Don Rickles has written, with help from David Ritz, this memoir. It’s a fast read, it’s very much like listening to a comic tell stories while sitting at a restaurant after a show. It’s dispensed in short bites, and it’s all very conversational. What’s remarkable is that so many of the stories told by Rickles end with someone else besides Rickles getting the laugh or delivering the punchline. Very unselfish; not unlike most comics, really. Rare is the comedian who tells story after story which merely serve to highlight his brilliance.
Available at fine bookstores everywhere, from Simon & Schuster, for $24.00.
An excerpt:
For all my craziness, Barb never finds fault. (Well, maybe sometimes.)
My Barbara is also capable of keeping her cool.
For instance: On our second wedding anniversary, Sinatra hosts a dinner party for us at the Flamingo Hotel after my show at the Sahara. At ten o’clock, in walks the man. Talk about generating excitement! “You look lovely, Barbara,” he says charmingly.
Sinatra orders drinks. Sinatra orders appetizers. Sinatra has no patience for slow service. He tips like a king, but when he’s eating at your restaurant, you better be on your toes.
The conversation is light and polite: Frank is talking to Barbara and me about what’s happening in Vegas. The hors d’oeuvres are hot. The Jack Daniels on the rocks is cold. Beautiful evening.
A magnificent Chinese dinner is served. Frank starts in on rice and chicken followed by shrimp and spareribs. Everything’s mellow, even though the service is getting on Frank’s nerves.
One of the waiters accidentally drops noodles on Frank’s pants. That does it. Accidentally or not, no one would dare drop noodles on Frank’s pants. Without warning, Frank gets steamed, gets up and turns over the table. All of China falls on us as Frank storms out.
There Barbara and I sit, covered in won ton and rice.
Without missing a beat, Barbara points to the glass of vodka that she’s holding in her hand. “Waiter,” she says, “could I have more ice?”
I can’t believe it. I’m married to a Valium.
Next day Frank sends an apology to Barbara.
I say, “Hey, why is he apologizing to you and not me?”
“Because he’s a gentleman,” says Barbara, “that’s why.”