visit with us backstage before the show and he generously spent nearly an hour with just me and my family, giving special kind attention to my Dad.

However nothing lasts forever and, as some of you are aware who either know me or have read some of my earlier pieces, my 84 year old father has not been in very good shape for the past couple of years. His mind and body have deteriorated to the point where he has full time in-home caregivers and rarely leaves his apartment. He won't watch a movie or TV show that he hasn't seen dozens of times before as he has trouble following anything new or unfamiliar. He also usually can't stay awake for more than three or four hours at a time. So it was with great trepidation that I ventured out last week with my parents and our friend to see "700 Sundays". My Mom had asked for 4 tickets as a gift for her birthday and she very much wanted my Dad to be able to go. Right up until that evening, I was dubious that he'd want or be able to attend. However as Crystal has been a favorite of ours since we used to watch him on "Soap", my Dad was unusually insistent that he wanted to go.

I got to my parents' apartment at 5:00pm for an early dinner just as my father's caregiver was giving him a pep talk. A patient and gentle man from the Philippines, Gilbert was pleading with my father not to yell out during the show or start fights with anyone at the theater. Cleverly, my mother had arranged for Gilbert to have my father showered and dressed earlier in the day so he could rest after that already exhausting ordeal. She also planned to have dinner delivered to their place so my father wouldn't be drained from the stimulation of going to a restaurant. However after we finished our Chinese food, my father needed to "rest". (Translate: Go to his chair and sleep.) With his face slack and his eyes firmly shut, he didn't look like he was going anywhere. But when it was time to go, he somehow dug down and mustered the strength to get to his feet and shuffle out the door with his walker. It was pretty amazing. Even if he just got to the theater and slept in his seat for the entire performance, it was already more exertion than I had seen him demonstrate in months. (As a side note, following my father, his walker, our friend Carol, her walker and my mother hobbling along after 2 hip replacements, I wondered what the Jewish equivalent of fife and drum music would be to accompany this march of the elderly. But I digress.)

I will spare you the details of parking and getting everyone into their seats, but miraculously it was accomplished. There was a bit of a delay, but at a quarter after eight, the lights went down and Billy took the stage. A master performer, his tales of growing up wove a spell of humor and humanity that held the entire audience entranced. But as much as I marveled at his showmanship; I spent easily half my time watching my father. Awake, aware, alert and laughing that enormous laugh in all the right places, my Dad loved every minute. It was not lost on me that Crystal's narrative was driven by the loss of his father at an early age. With tears in my eyes, I slung my arm around my Dad's shoulder and stroked his hair which hasn't been cut in almost a year. At the end of the show, this man who struggles to get to his feet under normal circumstances joined the rest of the crowd in saluting Billy with a standing ovation. Now I have to say, when President Bill Clinton made a surprise appearance at the curtain call to receive a substantial donation that Crystal raised to benefit the victims of Hurricane Katrina, my Dad was ready to duck out. But I understood. He was spent. The gas tank was empty and he drove himself as far and as hard as he could. But it had been an incredible evening. And thanks to Billy Crystal, I had even further perspective. There are so few good days left... but I'll take 'em whenever I can get 'em.

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